FOURTEEN

T he next day, the mood was strained in Pemberley House. Breakfast was served late due to the prior evening’s events, and the air was thick with tension, especially at the sexual discoveries: old Doctor Moran and Mrs. Abingdon, and Austin in bed with another man. All were still concerned not to tell the Duchess anything. The old lady took breakfast in her room this morning.

Patricia suspected there was much more to last night’s tumult. Ernie and Jack could have just happened to enter the house near Austin’s quarters, but why were they trying to get into the house? She thought about the late-night carjacking in the middle of an uproarious storm. And what was it Jack had said that night? Jack couldn’t find him, and Ernie had replied that it wasn’t him, he wasn’t driving.

Who did Ernie mean by “he”? Certainly not Richard, because Richard was the driver. Richard had told Patricia that Austin was down with a lame leg after being attacked by poachers and so Austin hadn’t been driving that night. Then the night prior Ernie and Jack just happened to break in the house near Austin’s quarters and come after him.

Patricia was a genius, taking after her father, a man one of New York’s biggest newspapers had once called “a combination of Leonardo da Vinci, Sherlock Holmes, Croesus, and Tarzan.” But it didn’t take a genius to see Jack and Ernie were the supposed poachers and they were after the chauffer, Austin, for some reason.

What wasn’t clear was why no one else had come to the same conclusion. Or else, they had, but had their own reasons for not pursuing it.

Richard was up to something, it was obvious, and it was beginning to look like Carla was part of it. Richard’s bluster with Parker last night was intended to deflect any more questions about whatever they had been up to out in the howling storm. Carla played the good cop, but her story about also investigating outside didn’t ring true. In addition to a genius-level IQ and distinctive bronze-colored skin, Patricia also inherited near-super-human eyesight from her father, and those curious, golden-flecked eyes surely would have seen anyone else in the night, especially when the lightning unpeeled the darkness.

Richard and Carla had been out in the torrent, to be sure, but not on the side of the house outside Patricia’s room where she had seen Ernie and Jack skulking around.

Which meant they were lying, as well. What dirty secrets were they hiding?

It seemed everyone at Pemberley had them, the dirty secrets. The Duchess did, even if they lingered from a moldering and decadent age; everyone who cared about her secrets must be long dead. Old horny Doctor Moran and his conquests. Richard and Carla. The chauffer.

What about Parker, did he have them too?

She was so disgusted she was almost ready to quit and leave, but still, she could clear out the whole place when she was Baroness.

The denizens of Pemberley had all been up much of the night before, and so after breakfast they all went their own way. Patricia avoided everyone. She spent the rest of the day alone and took the remainder of her meals by herself in her chamber.

She opened the curtains and pulled open the French windows for fresh air. The moist chill of early spring hung in the atmosphere, but was invigorating. For the time being the sky was clear, though black clouds roiled on the horizon. She picked a volume at random out of the reading pile and pulled a chair onto the terrace outside her windows.

In her hands was the Sherlock Holmes book. Holmes had been one of her father’s greatest instructors and she was intrigued. She opened the book to the marked story, “The Adventure of the Priory School.” Someone obviously wanted her to read it, so she would.

The tale was a quick but engaging read, and when she finished it, she realized how it related to her conversation yesterday with the Duchess. The old lady had told her the Great Detective had come many years ago to investigate the kidnapping of her son, Arthur. “Priory School” told that tale, although Doctor Watson, or his editor, Doyle, had altered a few of the names for publication. He changed the name of the Duke’s illegitimate son, James Clarke Wildman, to “James Wilder.” Pemberley House became “Holdernesse Hall,” while the sixth Duke of Greystoke became the sixth Duke of Holdernesse. The nearby village of Lambton was called “Chesterfield,” and the Duchess was called “Edith Appledore” rather than her true name, Edith Jansenius. Patricia knew from Mr. Newell that the full name of the James Wildman’s half-brother Arthur, the seventh Duke, was William Cecil Arthur Clayton. Other than the name changes, Watson’s recitation of the case seemed to adhere to the Duchess’ version of the story in all particulars.

