Chapter 46: “Snakes and Ladders”
by Luciaphil
"It would be a pretty good bet that the gods of a world like this probably do
not play chess and indeed this is the case. In fact no gods anywhere play
chess. They haven’t got the imagination. Gods prefer simple, vicious games,
where you Do Not Achieve Transcendence but Go Straight To Oblivion; a key to
the understanding of all religion is that a god’s idea of amusement is Snakes
and Ladders with greased rungs."
--Terry Pratchett Wyrd Sisters
* * *
Voiceover by Nancy Barrett: There is a shift in time as one young woman has
made her way into an already changing past. While she struggles to discover
what she must do to alter an intolerable future, the people around her are
embroiled in efforts to stay three steps ahead of each other. Deceit,
jealousies, intrigues swirl through the dark mansion on the hill like currents
in a maelstrom. Meanwhile, the one man who might be able to assist her is
caught in a seemingly inescapable web.
* * *
1967
For the first time in decades, Barnabas Collins gave thanks for his father.
Warmth and loving might not have been qualities that Joshua possessed, but he
had made up for these deficiencies with shrewdness and craftiness in abundance.
The Old House was a veritable warren of priest holes and secret rooms, and in
its nether regions, passageways designed first for smuggling contraband, and
then for hiding weapons and men during the Revolutionary War. One never knew,
Joshua had declared once, when one would need to hide something or someone.
Wiser words were never spoken, Barnabas thought now. Every door was locked,
every window shuttered, but he doubted that would keep out the thing that had
possessed Quentin for long. It seemed absurd to think of it as Victor
Fenn-Gibbon, but that was the only name he had for it.
Barnabas had taken a few other precautions, protections that might or might not
keep the monster at bay. He was not certain that the charms and wards he had
garnered from books borrowed from Professor Stokes would be effective. Not
trusting to those he had gone deeper into the bowels of his home.
He needed an ally. Julia was dead. That was starting to sink in. Julia was
dead. Quentin was no more. Victoria was gone. He was alone. The professor .
. . if only Stokes had not suffered a stroke.
* * *
1897
Beth shivered as she sank onto the wooden chair in her room. It was a small
chamber, but at least she didn’t have to share it like the other maids in their
drafty attic rooms. She noted that Dirk had finally had someone patch her
broken window. Of course, the board nailed over the glass blocked any natural
light from seeping through. Still, it wasn’t so cold now.
Small comfort after a particularly hard week, she thought. Jenny had been
worse than usual, breaking one of the filthy wax dolls in a rage. That always
meant hysteria from which it was almost impossible to calm her. It was worse
now because Jenny had intuited that Quentin was back. She couldn’t have heard
anything. It was like a tomb in the tower room and no household sounds ever
permeated through the thick walls. Only Miss Judith ever went near the place
and she would hardly mention Quentin to Jenny.
Nothing Beth said would convince Jenny.
“I saw him. I saw him in the moon!”
“He won’t find you, Jenny,” Beth had soothed, trying to lead Jenny away from
the idea or she would soon be insisting that she see Quentin. “He’s miles from
here. You’re safe; you and your babies are safe.”
Jenny had grown violent. “I won’t let him hurt my babies! I won’t!”
Before Beth could stop her, Jenny had snapped the neck of one of the dolls.
Beth was seldom afraid that Jenny would hurt her, but that day had been one of
those rare times.
Nora had been more fractious and clinging than usual. Beth didn’t usually mind
the little girl, but she had enough to deal with right now, and, it made it so
much harder to keep Jenny’s existence secret.
There were too many people in Collinwood. Too many inquisitive people, she
reflected, thinking of Tim Shaw, who had recently arrived and was acting as
Edward’s business secretary. Ordinarily, someone like that wouldn’t pose much
of a problem to her, but Tim was quietly curious about everyone and everything
in the house and had a knack for getting answers out of some of the other
servants. He had also expressed an interest in her company, which was yet
another obstacle with which she had to deal.
