Jack Of Diamonds
Chapter one
A story for my PAID subscribers.
If you want to become one of my YEARLY PAID Subscribers, I’m happy to let you know that I’ve dropped the price of my (yearly) SUBSCRIPTIONS to the lowest I’m allowed to go $30 (Can.) It’s in honour of both my son-in-law’s birthday, and my brother. The sale will last until Christmas, after which, it will go up to $60/year (Can.)
A BRIEF HISTORY OF MY STORY
I started this story when I was still on VOCAL.MEDIA. They were too restricting though, and I had to leave—which I did as soon as I sorted myself out and jumped ship to here. It’s the serial story of a thief in 1923 England: Artemus Spencer. He’s the sixth child of an impoverished Earl who’s just hanging on, and barely able to pay the taxes.
Artie is a vet of the Great War and suffers from mild trauma. In Paris he discovers that he has the uncanny ability to do “Free-running” on the roofs of the buildings as well as “Buildering”. (Those are the guys that climb up the outside of old buildings without any equipment.) It’s at this time in his life that he decides to become a thief. He knows that in a lot of the more expensive hotels, well, the guests often leave their windows open.
Artie is a rogue. He’s a liar, and a cheat. He’s a swindler, and a womanizer…
…and he speaks four languages; he is comfortable enough to blend into any aristocratic gathering. He spent time in Cambridge before the War, studying art. Lately, he’s been studying the Registry and checking for fortunes.
He got into a little bit of trouble in London with some gangsters, and was hoping to escape, but got caught. He agrees to go into the countryside to rob a manor house and steal a Stradivarius. He gets mixed up with a sex-crazed woman who wants to be his apprentice, and is willing to do anything to prove it...
Staying at a small farm owned by his ex-soldier buddy Reggie after it has been raining for a week solid and his fields have flooded. Reggie’s girlfriend is the head cook in one of the Manor houses in the area.
I said I wrote this last year or whenever, and I’m putting it up again, but only for my PAID subscribers. That’s because Murray said he liked that story and was enjoying it. I believe Irene said the same thing as well. I know Bob and my brother won’t really complain. They might want to read it, they might not. It’s to invite new readers.
JACK OF DIAMONDS has the potential to become an ongoing character. There are no real alarms and security measures. The man can run across rooftops and fearlessly jump onto narrow ledges. He gets mixed up with three sex-crazed women; being chased by a London gangster; mixed up with Russian Aristos, members of the old White Guard.
And then there are the police. A Romantic, morphine addicted, artist, who is more interested in scenery than solving crimes. His partner is a one-time nurse and war widow who is part of the National experiment, as far as women on the force are concerned.
When Artie’s best friend Reggie is killed, all he wants to do is honour his friend’s memory.
BOOK ONE
Under The Hunter’s Moon
CHAPTER 1
Come you back to Mandalay
Artie could see that the grounds were kept neat and trim. The bushes growing at the base of the foundations were freshly cut and pulled away from the windows. Well, that’s probably a good thing, he thought. It’ll make the climbing easier. Still, the ivy managed to cling to the North face of the Manor, leeching onto the masonry and scarring it with ghostly tendrils in its relentless climb to the sixth floor. The building stones looked faded with age the closer they got—looking weathered by the onslaught of uncounted years, as his father would say—and he wondered just how long ago the place had been built. It was possible some of the bricks were weathered, and that they’d crumble under the weight of his body.
Artie sat back, feigning a look of stunned disbelief as he looked at Reggie, who was grinning as they made their approach. Artie whistled and forced a smile as he nodded. It was bigger than the house he’d grown up in, but that just meant it has more to offer, he told himself.
Mandalay. Even the name’s pretentious. Places like this aren’t built, he told himself, they’re erected, like palaces, or monuments. That’s why they give them names.
Which he supposed is what this was, a monument to some bastard’s vanity—and so very much like the house he grew up in. Probably with a family as large as his own had been, but with a larger staff. There were flowers lining the hedge rows—the last blooms of the season—with vivid colours, as if to spite the recent spate of bad weather.
If you want to call unseasonable rain and flooding, bad weather.