Now in a mood for detective stories, Patricia grabbed the magazine entitled The Saxon Blake Library . The painted cover showed a youngish man with a round face and fair hair confronting two other men with a gun. One of the other men was lean and hawk-faced with black hair slicked back from his forehead and cut with a neat part. He was dressed elegantly in a dark suit, overcoat, and spats. He held a homburg in his hands and somewhat resembled pictures she had seen of Sherlock Holmes. The other man was younger with a tweed coat and cap. The top corner of the magazine was emblazoned with “The Leading Detective Magazine, New Series, No. 125.” Across the bottom ran the title of the lead story.

“The Shades of Pemberley.”

Below the title was a small caption: “A baffling tale of haunting by a 350-year-old spirit. Can Blake and Topper’s first-rate detective work lay the ghost to rest before she comes again?”

Patricia was amazed. She gingerly opened the cover and looked at the date: January 1928. How could this be? How could there be a story about the Pemberley ghost in a forty-year-old pulp magazine?

She turned to the beginning of the tale and began to read.

“The Shades of Pemberley” 

by Anon.

“Mr. Blake, I come on a matter of some delicacy...” [Patricia read] 

“I assure you, you may speak freely in front of my apprentice and confidant, Mr. Topper, with the same confidence in his discretion that you may have in mine. Likewise, your patroness has the same guarantee.”

“That’s very good of you, Mr. Blake, Mr. Topper.” Augustus Moran, a young, fair-haired man of perhaps nineteen or twenty, was visibly relieved. “For I fear the Dowager Duchess of Holdernesse may be going mad!”

Moran .

Then, just as in the Holmes tale, Holdernesse was being used as an alternate or code-name for Greystoke. She read on.

J. Saxon Blake was a crack investigator who had studied with and worked alongside some of the best in Europe, including Sherlock Holmes, Nelson Lee, Sir Eric Palmer, and Erast Fandorin. He was also an expert in chemistry, rare poisons, fingerprints, strange cults, inks, firearms, and cryptography. Unlike Holmes, his cases occasionally veered into the realm of the fantastic, though not often. Topper, his assistant, was a brave, curly-haired lad full of intelligence and energy.

Blake and Topper had been in their consulting room when the caller had arrived. The sleuth and his apprentice had had offices on Upper Baker Street since before Blake’s friend and rival Holmes had retired to Sussex several years earlier. They had been perusing the Globe and smoking, when their housekeeper, Mrs. Bardell, knocked, entered, and presented their visitor’s card.

“Hum, hmmm. Remarkable.” The detective carelessly tossed the card on the settee. Striding over to the bay window, he pulled aside the curtains and peered down through the heavy fog. The newly installed electric lamps barely cut through the miasma of the infernal pea soup, but he observed a 1925 Rolls Royce Phantom Sedanca De Ville motor-car idling at the curb in front of their Baker Street digs. The Phantom appeared to be even more luxurious than Blake’s own Grey Panther Rolls. “Very interesting.”

“What, guv’nor?” cried Topper earnestly.

“Ahem,” the long-suffering Mrs. Bardell interpolated.

“Hmm? Oh, yes! By all means, Mrs. Bardell, by all means, show him up.”

Blake paced with the lean, nervous energy that still propelled him in early middle-age, his grey eyes alight with excitement, as two sets of footsteps proceeded up the familiar steps, until finally the landlady entered with their caller.

Blake sprang past the davenport, his favorite pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, and greeted their guest with a firm, dry handshake. “Come in, Mr. Moran. Please, sit here by the fire and warm yourself. Cigarette? This is my associate, Topper—Topper, pull that extra armchair over here, good man. Mr. Moran, what brings you from Derbyshire to London this brumous morning?”

Now all three men were ensconced before the warming grate. Mrs. Bardell had served coffee and whisky, and Mr. Moran’s discretionary concerns had been allayed.

“The Duchess of Holdernesse—going mad?” Blake fired his pipe and sat back, drawing his dressing gown up around him. “Pray continue,” he murmured.

“Very well,” their guest said. “I assume you deduced my connection to the Duchess from my card?”

Blake waved him on, impatiently. “Yes, you currently reside at Pemberley House, and the Duchess is well known as the holder of that venerable estate. What role do you play in the household, sir?”

It seemed that Moran reddened slightly, but he responded that he was currently pursuing a medical education. “I am at present the Duchess’ secretary. Our arrangement is that she will provide for my medical studies, and in turn I will serve as her personal physician once they are concluded.”

“I see. Very convenient. Well, shall we proceed to the crux of the matter? Her madness?”