Now there was the sharp-eyed fiancée of Mr. Edward . . . Beth briefly
wondered if the girl knew what she was getting into, before Beth’s sympathy
melted into envy. Miss Winters would never be asked to clean up after a
lunatic or lay out a dead body. She would wear pretty clothes and never have
to do a lick of work that she didn’t want to do.
Beth bent over with the buttonhook and set to removing her shoes. She would
worry about the money for Mrs. Fillmore tomorrow. Miss Judith might not give
her much grief about it . . . then again, she might. Beth bit her lip as a
variety of scenarios played out in her mind. Three hundred dollars was a lot
of money. What if Miss Judith made her replace it? Could she ever even begin
to get such a sum? Maybe if she told her about Quentin taking it?
Quentin. Charming and handsome and . . . cruel . . . Beth could feel
tears forming in her eyes. She sat back up, the buttonhook in her hand, her
shoes still pinching her feet.
This was not how she’d expected her life would be.
As if her thoughts had conjured up the reality, the door to her room opened and
she saw Quentin standing before her with an unrepentant smile and a suit coat
in his arms.
“This is my room, Mr. Collins,” Beth began icily, “Is it too much to ask you
to knock before entering?”
“So formal, Beth,” he chided. “Is that any way to treat me?”
“Get out of here.”
Quentin only closed the door behind him. “We’re friends, Beth, good friends,”
he said in the husky voice that always made her knees weaken.
She stood up. “I’ll go to your sister.”
“No, you won’t,” he told her with conviction. “Besides I have a perfectly good
reason for being here.” He held out the suit coat. “I’ve lost a button
somehow.”
Beth took it from him. “I’ll see what I can do. You may leave now.” She put
the coat on the chair.
Quentin shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He moved closer to her and placed
his hands around her waist. When she tried to pull away, he tightened his hold
on her. “You need me, Beth. You know you do.”
He had the face of an angel with the heart of a demon. “I don’t have any more
money for you to steal.”
“How did you get it, Beth?” he whispered as he moved one hand up to stroke her
hair.
She closed her eyes. “It was my savings. I told you that. Please, Quentin,
it’s all I have.”
“You lie very badly, Beth. Did you steal it?” He bent over and kissed the nape
of her neck. “Or did Edward give it to you?”
Beth summoned up her strength and tried to twist away. “Why would your brother
give me $300?”
Quentin pushed her up against the wall. “For this.”
“Please, no . . . I can’t do this anymore . . . ” His lips met hers and
she knew that somehow she could.
* * *
1967
Sheriff Patterson stared at the corpse of Elizabeth Stoddard. The marks from
her assailant’s fingers could still be seen pressed into her flesh. “I need to
call this in first and then I’d like you to make an official statement about
what you know about Mrs. Stoddard and Dr. Hoffman.”
Victoria’s father nodded, affecting an expression of appropriate horror. “I
still cannot believe that Barnabas could do something like this.”
“People snap sometimes. We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”
**Ah, but dear boy, **Quentin (née Victor Fenn-Gibbon, née Petofi) thought, **I
know you will. Why do you suppose I sent for you?**
The fool would hunt out Barnabas Collins for him. And then he would deal with
his errant child.
**You still have one task to perform for your papa.**
* * *
1897
Beth stifled her distaste as she dressed the body. She had done it before for
her own family members, but it had never been required of her as part of her
job. There had been a time, long ago, when she’d been a proper lady’s maid and
this kind of task would have been unthinkable. Of course, she wasn’t a lady’s
maid anymore. No, now she was the one who cleaned up the messes and helped to
keep the secrets locked away where they couldn’t cause her employers any harm.
“Don’t dawdle. I want to get this over with,” Judith snapped.
“If you would like to leave, Miss Collins, I’m sure Mary and I can finish it on
our own.” Not that Judith was actually helping anyway, Beth thought as they
fought to button the starched petticoats on the shrunken corpse.
Judith shook her head. She tore her eyes away from her grandmother’s cadaver
and moved to the window.
The upstairs maid removed the black silk dress from the wardrobe.
Beth looked up and noticed that Judith’s right hand seemed to be clutching
something. The old lady had boxes and boxes of jewelry and although Miss
Collins owned a few pieces herself, it occurred to Beth that perhaps Judith had
helped herself to something--just in case the future heir wasn’t prepared to be
generous. Whoever that might be. To her surprise she saw Judith’s hand relax
for a second and realized that the woman was holding a button.
