THIRTEEN

T hunder rumbled and Patricia awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her throat. The wind blew open the French windows with a crash, although she was sure she had secured them. Lightning ripped open the sky again and white light flashed in her room, causing the satyrs and devils to leap off the canvas. Wind whipped at the drapes and swung the window back and forth as hard rain splashed in.

Patricia jumped out of bed, which was raised on a foot-high dais, and bent over to pull on her slippers. She tottered and grabbed a bedpost to support her. The bedpost wriggled and squirmed in her hand. She jerked away with a shudder. She still felt somewhat unsettled, although not as much as when she had gone to sleep.

She went to the windows and began to close them against the storm when she saw dark shapes moving around on the grounds outside. It was hard to make them out in the downpour, but there were definitely two people outside in the torrent.

What the hell could they be doing?

She thought about calling the police, and then hesitated. What if it’s Richard and his lover meeting again? she thought. While she found his behavior disgusting, she wasn’t the moral police and had no desire to get involved.

She looked at the clock; it was 11:55, and she remembered Bess’ ghost was supposed to appear at twelve midnight. Then she realized she wasn’t thinking clearly. Even if it was Richard, he wasn’t engaging in a lover’s tryst outside in the midst of a raging lightning storm. It was Richard, however, who continually reminded her about the Pemberley Curse, even as he downplayed it as a silly fairy tale or a joke. With midnight approaching, Richard and someone else must be outside, perhaps getting ready to play a joke on her, or something even more serious.

The carved bedposts of Bess of Pemberley’s bed looked as if they were crawling and slithering with half-man, half-beast things as lightning continued to split the darkness, and the salacious paintings and scenes of naked people being tortured were full of life and evil. She wondered if she were dreaming. Or perhaps something from dinner was making her ill. She began to get a bit frightened.

Maybe she should get Parker, and see if he could help her find out what was going on. Perhaps he had meant well and she had been hasty in running him off.

Patricia decided not to call the police; she wanted to spoil Richard’s little joke—if it was Richard, and if it was a joke. She decided she’d investigate herself. She didn’t want to alert the intruders out-side that they’d been seen, so she kept the lights off in her room. She fumbled around the unfamiliar room in the dark and, navigating by the occasional flashes of lightning, was able to locate her robe. Standing in front of Bess’ gilt-edged mirror, she tied the satin garment around her waist. The wind gusted in the still-open French windows, flipping up the robe and exposing her, which she could see by lightning in the mirror. She ran over and secured the windows against the elements, and then sat on the foot of the bed, facing the mirror again, watching herself pull on her slippers.

She stood, and lightning flashed again. The clock struck midnight and she saw in the mirror, or thought she saw, standing behind her and over her shoulder, a reflection of a woman’s pale figure.

Carla!

The woman was wearing a white shift and her dark hair was styled differently, but beyond that it was undoubtedly Carla.

Patricia whirled, terrified. “What are you doing in here? How did you get in—” Patricia broke off. The woman was gone.

Was her mind playing tricks?

She ran to the hall door, opened it, and looked both ways. No one was there. She went down the stairs and to the main hall, picked the first door on her right, and entered the study. She dashed through the room and yanked on the garden windows which opened onto the house’s huge portico, heedless of the storm. She was determined to give Richard hell. Any ruckus could cause the old woman to die of shock, and this was two nights in a row now, although they had all determined not to tell her about the prior evening’s goings-on. Still, the old Duchess had already been worked up about Bess’ supposed appearance tonight, and although Patricia was not very fond of the ancient, lecherous, acid-tongued bitch, she didn’t want her to die prematurely either.

Well, Patricia corrected herself, going off to the great beyond at the ripe old age of 103 might not exactly be accurately characterized as premature, but she didn’t want a needless and senseless shock to send her off before her time, whenever that might be.

One of the people she had seen outside her window might have been Richard, but his companion couldn’t have been Carla, since Carla was otherwise occupied skulking around Patricia’s room. But how did Carla get in and out so fast, and without Patricia seeing her? Were the siblings both trying to scare her, or was Richard acting on his own in that regard? Carla had another motive for coming to Patricia’s room in the dead of night, even if they had earlier said their good-nights. But why had Carla disappeared when Patricia confronted her?

