Suspense

On the first morning of Mr. Sleuth’s stay in the Buntings’ house, while Mrs. Bunting was out buying things for him, the new lodger had turned most of the pictures and photographs hanging in his sitting-room with their faces to the wall!

But this queer action on Mr. Sleuth’s part had not surprised Mrs. Bunting as much as it might have done; it recalled an incident of her long-past youth—something that had happened a matter of twenty years ago, at a time when Mrs. Bunting, then the still youthful Ellen Cottrell, had been maid to an old lady.

The old lady had a favorite nephew, a bright, jolly young gentleman who had been learning to paint animals in Paris; and it was he who had had the impudence, early one summer morning, to turn to the wall six beautiful engravings of paintings done by the famous Mr. Landseer!

The old lady thought the world of those pictures, but her nephew, as only excuse for the extraordinary thing he had done, had observed that “they put his eye out.”

“Your excellency, ” The old advisor spoke up again, walking toward Gorah. His guards reacted quickly, drawing their swords. The old advisor laughed faintly. “Perhaps we should use this moment to look for Queen Farah, have her abdicate the crown?”

Gorah rose the throne, chuckled. He waved his left hand, and the guards sheathed their weapons. He held the crown in his right hand, twirling it on his fingers. Goarah took a few steps and was face to face with the old advisor. He placed the crown on the old man’s head. The old advisor flinched, then a forced smile appeared on his thin lips.

“Is… this what your old heart desires? Don’t speak. I know what you desire… Then you shall have it.”

“Your Excellency… I don’t know what to say…” The old advisor croaked.

“No need to say anything. The crown, the land, the people are yours.” Goarah waved his right hand. The guard closest to the old advisor unsheathed his sword and swung fiercely, the blade severed the old man’s head from his neck. It rolled a few inches and stopped at my feet. The shock and horror was etched on his face. Those lifeless black eyes stared at me. I felt a shiver rise up in me.

Gorah laughed as he bent down. He removed the crown from the old advisor’s severed head. He glared at the crown before stepping toward me. “I think… you should have this,” he offered to me. “From slave girl to… Queen. Does that not appease you?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Power? Does it not… excite you?” Gorah sniffed my neck.

“Slave girl,” Queen Farah levied her voice over the clearing of the dishes from the royal table. “How long have you been in my royal keep?”

I didn’t know how to answer that question. I dare not raise my voice above a whisper nor any lower than a breath. “Only a fortnight, my Queen.” If I spoke any louder, Farah would be insulted, any lower and she would mistake me for one of her many wives.

“Come here,” she demanded. I paced myself toward her. “Stop!” She screamed. “No further,” her voice trembled. “You look like a girl who has haunted my nightmares. Would you press a blade to your Queen’s throat?”

“No, my Queen. I haven’t a murdering bone in my body.” I said calmly.