Before Beth could do more than notice it. Judith suddenly turned around and
noticed the direction of Beth’s gaze. She closed her fingers even tighter.
“The minister will be here shortly. Please hurry.” And then she left the room.
The upstairs maid rolled her eyes at Beth.
“Let’s get this done,” Beth sighed.
* * *
1967
All was confusion in the hospital. The nurse recovered enough to summon help
and very soon they were rushing the patient to an operating room to tend to his
lacerations.
“Find out who the hell got in here and did this to him! I mean NOW!”
Eliot Stokes, imprisoned by his failing body, tried to make his brain send the
commands to his mouth that would tell them.
“We need to stop the bleeding! Do you have him prepped yet?”
Tell me something I don’t know, Stokes thought bitterly. Even if someone had
spotted Carolyn, no one would think her capable of harming him or anyone else.
A demon that spoke French . . .
They were applying some sort of anesthesia.
Not now, you stupid fools, I need to think. Not now . . .
* * *
Carolyn saw the lights of the police cruiser and muttered a curse in Danielle’s
native French. She was more rattled than she was used to. Who could have
expected that the whale of an old man should have his own personal ghost?
She pulled over.
The policeman was tall, well formed. Perhaps this was not a wasted day after
all. Her hands curled around her stiletto.
Then through the rear view mirror she saw another officer step out of the car.
Could she take two?
An unwelcome thought intruded on her musings. What if they were stopping her
for other reasons?
* * *
1897
Not until Victoria reached Widow’s Hill did she relax. It wasn’t very nice of
her to think it, but she was grateful for the distractions that Edith Collins’
death was causing--anything to get her out of the incestuous embraces of her
“fiancé.” Within minutes of the discovery of the old lady’s demise, the Collins
siblings were jockeying for position.
My ancestors, she thought with some disgust and then wonder. It was hard to
fathom that Edward’s child was her grandfather, Louise’s father, Louise,
Elizabeth, Roger . . . blood and death and despair . . .
She couldn’t waste any more time.
“You bring the money?”
Victoria whirled around. “Magda, you startled me.”
Magda gave a cryptic smile and repeated her question.
“It wasn’t easy.” Vicki handed the gypsy a few bills. Edward, who was more
than generous with his person, was less so with finances. She was welcome to
buy things in town and charge them to the family’s accounts, but it had taken
some ingenuity to screw, in the figurative sense of the word, actual cash out
of him.
“Is not much,” the gypsy muttered.
“It’s all I have. I’ll try and get more,” Vicki promised.
“Okay,” Magda agreed reluctantly. She shivered a little. “Things gonna happen
soon.”
Vicki licked her lips. She didn’t want to stay here longer then she had to,
but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for whatever waited for her. “How can you
be sure?”
“I saw it. In the cards,” she added as clarification. “Edith, she’s dead. It
all happens now.”
“What does the future have to do with Edith Collins’ death?”
Magda laughed a little. “They all hate their Grandmama, but she kept the evil
out. She’s gone and it gonna come back.”
Vicki stared at her uncomprehending.
The gypsy made a remark under her breath that sounded like “stupid gadjo,” gave
a shake of the head and spread her hands. “That don’t matter. You gotta be
ready.”
“I know. What do the cards show you about what’s coming?”
Magda shrugged. “Too cold out here. We go to the Old House and I read for
you.”
* * *
1967
The police force of Collinsport, such as it was, had spread out onto Collinwood
like ants on a sugar spill. All manner of controlled chaos was taking place
when Carolyn came in with the two officers. Her facial muscles ached with the
pretending while inwardly she seethed. This was unfair. People were being
swatted like flies before she could even begin to get to them. The frustration
was enough to choke a goat.
“Your cousin is in the drawing room,” one of the policemen told her
sympathetically.
Carolyn nodded. She ordinarily would have liked to see the corpses, but the
police would find the request strange. She disappeared into the drawing room
prepared to shed more crocodile tears.
