JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chapter four...shhhh (& Summary)

This is chapter four of my serial, and unlike my others, I’m going to try and keep up with things. With that, I mean by writing a summary of where we are in the story. I think it’s important that I keep up with this. Once I go behind the paywall with this, I’ll only be taking 11 people with me. 11, God-damn-it!

I’m happy with that.

Irene was here to spend the night last Monday. She’s an old friend who loves me (us). She waterboards me with her huge tits. She’s here and we laugh. She’s like a sister, except for the English accent. But she said: “When you’re famous because you’re reading your stories out and women fall in love with you, will you still see me?”…or something like that. (Maybe she’ll leave a message and we’ll know she read this. I mean, maybe she can straighten it out.

I’ll get to the summary in a bit.

I have what I call, a lot of open space on my ‘stack. People subscribe for free and then never open an email. Right now I have 355 subscribers. If I cancelled every one that hasn’t been opened since signing up, I’d probably be down to less than 200. I’m going to do that in the New Year. On the plus side, if I go down that far and the only ones left are the ones who are actually reading my ‘Stack, then my open percentage is going to jump.

I’m saying this because I want to start the year off clean.

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

SUMMARY:

The end of CHAPTER 3, is also the end of Part 1.

Our story starts out with the main character, ARTEMUS SPENCER, in the Devonshire countryside, where he’s staying with his old army buddy REGGIE O’DOWD.

They knew each other at the Front—until Artie got transferred and sent to Paris. He speaks four other languages, aside from English: French, Italian, German, and Spanish. But Artie meets up with Reggie again, shortly after being transferred; that’s when Reggie is wounded and sent to Paris.

That was a little background.

Artie arrives by train after the third day of torrential rains. Fields are washed out when creeks and streams over run their banks. Reggie, a local farmer, is flooded and Artie helps him load his van with what isn’t ruined, taking it to Mandalay mansion, where the head cook, CLAIRE, is also Reggie’s girlfriend. But Reggie is turned away by Cargill, the main Butler, and Claire quits her job as a result.

It’s on the ride home that we hear Claire’s idea to open a shop and sell home made pies. We also hear the story of The Cromwell Skull which is hidden in a difference mansion every year and holds a treasure of gold sovereigns that has never been claimed.

Artie decides he’s going to claim it.

So now we’re at the start of PART 2:

CHAPTER 4

And like a thief in the night

Jenny pulled her dressing gown tighter, sitting in the semi-darkness of her boudoir. It was cold with the French doors open, but she didn’t care. She was staring at her moonlit reflection in the bevelled mirror of her dressing table, sipping a large glass of whiskey—neat—and wondering where things had gone wrong in her life. How could she have let herself believe so deeply in a man she knew nothing about? Roger wasn’t the same man since coming back from the War, and it was going on seven years now. What was it about him? Was he something more akin to an injured bird, or an animal that she felt she had to protect?

And what about the games he insists we play…

Men had always been drawn to her, even from her early youth—boys had always gravitated toward her—and as a result, she’d always had an easy time of things. Her dance card was always full, as her grandmother liked to say. Along with long, dark hair, cascading down the middle of her back in glossy rings and curls, she had grey eyes her grandmother said were made to captivate a man’s soul. Her grandmother hadn’t been wrong about that, had she? Jenny asked herself. Add to that the naturally chiselled cheekbones that could cut deep into any man’s heart, and the single dimple on her left cheek whenever she smiled, and her look was complete. Her complexion was more than just the pale reflection of the moon caught in the bevelled mirror, it was milky white—opaque—her lips full and dark in the soft light coming in through the open doors.

The light came in at a slant, she noted, the slats between the panes of glass casting long shadows that stretched across the parquet floor as if they were the bars of a cage. So much like a prison she felt, for the first time in her life. She searched for a cigarette from somewhere in the folds of her dressing gown. Straightening the cigarette once she’d found it, she picked up the lighter beside her. It took more than a moment for it to ignite, and when it did, the flash of light forced her to shut her eyes. But she did it, finally exhaling a large cloud of smoke at the moonlight coming in through the doors as she let slip a silent tear.

It seemed obvious that Roger wasn’t coming home from the Club like he’d promised. Why should I expect him to? she asked herself. It wasn’t just a matter of him missing the last train out of London, but more a matter of how he might spend extra time with the mistress she was convinced he had. Her grandmother told her—a week before they were to marry—that a man needed to have his dalliances. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting to hear. She’d often wondered just how true it was though. She wondered if her Father had his dalliances in the past. Was it even possible, she wondered? What about her mother? A woman could have those same needs, she’d been told, but didn’t really believe the stories. Somehow, she doubted that her mother would ever let that happen. Her brothers, maybe; her grandfather, certainly. She realized there weren’t a lot of men in her life she could point to and say they’d led by example.

