By now, Richard seemed more beast than human. His face was purple with rage, and spittle flew from his lips as he roared at Martha. He threw himself on top of her and began to choke her with his left hand. Once again he lifted the club over his head. This time he would not miss. With no other weapons at hand, I hurled myself at Richard, breaking his grip on Martha’s throat and knocking him to the floor. As he fell, he pulled his bookshelf from the wall and I had a weapon. I seized the plank and swung it at his head. The board struck his face with a loud crack. I heard a sob escape my throat when the dry wood splintered into a dozen pieces. I had knocked him off balance, but that was all, and it was not going to be enough to save us.
I dropped the splinters I still held and raced for the door. If I made it to the street, I could call for help. I clattered down the stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of my skirts. Even over the thundering of my own heart, I could hear Richard’s heavy footsteps behind me, gaining with every step. By the time I reached the bottom, I knew I would never make it to the street—the counter blocked my way and Richard was too close. I dashed into the workshop and realized with a sickening feeling that I’d made a mistake. The only door out of the shop led to a small, high-walled courtyard. I was trapped.
I turned to face Richard. He saw that I could not escape and stopped in the doorway. He was breathing heavily, and a thin line of blood ran from his nose where I’d hit him. His hands were now empty—he had lost the club when I hit him—and I thanked God for small mercies. He spat on the floor and wiped the blood on his sleeve. “No more running,” he said. “You’ve nowhere to go.”
My eyes darted around the shop as I searched desperately for a weapon. I spied a knife among the shop’s tools and scooped it up. I turned to face Richard, but he was too fast. He threw his weight against me and we crashed to the ground. I watched aghast as the knife skittered across the floor. I clawed at his neck and fought with all my strength to push him off. He sought a grip on my throat, and for a moment I feared he’d found it, but I slipped from his grasp. As we struggled, I looked up into his face, twisted in rage, and knew that this was the last sight that Mr. Penrose had seen. With one hand I pushed up on his throat, and with the other I thrashed about, hoping to find some kind of weapon. My hand closed around the neck of a bottle and I swung. I landed only a glancing blow to his temple, but it was enough to knock him off balance. I scrambled from beneath him and leapt to my feet. I saw the knife and scooped it up, but he was already upon me. Once again he knocked me to the floor and landed on top of me. For a moment we lay on the ground looking into each other’s eyes, in a horrid parody of a lover’s embrace. I could feel his breath on my face as he struggled to wrap his hands around my throat.
I was sure that my luck had run its course and only hoped that Martha would be able to escape. I pushed his hands away and somehow escaped his grasp. Kicking at his face, I crawled away from him, then stood and searched desperately for the knife. It was nowhere to be found. Richard staggered to his feet and grasped my shoulder from behind. I turned to face my death and saw the knife protruding from his chest. He looked down at the knife, then up at me. I stretched out a trembling hand and pulled the knife free. A plume of bright red blood spread rapidly across his chest, and he fell to his knees. He stared into my face for an eternity before falling forward. He died before he hit the ground.
I dropped the bloody knife and raced upstairs to find Martha, terrified that Richard had paused long enough to dash out her brains before pursuing me. Relief flooded my body when I found her standing in the doorway. She had a lump on her forehead and her throat was bright red from where Richard had tried to choke her. “Martha, are you all right?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’ll be all right,” she croaked. “Where is Richard? Did he escape?”
“He’s downstairs. Dead.”
“My God,” she gasped. “What happened?”
“I killed him. I don’t know how it happened, but the Lord watched over me today.” I took her arm to help her downstairs and we went into the workshop. Martha and I gazed at Richard’s body. “It still doesn’t seem real. Last year I bought medicine from him, and today I killed him.”
“And you’ll likely dream about it for some time,” Martha said. “Most nights I dream about the soldier I killed.”
“Martha, I had no idea,” I cried. “How awful.”
“I tell myself it’s better that I’m having the nightmares than he is.” She quickly changed the subject. “How did he get in? I locked the door behind us.”