The flowers were festive colours of bright reds, golds and purples though, and they caught the rising sun, glistening with the morning’s dew. There was a chill in the air all the same, and between the rains and recent flooding, and now the cold, Artie told himself Reggie’s crop were all but lost. What little produce they’d managed to save today wouldn’t be enough for Reggie to save the season. Artie looked at the paving stones lining the circular drive as Reggie manoeuvred the van around; he naturally looked into the side mounted mirror. He could see Reggie’s reflection staring back at him, and leaned back against the seat, assuring himself he wasn’t in Reggie line of sight. The stones of the wall were still wet. Some were steaming where they bathed in the morning’s light, and yeah, sure, it all looked pretty, Artie thought, but he was looking at the stone wall coming up on his left. The truck sputtered briefly when Reggie lost the gear for a moment; then it lurched back and he stepped on the brake pedal before hitting the wall.
“Alright, good enough I’m t’inkin’,” he grinned, pulling up on the handbrake. “Ya sure it’s no trouble? It woan take long, I promise. Okay, it prob’ly will… but Claire…now I want ya to know, she’s special to me,” he said, trying not to sound sappy. Artie knew he couldn’t help it. “She is. She’s the cook ‘ere.”
“You told me, Reg. Ad nauseam—”
“Add what?”
“Just go. It won’t take long before I’m colder than a witch’s tit if we don’t do something,” Artie laughed. “I told you I’d help you, and I meant it. I helped load it up, didn’t I? But Jesus, Reg, you should’ve told me to come out in the Spring. I thought being in the country was supposed to be all sunshine and rainbows. I thought it was supposed to be warm? If I would’ve known it was going to be cold, I would’ve waited until Spring. But alas, t’was not to be. Nay! And why, you ask? Why am I here at all?”
“You’ll get ‘round t’ tellin’ me ‘ventually,” Reggie grinned.
“Yes, eventually,” Artie laughed, “because this is hardly the time, or the place, is it? We’ve got a crop to unload.”
Reggie laughed. “It doan matter why you’re ‘ere, Artie. I’d never complain ‘bout ya comin’ out t' see me. I love the idea that ya want to work, though. Still, it beats bein’ in Lon’on, any day, wit’ everyone all up close an’ in your face. An’ it’s always dark. It’s a dark an’ gloomy place, Artie.”
“I won’t argue the fact,” he said, putting his gloves on before stepping out of the van.
“A man needs space, Artie. I never unnerstood that ’til I came out here. I never knew ‘bout this place when I was Over There,” he smiled.
“You didn’t?”
“Got a letter from some barrister. Said I had an uncle what left it to me. I was the last survivin’ heir to a farm no one wanted. Can ya imagine that? I thought, better out here than wasting my time back there lookin’ out for my Hammerboys,” Reggie said, opening the van’s back door.
“Can’t say tracking down my old army boys was ever top of my list, Reg,” Artie said, hugging his arms around himself, trying to keep warm. At least I’ll be in the sun, he told himself. “I’m glad you’re not with Charlie anymore, though. That would’ve made things inconvenient, you being with him.”
“I told ya I wasn’t goin’ back, din’t I? I said I wouldn’t. But what ‘bout Dickerson?” Reggie asked, tying the van’s door open. “Best damned shot I ever seen. An’ I’ve seen a lot. I watched him blow a hole clean through a leaf at fifty yards. A leaf! An’ all for a bottle of wine, no less. Best wine I ever had, I’ll have ya know. A burgundy they said. Ya ever had a burgundy, Artie?”
“Sure, lots of times.”
“ ‘Sure, lots of times.’ ” Reggie mimicked. “Well, not me,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “That was my first taste of it,” he added, tying the second door out of the way. “Ya can’t explain how somethin’ like that tastes. Not wine,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “It’s impossible. Ya can’t describe flavour.”
“Of course you can,” Artie laughed. “They have people that go around the continent, and that’s all they do. They taste wine, and they eat in fancy restaurants.”
“Fuck off! They do not! Why would ya pay someone t’ do somethin’ like that?” Reggie asked, looking up at him and squinting into the sun as it topped the tree line. He shielded his eyes. “An’ how do I get a job like that?"