She crept further down the veranda and saw the two figures approach the house. She ducked down close to the carved stone balustrade so they wouldn’t see her in a random lightning flash, and continued to crawl forward. The rain plastered her thin robe to her body and she shivered.

Patricia was now close enough to see the two prowlers. Neither of them was Richard. For that matter, neither of them was Carla, though she had expected that, since Carla’s main business seemed to be creeping about Patricia’s room uninvited.

The two intruders were Jack Hare and the woman Ernie. They looked the worse for wear, with black eyes and bruises about their faces where Patricia had beaten them with the wooden stakes the previous night.

They forced open a window and entered the house. Patricia had to give the alarm now. She saw red and wanted to go after them herself. After all, she had every reason to hate them for assaulting her, and she had driven them off on her own last night.

But she still felt unwell from the food poisoning at dinner—at least she thought it must be food poisoning that had made her so disoriented and dizzy—and decided it was better to confront the trespassers with strength in numbers.

She ran back down the length of the porch and reentered the house at the study where she had exited, a few rooms down from the room into which Ernie and Jack had gone. She found a house phone and rang through to Parker. After she explained the situation, she went back outside to meet him.

A few minutes later, she saw the beam of a flashlight and called out to Parker, who joined her on the terrace near the window the two crooks had entered. He carried a rifle.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me,” he said.

“I wasn’t, but this took precedence.”

“Okay, you’re sure it’s the two who grabbed you last night?”

“Yes. At first I thought it might be Richard and someone else, maybe Carla. But Carla showed up in my room—”

“Where is she now?”

“No idea, she disappeared. Anyway, I caught a close look as they broke in. It’s definitely Ernie and Jack.”

“All right, I’ll go in and find them. You get inside too, you’re drenched and practically naked, and it’s freezing out here.”

Patricia raised an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised you noticed the naked part, Pete.”

“Well, it’s hard to miss. That robe is so plastered to your skin it might as well be invisible.” He looked her up and down, pausing at her full breasts. “And you are clearly chilled to the bone. But I wasn’t spying on your—your embrace earlier tonight. I really did come to warn you. I hope you believe me. But we don’t have time for this, we can sort it out later.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“I’m going in now, here. I think you should go back inside at a different part of the house and call the police.” He raised a hand in mock salute and started to climb in the window.

Before he could take another step, the glass in the French doors the next room over burst outward, followed by a naked man tumbling out the window, up and over the low stone railing around the veranda, and down onto the vast lawn.

The man was short and scrawny, covered in patches of black matted hair. It was Austin, the chauffer. He ran away from the house in a limping zigzag pattern which looked designed to evade gunfire.

It was.

A barrage of bullets blazed orange from the window Austin had crashed through, followed by the pistols and their wielders, Jack and Ernie. The two black-clad interlopers hopped over the terrace and onto the lawn in pursuit of Austin, still firing.

The breaking glass and gunfire raised alarms and security lights began to come on around the house and grounds. Parker knelt on the portico and used the granite balustrade to steady his aim at the fleeing figures. He got off several shots at Ernie and Jack and they scattered. Austin, meanwhile, scampered up a tree like the small monkey he resembled.

The shots continued and then let up. After a few minutes without shooting, Patricia saw Austin scurry down out of the tree and dash back to the house. He climbed back up the veranda, and made for the inside.

“Hold on there, then,” Parker said. He grabbed Austin’s arm.

“Sod off, Parker,” Austin said, “’less you want a bloody stump where that hand is now.” He yanked his arm back and kept on walking.

Patricia gawked, wide-eyed, at Austin. His flaccid member was almost as big as her father’s, although that seemed impossible. She tried to banish thoughts of her father and told Parker, “Careful, Pete, he might actually have a blade concealed somewhere under that pelt.”

“Shut it, girlie,” Austin tossed back as he rounded a corner and disappeared up the stairs.

