JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chapter 11 Edited version.

The roads were a boggy mess. Niles was glad he rode the Triumph out rather than Charlie’s Austin—under the circumstances. There were times he had to get off the motorcycle and push it out of the mud, which reminded him of his time at the Front as a courier. It was pretty much like this on a good night, he told himself. He couldn’t imagine what the trip out would’ve been like in the Austin. He hoped the doctor didn’t have any trouble.

The man’s too old to be standing in the mud.

Still, the night was clear, and any threat of the rain they’d had for the past three days had been blown out to sea by calm but steady winds coming up from the south. A waning moon hung above the horizon, lighting his way like a dull street lamp in the distance. The moonlight helped him see enough to avoid the larger puddles and potholes, which made him wonder how long it would take the current government to deliver on their promise of an extensive roadway through all of England. It was a project that would literally be years in development, and would cost millions—if not billions.

But a cost well worth it.

He crested a low rising hill and saw the manor house standing in the distance, swathed in a pool of pale moonlight that just moment’s before broke through the scattered clouds. How anyone could even consider living in such a monstrosity was beyond him. He shut the motor down for a moment—shaking the machine out of habit and listening to the petrol swish about the tank. He sat back, taking his muddy goggles off, just to take in the sight.

The silence was noticeable. It was the kind of silence you only find in the countryside, he realized, where a murmur is nothing more than the humming of cicada, or the beating of one’s own heart. The lights in the manor were on, and he supposed that whatever clues he may have hoped to find, would be gone by the time he got there.

I should’ve told her not to let anyone touch anything.

He kick-started the Triumph again, feeling the vibration of the machine through his arms before he sank back into the saddle, pulling his muddy goggles down and readjusting his hat. He wondered if the vibration he felt in his arms would lead to the motoritis the medical journals were clamouring about. All brought on by motorcycles.

Of course.

It was a totally, ludicrous. proposition.

Where were all the medical specialists during the war?

All the same, I’d like to ride these hills when the weather clears up.

The countryside was wide open, much like the fields of France had been before the big guns desecrated the landscape. The trees skirting the horizon appeared as if they were dark shadows leaning against the moonlit sky behind them. The stars were a brilliant cascade of lights running as far away as forever. There was something enchanting about the night sky, almost romantic—(as if he knew anything about romance).

It was beyond enchanting when you considered how the ancients mapped out the heavens with gods and goddesses; it made one wonder. All the myths of Man are in the night sky, his father once told him, teaching him how to read the stars. Nigel used the stars once when he was lost in the fields, not knowing his north from his south, looking for some obscure location to deliver a message.

My life always seems to come back to the War, doesn’t it?

He supposed it was only natural for him to think about the Great War. After all, it played such a big part in his life. While they called it The War To End All Wars, it still failed to accomplish its task, but it certainly made an impact. So many of his friends were dead—friends from here, as well as friends he’d made over there. His own brother was killed flying over Flanders—shot from the ground, no less—back in 1917. That was the year both sides made their big push, thinking the other would break at any moment. He thanked Christ he wasn’t in the Trenches and never had to go over the top.

It must’ve played Hell on your nerves waiting to die like that.

He turned onto the circular path of a cobblestoned driveway and shut the engine down. For a moment, he simply sat on the bike, taking in the garish magnificence of the structure as it rose into the night sky. It reminded him of a French cathedral he’d seen. The mansion was done with a Gothic touch in mind, Charlie told him as he was leaving; he said he should keep that in mind. Nigel hadn’t been able to picture it in his mind’s eye, but he could clearly see what Charlie meant by ‘a Gothic touch.’

He stepped off the bike, pulling it up on its stand as he slowly took off his goggles, laying them on the saddle. He took his hat off—a flat-cap he stuffed into his back pocket—and tried to straighten his hair as best he could.

He turned to look up at what he’d assumed was the front entrance, looking at it with a sudden sense of awe, not at the architecture with all its ghoulish, garish, figures, but at the idea of a man could climbing up to such dizzying heights without the aid of a rope.

And even though he had a rope, he didn’t use it, she’d claimed. Well, that’s what she says. How true it is, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

He walked along the front of the drive, looking at the ground for any evidence the thief may have left behind. It was too dark to see properly, and he told himself he’d probably have to come back in the morning.

Suddenly he stopped.