“The people that live in these houses would have someone like that working here,” Artie said with a nod towards the manor house. “Can you imagine? They pay someone to take care of their shit. That’s what money gets you, Reg. Look, go let her know you’re here; standing out here isn’t doing my old bones any good.”
“I’m older than yerself by at least a decade!” Reggie laughed, stepping away from the van.
“It’s all that time I spent in the trenches, Reg,” Artie called out. “After that first winter, I didn’t think I'd ever get warm again.”
Reggie stopped. “But ya got out, Artie. Comes wit’ Class privilege, I’d say. It may’ve taken ya two years, but ya did it. A nice cushy translatin’ job behind lines? That’s nothin' to complain about.”
“Except for that first year in the trenches. But that was a long time ago, Reg.”
“Was it? Then why am I still dreamin’ ‘bout it?”
“Keeping you up at night, is it?”
“Nah, nothin’ I can’t sort out in m’ own head.”
“I still get them, too, Reg, just so you know. I guess that’s why I like drinking and whoring so much,” he laughed. “Now go!”
Reggie ran to the side door. Artie watched him knock, blowing on his hands as he stepped around the corner, out of the wind. He could see Reggie’s breath smoking around the corner where the sun caught it, and imagined it wrapping itself around his thick beard. At the same time, he was feeling the cold slicing through him and turned to watch the sun cresting the last of the trees.
The sooner I can get to work, the sooner I’ll warm up.
He watched as the head cook poked her head around the corner. He couldn’t see her, but he was certain it had to be Claire, the new love of Reggie’s life. She was wiping her hands on her apron and that was the moment Reggie chose to step out from around the corner and kiss her full on the mouth. Artie could see the steam of their passion enveloping them. She laughed, throwing her arms around Reggie’s neck, hugging him.
Almost romantic, if it wasn’t so sappy, Artie thought, smiling to himself. Reggie’s definitely smitten.
Saying she was a spritely girl didn’t do her any justice, Artie thought. She was tall, surprisingly thin and almost pretty, with a head full of dark curls and ringlets spilling out of her tight white bonnet. She had a long face with a tapered chin. Her eyes were reflecting the light of a single sunbeam breaking through the latticework above her; it made her eyes sparkle, dancing with the dust motes around her as she laughed. She had a smile he could see that was bookended by two small dimples.
Dressed in house colours of silver and black, the dress was old and well-worn. The black was faded to a smoky grey, the silver piping torn in places; her apron stained red, but whether it was chicken blood, or beet juice, Artie couldn’t say.
Reggie pulled her arms from around his neck and was quick to explain the situation. It wasn’t long before she was following him back to the van. She walked up the small path and put a hand out to the brush the spiders’ webs. She wiped the webbing on her apron and fought with it all the way up the path.
“This is Artie,” Reggie said by way of introduction. “I tolt ya ‘bout him,” Reggie said, pausing. Artie could see Reggie was obviously trying to remember whether he’d told her about him, or not. That might make things uncomfortable, he reasoned.
“He’s here t' help me unload. Come in last night on the 9:00 o’clock from Exmouth.”
“Artie, is it?” she asked, and looked up at him, shielding her eyes.
“Artemus Spencer, at your service,” Artie said with a sweeping bow.
“Ye served together, did ye?”
“We did,” Artie said with a quick nod.
“Come to get drunk with him, an’ talk over old times, are ye?” she asked playfully.
“We may,” Artie nodded again, slower this time, wondering if that was a warning in her voice he’d heard.
Artie looked at Reggie standing beside her, tight-lipped and frowning, and he smiled. Reggie was hers and she was letting Artie know. Although she hadn’t said it in no uncertain terms, she might as well have said he wasn’t part of the regiment anymore because the War was over. He knew that Reggie had told her he’d been a lifer, but that was a lie, Artie knew. Reggie had spent a wild youth in London as one of Charlie’s Hammerboys. Now, at forty-two, his life belonged to her. It was obvious he was happy, but all the same Artie made a mental note that Reggie would always be loyal to her first.
“He doesn’t talk much about his time over there, an’ I don’t ask him,” she said.
“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Artie smiled.