“Ex-con... and the Duchess likes him, huh?” Patricia said. Parker shrugged.

“What about Ernie and Jack?” she asked.

“What about them?” a new voice demanded.

Patricia and Parker turned to find old Doctor Moran in the doorway, disheveled in his nightclothes. He held some sort of odd-looking cane and was surveying them and the damage to the French windows. A woman in a mousy nightdress cowered behind him and peeked over his shoulder.

Patricia started, shocked. Was that the Duchess? They couldn’t have actually been having sex. Could they? It was unthinkable, at her age. Then the woman moved a bit to the side and Patricia saw it was the housekeeper, Mrs. Abingdon. It was clear they were both surprised in bed.

So the old doctor is a horny bastard, she thought.

“What about Ernie and Jack?” the old man repeated. “What the hell is going on here?”

While Patricia and Parker explained, Richard and Carla joined the party. Like Patricia and Parker, they were soaked through from the storm. Patricia noticed that Carla’s dark nipples showed through the thin cotton blouse, hard from the cold and rain. She looked away, and tried with difficulty to refocus her attention on the discussion.

“Well then, where are this Ernie and Jack?” Richard was asking.

“They got away,” Parker said.

“Well done, Pete, well done. A fine shot you must be,” Richard drawled.

“And just what were you and Carla up to out there, then?”

“None of your damn business. Mind your place, Pete.”

“It’s a valid question,” Patricia said.

“And I say it’s no concern of yours, you bi—”

Carla had Richard’s wrist in her hand and squeezed it hard. “Richard, lay off. It’s a valid question. Richard saw something, or people, out and about in the storm, just like you did, Patricia. He came to get me and we investigated.”

Parker looked doubtful, but before he could respond, Austin hobbled back downstairs, his fur-covered body now wrapped in a pale blue terrycloth bathrobe. He was followed by Jenkins, a gardener who lived off the estate, also in a state of undress.

“Bloody hell,” Richard said. “What’s he doing here?”

“Pretty obvious,” Carla said.

“What of it?” Austin was a belligerent bulldog.

“Nothing of it,” Carla said. “What did Jack Hare and Ernie want with you?”

“Who the hell’re Jack Hare and—”

“The two who broke in here after you?” Parker said. “You remember? Breaking glass? Gunshots? Scurrying up the tree out there like a gibbon?”

“All right, all right. Just didn’t know their names, is all.”

“So,” Patricia said, “why are they after you?”

“They are not—fucking—after me. Got it? They broke in, I heard ’em, came out of me room, they started shooting. That’s it.”

“Very well, then,” Moran said. “Have the police been called?”

“I was about to,” Patricia said, “but it happened so fast I didn’t have a chance.”

“Good. Parker, I trust you’ll see to the repairs here and put some of your men on guard duty until morning.”

Parker nodded once.

“Then everyone back to bed.”

“Shouldn’t we still call the police?” Patricia asked.

“No.” Richard was vehement. “And not a word of this to the Duchess,” he added. He looked particularly at Patricia and Parker. “We don’t want her becoming too excited, right?”

“Of course not,” Patricia said.

“Then good night to you.” Richard turned on his heel and marched off. “Coming, sis?” he called.

Carla looked after her brother’s receding form, gave Patricia a quick kiss on the cheek, and followed him. Everyone else was already dispersing. Parker was busy speaking with the gardener, Jenkins.

She stole away to her room, turned on all the lights, and locked the door. Then she double-checked and secured the French doors.

The illness, the lightheadedness, she had felt earlier in the evening had passed. The salacious paintings and tapestries hung innocently. The carved bedposts didn’t writhe, although the eye of a serpent wrapped around one of the posts seemed to stare at her. If serpents had eyebrows, this one would have raised his questioningly at her.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and peered into the mirror. Carla, or not-Carla, did not appear in the reflection over her shoulder. Could it have been Carla she saw in her room? These old houses were full of secret passages.

But how could it have been Carla, if she had been outside with Richard?

Or had it really been Bess d’Arcy, beholden by the Pemberley Curse to come haunt Patricia?