Moran took a deep breath. “Certainly. It has to do with the so-called ‘Pemberley Curse.’ Her Grace insists she’s been haunted for the past several years by the ghost of her distant ancestor, Bess of Pemberley, on the anniversary of Bess’ death. And the anniversary is three days hence.”

“Fascinating,” said Blake. “Did she send you here to engage my services, or are you here of your own accord?”

“The Duchess sent me.”

“And do you know the whole story of the curse?”

“I know the legend, yes. But surely you don’t mean to place any credence in such nonsense?”

“Since the curse, real or not, is the underlying motivation for her proposal to secure my employment, I would posit that it is a valid starting place for our inquiry,” Blake said pointedly. “If you please?”

“Very well. The Dowager Duchess,” Moran began, clearly reluctant, “was married to the 6th Duke of Holdernesse. Pemberley House is an ancient estate located in the Midlands county of Derbyshire. The legend goes that the ghost of the murdered Baroness of Lambton, Bess d’Arcy, appears on the anniversary of her death to family members in her direct line of descent, but only on the premises of Pemberley House itself. The ghost appears at 12 o’clock midnight for three nights running: the night before the anniversary, the night of the anniversary, and the night after the anniversary. The legend has it if the ghost is shown love, not terror, she will go away forever.”

“I see. And how did the curse come about?”

“This is most distasteful.”

Blake arched an eyebrow at him.

“All right,” Moran sighed. “Bess d’Arcy was a much-married Elizabethan woman who founded three houses, although she was not of the nobility herself. Her fourth husband was William d’Arcy, the Baron of Lambton. He was an immensely wealthy landowner, and the holder of Pemberley House in the late 16th century. William and Bess had two children, Christopher and Jane d’Arcy.

“The triggering event was Bess d’Arcy’s infidelity with Captain Philip Fermier, in 1569. William d’Arcy put Bess’ lover Fermier to death, and later murdered his wife on the day of Jane’s birth in 1570.”

“So the curse began then?” Blake interrupted.

“No, the supposed curse was placed on the family in 1592, on Jane d’Arcy’s 22nd birthday. The occasion was a grand feast in honor of Jane’s birthday and engagement to Captain John Caldwell-Grebson.

“Caldwell-Grebson had heard tales of the hospitality of Pemberley House years ago from the late Captain Philip Fermier, who obviously never returned from his final visit to the estate. The wealthy Caldwell-Grebson had concluded long years of privateering and had stopped at the Pemberley estate on his way to his ancestral home. He extended his stay at Pemberley House when he became enamored with Jane d’Arcy, and they were quickly affianced.

“Jane had had what could be generously called an unhappy childhood—”

“Little wonder, with a father who murdered her mother!” exclaimed Topper.

“Well, Mr. Topper, William never believed he was Jane’s father, and treated her accordingly. The engagement to Captain Caldwell-Grebson was probably the first happiness the girl had known.

“The feast, the story goes, was a grand affair, with guests in attendance from all over England and even beyond. Legend has it that one of these was a necromancer who was also a relative of the late Fermier. This is where the story becomes truly ridiculous,” Moran trailed off.

Blake gestured for him to proceed, and their guest did so, with another sigh. “Of course, no one knew any of this as the festivities began, but the occultist quickly made himself known, and laid a curse on the family as vengeance for Fermier’s death years before. The curse, as I have said, is that Bess would appear to her direct descendants, and her murderer of course, in Pemberley House, on the anniversary of her murder. 

“The spell was conditional, in effect giving William a chance to avoid it, or else hoist himself by his own petard. If Jane d’Arcy was really the legitimate daughter of William, then the curse would take effect and be passed on to all subsequent generations of d’Arcys. In that case, William could avoid passing on the curse by showing Bess’ ghost love and repentance, rather than hatred and more violence. On the other hand, if Jane was really the illegitimate daughter of Fermier, then there would be no curse at all on the d’Arcys.”

“What happened, sir?” asked Topper, engrossed by the tale.

“William d’Arcy, a cruel man by all accounts, was driven mad, and saw Bess everywhere, eventually mistaking his daughter for her. D’Arcy got his comeuppance, ending up in the madhouse, although not before murdering Jane, thinking in his madness that he was slitting Bess’ throat once more, for that’s how he had killed Bess twenty-two years prior.