“I won’t hold ye to nothing, but I’m just saying, we both found ourselves at a needful time. Do ye know what I mean?”
“I’m not going to be here long.”
“I needed him as much as he needed me. I just want you to know that. I’ll do whatever I can to make yer stay comfortable, but when ye leave, ye have to promise not to take him with ye.”
“Take him with me?”
“The way he talks about ye, he’d follow you to the ends of the earth—”
“This rain din’t do me any lick of good, Dearest,” Reggie said, trying to distract her. “I only managed t’ save half m’ crop.”
“I won’t,” Artie said, and he hoped she could see he meant it.
She turned to look at Reggie.
“And when’ll the rest be ready?"
“When? They won’t. This was all.”
“This is it?” She picked up a leaf lettuce, pulling it apart. “What do ye ‘pect me to do with this?” she asked, looking at the wilted leafs.
“It hain’t all gone; ’twill if I leave it in the fields, though. You’re the first person I thought of, Claire. I thought, ‘I wonder if they’ll be wantin’ some greens up at Mandalay Manor?’ Ya could make a stew, or a pot pie. Maybe some soup for the staff? Doan think you'll be able t’ get away with anythin’ else. Ask Artie. He knows more ‘bout that sort of stuff than me.”
“He does?” she asked.
“Food an’ stuff? Artie knows all ‘bout that. He used t’ live inside one o’ these houses.”
“Do tell, Artie?” She looked at Artie with a critical eye, her hand going up to shade her eyes again. “I can tell, just by lookin’ at ye, ye’ve never worked in no house. Ye don’t look the type. Certainly not a valet, nor even a footman, for that matter.”
Artie shook his head. “That’s because I’m not.”
“He lived in one, Claire. He’s the bloke I been tellin’ ya ‘bout. I met ‘im in France. In Paris, no less. This is Artie! I told ya ‘bout him. He’s a cousin, or somethin’, to a Lord, or a Lady—who knows what? I doan even t’ink he knows. I know I can never remember. What is he Artie, your cousin?”
“My father.”
“And which is it then? A Lord or a Lady?” she asked.
“My father’s a Baron.”
“Ye’re the son of a Baron?” she asked, caught off guard. “The right Honourable Artemus Spencer, is that it then? Or is it? What sort of title does that give you?” she asked, turning to look up at Artie again.
“I’m just Artie. Artie’s fine.”
“How do ye know he lived in a place like this?” she asked, looking at Reggie now. “Ye meet him over there and he tells ye he used to be a gentleman. He knows how to hold a fork all proper like—even knows which fork to use—so ye believe him because he says things you know nothing about?”
She turned to look up at Artie again.
“Do you know Latin?”
“Of course. Satis impetro in,” Artie smiled.
“What’s that mean?” Reggie asked.
“He said he knows enough to get by,” Claire replied.
“You know Latin?” Reggie asked her, sounding surprised.
“My father was a Latin scholar at Cambridge. Do you think that’s what makes a gentleman? Because he knows Latin?”
“Why lie about something like that? His family had money, just not him. But he went to Cambridge. Maybe ‘e knew yer daddy?”
“Ya got no money?” she asked Artie, ignoring Reggie’s question.
“I’m the youngest son. The youngest son usually goes into the clergy. You know, like The Vicar of Wakefield?”
“Should I know him?” Reggie asked. “Where’s Wakefield?”
“It’s a book,” Artie smiled, looking at her.
“I know it’s a book.” To Reggie she said: “Look. Did I say he was lying? Did I say I didn’t believe him? Ye met him over there, and ye say ye trust him; that’s a different sort of trust. If it’s good enough for yerself, it’s good enough for me. If ye say he saved yer life, or ye saved his, then ye’re obligated to at least make an effort and try to be friends. So ye two get this stuff unloaded, and I’ll go talk to Carhill and make it all straight. When ye’re done, I’ll give ye some bread puddin’ from last night.”
“With cream?” Reggie asked.
“Why would I offer you a bread pudding, and not give you cream?”
Lovely character build. And it sounds like you're still playing around with who the characters will become? I like this approach to serialization.
Interesting characters introduced here, Ben. I specially liked your very first description of Claire. Sweet!