My entry for the Arts Illustrated Short Story Contest. The instructions were to write a story in 1000 words or fewer, specifically based on the featured image. I didn’t win, but I enjoyed writing the story, and I hope you’ll enjoy reading it!

The old lady shivered as a cold draught snuck into her room. The errand boy must have left a door open again. She edged her chair nearer the fire blazing in the hearth, gratefully warming her hands over the leaping flames. A childhood spent in poverty and hardship had given her a lifelong appreciation of every little comfort, even now when she had plenty of money and to spare. She looked up as the wind howled and the frosted glass windows rattled. Her brow furrowed. It was high time this ancient monstrosity of a mansion was renovated. Her gaze dropped to the ledge below the window and wandered over the three objects that graced it. A faint smile touched her thin, wrinkled lips. Thrice-widowed was she, and each of the three objects stood in memory of a husband.

Her father had been a carpenter with a little shop on the road. She’d been helping him when her first husband saw her as he drove by in his fancy car. Completely smitten by her rustic beauty, he’d turned up the next day with a small job of carpentry for which he could easily have sent one of his many servants. After a whirlwind courtship, he had plucked her out of poverty and swept her away to a life of luxury and ease.

She hadn’t loved him. She hadn’t ever loved anyone, come to that. Her parents had been a disagreeable, money-grubbing couple, heartily disliked by the entire village. They’d thought nothing of birching her if she put a toe out of line and would willingly have used her for barter had they but found a customer. She grew up with the knowledge that money was all-important. Of love, she knew nothing.

No, she hadn’t loved her first husband. Nor her second, nor her third. But she had been happy with them – and with their money. Oh no, she didn’t love money; she lusted for it. Craved it with a deep, gnawing hunger. And now she had property and riches enough to satisfy even her avarice. She leaned back in her chair, ruminating over the mementoes on the ledge.

It had all begun with the statuette of The Thinker. Her first husband had been a generous patron of the arts and greatly admired Auguste Rodin’s work. She smiled. The trip to the Rodin Museum had been one of the highlights of their holiday in Paris to celebrate their fifth anniversary. He had been pleased when she bought that bronze statuette as a souvenir, though it was rather heavy. Rather a pity the holiday had to end tragically.

Her second husband had been a lover of nature. They had explored forests and gone on treks the world over. The artificial succulent was a souvenir of a holiday in Brazil during their third year of marriage – a freak storm had foiled a planned excursion, and she had bought from a local artisan the fake prickly plant of heavy jadeite as a humorous reminder of the fiasco. That was their last trip together.

Her eyes moved to the heavy brown jasper sphere in the middle, dappled with golden hues threaded with silvery ones. A souvenir of an Egyptian holiday with her third husband, who was happiest when digging in some ruin or the other and exclaiming over old rocks and stones. They had been married eight years before they embarked on that fatal trip. She sighed. She had quite liked him, her third husband. Maybe that was why he had lived with her the longest. She had been almost sorry to lose him.

She rose from her chair and walked with halting steps to the ledge. Stretching out a frail hand, she picked up each memento, stroking and caressing it before putting it carefully back in its place. They were all remarkably heavy for their size, and her hands were too feeble to hold them for long. But she had been strong back in the day. Strong, with a powerful arm. She shook her head ruefully. Riches cannot prevent age from taking its toll.

She turned away and walked back to her seat, yawning contentedly as she gained the comfort of her chair. Closing her eyes drowsily, she let the memories wash over her. They were all good men, her three husbands. All three the victims of fatal accidents in different parts of the world. All three lives cut short by injuries to the head. Such a coincidence, was it not?

Yet the police had not thought to investigate the coincidence. They had not thought to pick up and examine the innocuous souvenir standing quietly in the window of her hotel room as she lamented the loss of a husband. And why would they? The accidents had been plausibly, perfectly contrived, and the police had sympathised with the tearful and lovely young widow.

Fools, the lot of them. She had always been a good actress. None of her husbands had guessed at the cold heart and calculating brain that lay behind the beautiful veneer.

The old lady opened her eyes and gazed into the fire, a malicious smirk playing over her shrivelled mouth. She had decided not to risk it a fourth time. She was the owner of considerable wealth and answerable to none. She didn’t marry again. There was no need; with her beauty and money she had never lacked for male company. Even today, there were fortune hunters aplenty who were willing – nay, eager – to spend time with the rich old woman who gave them expensive gifts.

Had it been worth it? But of course. She shrugged nonchalantly and let sleep overtake her. The wind howled and shrieked, and the glowing embers in the fireplace cast eerie, mottled shadows over the three murder weapons on the window ledge.