“The upshot, or at least the legend, is the Pemberley Curse was indeed enacted; Jane was the daughter of William d’Arcy, not the illegitimate daughter of Fermier. And the curse was passed on to the children of Jane’s older brother, Christopher d’Arcy, and their descendants.”

“Awful!” Topper declared.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Moran. Blake made note of Moran’s slight rolling of the eyes and the touch of a sarcastic tone, though the eager Topper seemed to miss it. “Anyway, Bess allegedly has been appearing to the d’Arcys and their descendants, off and on, for centuries. The Dowager’s father, Sir Charles Appledore, was a distant descendant. One of Christopher’s daughters married a Hungarian count in the 1600s. The Duchess’ grandfather was originally from Hungary.

“Ironically, the d’Arcy and the Caldwell-Grebson families finally did come together years later when Ursula d’Arcy married Ralph Arthur Caldwell-Grebson in 1667. So, as it happens, the Duchess’ late husband, the 6th Duke, was also a distant descendant of Christopher d’Arcy through the Caldwell-Grebsons. He passed away in ’09.

“In any event, the story goes the ghost doesn’t appear consistently—she seems to appear for a year or several years running, and then won’t be seen for decades at a time. Indeed, it’s only within the last few years that Her Grace has been afflicted.

“It’s all twaddle, of course, but you asked,” Moran concluded.

“I did, and it’s very interesting twaddle indeed!” replied Blake, with characteristic good humor. “Tell me, Moran, since you choose not to believe the Duchess, what you envision for my participation in this affair.”

“Why, show her the folly of it, of course!”

“Aha! And if it is not folly?”

“It is either folly, or she is mad.”

“And madness wouldn’t do, would it? Put you in a bit of a bad spot, I’d say.”

“Gentlemen, I’ll not sit here and be insulted like this.” Moran stood. “Her Grace expects you at Pemberley House tomorrow morning. I trust I may convey that her expectations shall be satisfied?”

“Indeed, we wouldn’t dare disappoint—Her Grace, that is.”

Augustus Moran nodded once at each of them curtly, and showed himself out.

“Guv’, was it wise to be so rude?” Topper exclaimed.

The sleuth chuckled. He had obviously conceived a strong dislike for Moran. “Just stirring things up, old son, see what shakes out. Here, hand me the telephone, would you, there’s a good lad.”

Blake spent a few minutes with the operator before being connected. Then: “Hallo? Hallo? Russell, is that you? It’s Saxon Blake. Blake! Yes. Put Holmes on, would you?”

Another pause. “Hello, Holmes, it’s Blake. Up in London, right now, yes. Sorry to tear you away from the beekeeping—it’s keeping you well preserved, I trust? Fine, fine. Listen, Holmes, Topper and I received a rather odd visitor today, name of Augustus Moran. You don’t think—? His grandson? Yes, I thought as much. Says he came at the behest of Edith, Duchess of Holdernesse, up at Pemberley House. Yes, the very same, the Priory School case. The 6th Duke? Passed away almost twenty years ago, Moran said. The boy from the Priory School case must be the 7th Duke now. No? Of course! Thanks for reminding me. What? Says she’s being haunted. Haunted, I said! Yes, yes, I know, ‘no ghosts need apply’ and all that. Well— Yes! Well, Holmes, must ring off now, need to prepare for the trip to Derbyshire. Yes, give my best to Russell, and kiss your niece Violet when you see her. Cute as button, I say. Good-bye now.”

Blake hung up the telephone and grinned at his faithful apprentice. “‘No ghosts need apply,’ indeed!”

“Well guv’, Mr. Holmes may have something, at that,” Topper ventured.

“Oh, I know. Not our usual type of case, and normally I’d send it on to Carnacki or that American fellow, Dickson, who’s set up shop down the street in Holmes’ old digs. But this one is special. I took a case for the 6th Duke back in ’04, a postscript of sorts to Holmes’ work on the Priory School case. The Duke wanted to track down his illegitimate son, James Wildman, and didn’t want Holmes to know about it, so he hired me.”

“What happened, guv’nor?”

“The boy did quite well for himself. Had changed his name, had a son, and made his fortune. When I found him, he was in premedical school at Johns Hopkins. Quite a success story!”

Blake returned to the present. “Anyway, we’re keeping the case. So c’mon, young ’un, ‘the game is afoot,’ or something like that!”

Patricia’s eyes began to droop. The events of the last few days, and indeed the last weeks and months, were still wearing on her.