I’m supposed to be his wife, damn it! You’d think, if a man's going to be dallying with anyone, it’d be his wife.

She stabbed her cigarette into the oversized ashtray resting on the table beside her. At twenty-five, Jenny felt very much that her life was spiralling out of control. She knew she had to do something to catch hold of it again. Roger was seven years older—seven years her senior, Maggie would say—which meant that when she was being introduced to London society, it was the height of the Great War and Roger was scrambling through the mud in the trenches of France. While she flirted, laughed, and filled her dance card, he sat huddled in terror as the big guns pounded the earth around him. She could never pretend to understand what it had been like for him, except that he often had nightmares and seldom slept more than four hours a night.

Is that any reason for him to abandon me here?

I should’ve never agreed to come back home in the first place, she told herself. I should’ve stayed in London, with him, no matter how hard he argued against me staying. He needs me.

Standing up, she walked to the open window, looking out across the vast gardens and rolling acres falling off into the distance. She assumed it was a sight that usually took a person's breath away—but not tonight, not now, and especially, not at this moment. Even with a light mist clawing its way up from the river, moving in among the trees where it laced through the hedgerows, and the dew-laden grass glistening like jewels under the moonlight, it wasn’t enough to distract her. She stared, and supposed it had been built with that very purpose in mind. As great houses went, Mandalay was relatively new, having been built in the early Victorian Age. Her great-grandfather had made the family’s fortune in steel manufacturing, supplying the railways with endless miles of track. He’d also been a devoted reader of the American writer, Edgar Alan Poe, and the result was a Gothic styled manor house with gables and arches, and secret passageways she and her brothers would explore endlessly. The house was made of imported stone from Italy, as well as locally sourced; wood also—huge timbers—were brought in from as far away as Brazil and Malaysia, as well as North England. No expense was spared, it seemed.

I've given him a son—and now he’s turned away.

She watched a motor van making its way along the country lane high up on the hill, a gentle silhouette cut out against the fading moon. It may as well have been a horse and wagon the thing was moving at such a slow pace, the driver probably slouched over sleeping off the after affects of the Chumley Fair.

And then she saw him.

A silent figure slipped out from the back of the van, sprinting across the wide expanse of the yard. She leaned out of the window, hanging on to the casement, watching. There was no mistaking it was a man. He hit the side wall of the West Wing with an amazing leap, reaching the height of the first floor wall in little more than four moves. He was on a second floor balcony, leaping up to another and hanging suspended before pulling himself up and leaping to a perch where she lost him as he slipped in between the shadows of the waning moonlight. She saw him again on the third floor, walking a narrow piece of ledge as if he was walking a country lane, pausing to look into the windows before slipping something into the French doors and stepping into the house.

Her first instinct was to call out in alarm, but she found herself running down the hall to seek the man out. She told herself a dozen times to stop and call the Constabulary—to sound the alarm and rouse the countryside—but she knew there was no sense in doing any of that because she was alone for the night. She burst through the library, careful not to run into the reading table, or the several wing-back chairs, and rushed through the South side door with a bang that echoed through the house.

If that doesn’t wake up the family ghosts, nothing will, she thought, wondering what she’d do when she confronted the man. She took the back, winding staircase the servants used to get to the third floor, clutching the smooth mahogany railing with an iron grip as she fought to get control of herself. She was too excited to be frightened.

I need a weapon.

She approached the door, and paused. She was looking for something to use as a weapon before pushing the door open. She took the iron poker from the fireplace in the next room. She approached the door without hesitating and burst in, determined to get one good blow in, before the bastard even knew she was in the room.

As soon as she pushed herself into the room, the man grabbed her. The iron poker clattered to the floor and he was quick to kick it, a melody of sound echoing through the large room as it skidded away. There was a hand around her waist pulling her away from the door, and another clamped tight around her mouth in case she screamed. She kicked out furiously, biting the man’s hand at the same time. He threw her to the floor and kicked her before she could stand up, knocking the wind out of her as she fell, clutching her side. He was on her, rolling her over and tying her hands behind her back. She lay gasping, trying to catch her breath. He sat her up and punched her roughly on the back, helping her to catch her breath again.

“Are you mad, bursting in here like that?” he said, standing up and looking at his hand in the soft light staining the floor.

“I should have called for help,” she said, struggling to get up on her knees.

“What are you doing? Sit down,” he said, looking up from the bite mark on his hand. It hurt, and he could see the tiny indentations of her teeth in the soft flesh.

“I will not.”

“I said sit down,” he said, raising his voice and levelling a look at her.

She sank back on her haunches.

He was dressed in black—the better to be in the shadows, she supposed. He was wearing a black scarf tied over his head, hiding his hair as well as his face. There were fitted holes for his eyes. He had a black canvas vest with a dozen pockets he’d added, each one buttoned closed. He was carrying a canvas bag messengers in the war carried their dispatches to the Front in.

“I saw you running across the yard and watched you climbing up the wall,” she said. “How did you do that? No one should be able to do that,” she added, settling on her knees and looking up at him through a cascade of long, dark hair. She was unable to move her arms and suddenly realized the danger she was in and how helpless she actually was. She could feel the cool breeze on her exposed flesh, and tried to shrug the dressing gown back up over her shoulders.

“It’s something I picked up in my travels,” he said, ignoring her as he continued with his search.

“Do you make a habit of climbing up walls in the middle of the night?” she said.

“Why are you even here?" he asked, pausing long enough to look at her.

“What do you mean? I live here.”

“No, I mean, why aren’t you at the Fair with everyone else?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? Why do you think I’m here? On this day? At this time? I knew the family and their servants were all going to the Fair.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I’m a thief and that’s what I do. I’ve been watching all six of these houses for the last three weeks.”

“I should’ve locked the door so you couldn’t get out.”

“That would’ve been the smart thing to do,” he laughed. “Not that it would have stopped me; but a person could get themself killed barging into a room like that.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I said you could have been killed. It’s been known to happen. A thief gets caught and kills his victim in a struggle with a gun—or he gets killed himself. I know of several men who were killed breaking into houses.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“No.”

“Then why would you even say that?”

“Why would I need a gun when I knew the entire family and all of the servants have gone to the Fair? So why not you, then?” he asked, walking back toward her and leaning against a high wing-backed chair.

“The baby was coughing.”

“So? What about the governess?”

“I told her to go, as well.”

He stood up from leaning against the chair, shaking his head as he walked to the other side of the room.

“What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

“At this time, I’m thinking, maybe a light switch?”

“There’s a switch on the wall over there,” she said, pointing to her left.

“I’m looking for something specific,” he said, finding the switch and turning the light on.

“I can help you.”

  Only three of the six lights were working, and she watched his shadow as it leaped up the wall. They were in the Grand Salon, and she watched him as he stopped to examine the six large windows. She knew he was looking at how they folded in on each other and slid off to the side, allowing the room to open onto the large courtyard outside. It was something her father never tired of showing his visiting friends. She watched his reflection in the windows, where he stood looking outside. She knew he was looking at the vaulted portico her grandmother had commissioned years ago, with eight slender doric columns designed to make it look more like a Greek temple, it was encased in stained glass. The rest of the Salon was empty—the chairs had been put away years before—and all that was left was the small stage where there was a pianoforte under a fitted skirt; as well as a harp that was also covered. There were also two music stands with cased instruments resting on them.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, and he turned to look at her.

“What makes you think I’m going to do anything?” he asked, walking toward her.

“You’re a thief. That’s what thieves do. Remember?”

“I suppose I’ll leave you trussed up as you are, like Sunday’s dinner.” She could sense the smile under his mask as he knelt beside the instrument cases and opened the smaller of the two. It was her brother’s violin. He picked it up and tried to look at it under the soft light.

“I’m taking this,” he said, putting it back in the case.

“Let me be your partner.” She said it matter of factly, and wondered if that was why she’d gone to search him out in the first place?

“What?” He stopped, looking up at her. “What makes you think I want a partner? And why would I want you as my partner? You must know I could never trust you? I’d be a fool to trust you,” he added, as he closed the violin case.

“But I can help you. I know everything there is to know about this house.”

“I don’t need anything else. I got what I came for.”

“What? My brother’s violin?”

“I know someone who’s looking for one.”

“So you broke in here, hoping there was a violin? Untie me, and I’ll take you to my parent’s room.”

“Again. Why would I trust you?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, to prove that I mean it,” she added.

“I wish I could believe that,” he laughed after a moment, standing up. He picked up the violin case, tucking it under his arm as he walked away.

“Believe it,” she said softly, and something in her voice made him stop. He turned to look at her. She was even more beautiful now that he could see her in the half-light. Her dressing gown was silk, a light orange with white lilies. One strap was hanging off of her shoulder and he could see the swell of her breast where the folds of the dressing gown met; there was the hint of a nipple.

“There’s only one thing that can convince me you’re serious,” he said, putting the case down.

“Oh? Do tell,” she mocked him. Smiling.

He looked at her in the soft light, considering her for the moment and then slowly, and with great purpose, began undoing the buttons of his fly, and fully revealing himself.

“Really?” she asked, a playful smile on her lips. “And if I do this, do we have a deal?” she asked, and waddled her way toward him on her knees, finally stopping and looking up at him.

“Do we?” she asked again, nuzzling her nose against him and breathing his scent before fully engulfing him and feeling him grow.