The sun dipped over the horizon and a chill wind stirred up as the storm clouds rolled in.

She carried the chair back into her room and closed the windows. Large drops of rain began to pelt against the ancient leaded glass. She rang for dinner to be brought to her room, freshened up a bit in the washroom, and ate the soup and beef which had been delivered at her summons.

The Saxon Blake story was fascinating and seemed to align in almost every detail with the story of Bess which Richard had told her the night of her arrival. A few names were changed to protect the innocent—or more likely, the guilty. But the particulars seemed remarkably accurate. Her own grandfather, James Wildman, was mentioned in the tale under his own name.

Patricia also got a thrill out of Blake’s mention of Holmes’ niece. Violet Holmes had been her mother’s best friend and a frequent visitor at the Wildmans’ upstate New York residence. Patricia had stayed in touch with Violet after her parents’ deaths, and couldn’t wait to ring her up with the news that she was immortalized in the musty pages of the old magazine. She resolved to call her as soon as her legal business here at Pemberley was concluded.

Patricia stacked her dishes and tray on a side table, got undressed, and jumped into bed naked. She pulled the thick down duvet up over her breasts and tucked it in under her arms, then picked up the Blake magazine and continued reading.

Blake and Topper were bundled up in the back seat of the Phantom Sedanca De Ville, traveling down the Lambton high road. The village of Lambton, where the morning train had deposited the detective and his loyal assistant, was five miles from Pemberley House. The sun shown brilliantly today, although the chill of early spring still hung in the Derbyshire air.

“The Fighting Cock,” noted Blake, as they passed an inn on their right.

“Then the Priory School...?” queried Topper.

“About six miles to the south”—Blake gestured to their left—“across the Lower Gill Moor. One of Holmes’ greatest triumphs. Located the kidnapped son of the 6th Duke—not James Wildman, whom I mentioned to you earlier—and ran a murderous villain to ground. The scoundrel was Hayes, proprietor of the Fighting Cock, which we just passed. Don’t recall the particulars, though. Ah, here we are, then.”

The two men were quieted as a vast estate loomed through huge oak trees. They entered through a low road and drove a considerable distance through a beautiful wood. Finally as they ascended, there stood revealed the great house itself, a large, stately stone building set against further woody, rolling hills. The original manor house, framed by naturalistic gardens, had first been built in the mid-1500s, with various additions over the centuries. Mary’s Tower, high on the hill behind Pemberley House, dated from the early 1580s. It was reputed that Mary, Queen of Scots, spent much time there.

Blake and Topper were shown in and escorted through a vast entrance hall, and down the Great Hall lined with massive portraits. One was of the late 6th Duke, a tall man with a curved nose, red beard, and grey eyes.

Topper tugged on Blake’s sleeve and pointed to two other handsome portraits, whispering, “Look, guv’, it’s Darcy and Elizabeth!” referring to Fitzwilliam Darcy and his wife, Elizabeth Bennet, whose great courtship and love affair were made famous in Jane Austen’s semibiographical novel.

Finally they were shown into the Dowager’s sitting room, a tropical hothouse at one end of the building. The Duchess, although she was now approaching 60 years of age, still displayed remnants of her youthful beauty, dark-eyed, delicately aquiline-nosed, with marked black eyebrows and a straight mouth over a small chin. Her features showed a strong personality.

Moran made introductions, and the four sat down to discuss the business at hand.

“Well, Mr. Blake, my secretary has provided the particulars. Have you any thoughts on the matter?” the Duchess began imperiously.

“In fact, Your Grace, I do,” the sleuth replied. “But first, a few more questions. The ghost of Bess has not yet afflicted you this year?”

“No, the anniversary is two nights hence.”

“And how many years has Bess appeared to you?”

“This would be the fourth.”

“I see. Prior to the recent visitations, when was the ghost last seen at Pemberley House?”

“My late husband told me stories that his uncle, Sir William Clayton, was similarly afflicted when he stayed over at Pemberley one night. Sir William claimed to have given the ghost what it wanted, and that it would trouble the family no more. My husband refused to tell me exactly what it was Sir William had done. In any case, the Duke treated the whole story as a joke, as Sir William was well known for his unreliability and instability.”

“Sir William was also a renowned lover of life, as it were. You’ll excuse my indelicacy, Duchess, but he was famous, or infamous, as a lover of many women the world over, is that not the case?”

“Mr. Blake!” exclaimed Moran.

“Guv’nor, my stars!” came the cry from young Topper.

“Mr. Blake, I fail to see how such an impertinent question can be in any way related to the matter in question,” the Dowager replied. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

“Yes, hmm, yes, I thought that might be the case,” mumbled the detective to himself, lost in his thoughts, almost as if he were alone in the room.

“Mr. Blake!” the Duchess interjected. “If we may have your attention? Kindly explain how you propose to address my problem, or else absent yourself from the premises and I will seek aid elsewhere!”

“My apologies, Your Grace, my apologies. It’s all very clear to me.”

“If you’d care to enlighten the rest of us...?”

“Yes, guv’,” cried Topper, “tell us what we must do!”

“Not ‘we,’ Topper. Very well. Mr. Moran tells me the legend has it the ghost must be shown love, not fear. Correct?”

“That is the legend, yes, and it is nonsense,” replied Moran.

“Well,” Blake spoke to the Duchess, ignoring Moran, “have you done so?”

“What are you implying? Certainly not!”

“You obviously accept the rest of the legend with your claim to be haunted by the ghost of Bess of Pemberley. Why do you reject this portion of the tale?” Blake inquired, coolly.

“You’re mad.”

“Perhaps. So you refuse to pursue this line of inquiry?”

“I do, sir. I have hired you to make the ghost go away. Can you do so, or not?”

“A few more questions, and then we shall see, Your Grace. I recall that your son was once the subject of a kidnapping attempt. Can you tell me of his current whereabouts? It may be pertinent to the case.”

A look of distaste fell over the Dowager’s countenance, but she answered. “I have not seen my son, William Cecil Arthur Clayton, since before he departed on an African expedition almost twenty years ago. He returned in 1910 with an American bride, Miss Jane Porter of Baltimore, but would not see me. He is now the 7th Duke of Holdernesse, but he and his family have never visited Pemberley, and spend most of their time at their estate in Africa.”

“Gone native, they say. Swings from the trees and everything,” Moran smirked, then shut his mouth at a sharp look from the Dowager.

“Do you have any other children?” Blake continued.

“No, only an adopted son.”

“His name and whereabouts?”

“His name is Carlo Deguy. I took him in after his parents died. He is currently studying at Cambridge.”

“Thank you, Duchess. Are there not any other Darcys in the area whom we might enlist?”

This time Moran replied, “No, his lordship the 6th Duke purchased Pemberley House from his cousin, Sir Gawain Darcy, who had purchased it from Fitzwilliam Bennet Darcy—the son of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet—when that gentleman experienced great financial difficulties. Fitzwilliam Bennet did have a daughter, Athena, who married the 6th Duke’s brother, the 5th Duke of Holdernesse. However, that line died out in 1888 when the 5th Duke’s son, John Clayton, and his pregnant wife Alice were lost at sea when the Fuwalda went down off the shores of the island of St. Helena.”

“Mr. Moran, you seem to know quite a bit of the Clayton family history,” Blake remarked.

“I should. It’s part of my own family history. John Clayton served with my grandfather in East India in 1883.”

“Ah, your grandfather, the famous—some would say infamous—Col. Sebastian Moran!”

The Duchess’ secretary shrugged.

“Well, then, the Fuwalda ,” Blake continued. “There were no survivors?”

“Oh, there were rumors over the years of shipwrecked survivors, feral children, raised by apes and so forth. But those rumors came from French Congo, far from St. Helena. Utter rot, of course,” Moran said.

“Very well, that line of inquiry seems fruitless. Your Grace, there are no other lineal descendants of the d’Arcys of whom you are aware?” Blake pressed.

A strange look crossed the Duchess’ face. “No, Mr. Blake, there are not. I have grown quite tired at your impertinence, and cannot fathom how this intrusive line of questioning will solve my present dilemma. I can see now you are not the right man for this particular job. You may leave. Moran, show these men out and bar them from the estate.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

And Augustus Moran did just that.

Moran... The infamous Col. Sebastian Moran. I should know that name... Patricia thought, but she couldn’t dredge up the significance.

She was groggy and felt disoriented. She couldn’t keep her eyes open and gave up fighting against sleep. She barely reached the switch on the bedside lamp before she dropped off into a deep, deep slumber.