Quentin was at the window.
She closed the doors behind her.
He turned and ran his eyes over the length of her. “Ah, Danielle!” he
exclaimed as he rubbed his hands together. “You’re looking well; I like your
new body very much.”
* * *
1897
In the ordinary course of events, at least in Evan Hanley’s experience, the
surviving family members of a relative, especially one who possessed any kind
of estate, made some pretense at grief. Some pretense, even if it extended
only to a dab of a handkerchief to the eyes and a sigh. They also typically
expressed disinterest on the question of inheritance, usually keeping the
infighting for after the funeral.
Quentin and his siblings were going at it hammer and tongs and the body wasn’t
even cold.
“Mr. Hanley is right,” Edward said with little conviction, but a great show of
hypocrisy. “We should wait until after Grandmama is buried before we read the
will. Carl isn’t here yet.”
“As if you have ever cared about Carl,” Quentin scoffed. “We sent him a
telegram. If by some miracle, Grandmama left him Collinwood, we can tell him
when he gets back.”
Edward paled a little.
“Ah, a possibility that Edward the Wise did not take into account.”
“You aren’t helping,” Judith told him sharply.
“I have no desire to be helpful, my dear sister.”
The attorney cleared his throat. He wanted to move this along.
Quentin ignored Evan. “Where is your lovely fiancée, Edward? She should be
here to see just how much family means to you or are you hoping to keep her in
the dark? Maybe I should tell her just what kind of a man you are.”
Edward regained his color and then some, turning now brick red. “Leave
Victoria alone; I’m warning you!”
Their sister spoke up. “Read the will, Mr. Hanley. There will be no peace
until you do. There’s nothing illegal about doing so, is there?”
“It’s merely . . . irregular, but I see your point. You are wise as ever.”
Evan felt Quentin’s eyes shifting toward him. It would have suited him better
to rewrite the will to favor Quentin, but ready money was better than an empty
promise from a changeable friend any day.
He began to read. “I, Edith Collins, being of sound mind and body, do hereby
declare this to be my last will and testament . . . ”
* * *
1967
When the police found the room in the East Wing, it could be heard from all
over the house.
“You called the authorities?”
“My dear Danielle--”
She interrupted him. “I prefer Carolyn. There are too many people who could
overhear.”
“Carolyn,” he assented, “the police have their uses. I have found a most
appropriate scapegoat and it suits me to have my activities attributed to him.”
Carolyn was adapting to the situation with her trademark Gallic practicality.
“You could have waited for me,” was her only remark.
“So impatient. There is still plenty for you to do.”
They both smiled.
* * *
1897
The silence blanketed the drawing room. Evan Hanley met Quentin’s accusatory
eyes with equanimity. He had explained to his “friend” how matters had stood.
It was a question of money. Judith had been able to pay him immediately and
stop the foreclosure of his home. All Quentin could offer was a few hundred
dollars and a vague promise of more.
“I’ll fight this!” Edward thundered.
Judith sat with her hands folded demurely on top of one another. “On what
grounds?”
“You used your influence with Grandmother. I don’t know how you did it, but
you manipulated a poor, old, doddering woman--”
“Grandmama was in complete possession of her faculties when she made her will.
Wasn’t she, Mr. Hanley?”
“Er . . . yes. The doctor will testify to that, Edward. I’m afraid the
will is very solid. Your grandmother was a very shrewd woman.” As was Judith
Collins, Evan reflected with some frustration. Upon his arrival she had taken
him aside and quietly informed him that she had purchased the mortgage on his
house, effectively insuring his continued support--at least until he could
figure a way around her hold.
Edward was turning brick red. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he demanded
of his brother.
“And spoil our sister’s moment in the glow of the rising sun?” Quentin drawled
in a voice mingled with amusement and menace. “Night must fall, Edward. Be
contented with that. Night must fall,” he repeated.
Judith opened her green eyes quite wide. “I do hope that isn’t a threat,
Quentin.”
Quentin gestured expansively. “Merely an observation.”
* * *
1967
Back in his dreary room, a bandaged and now rested Eliot Stokes noted that it
was nighttime again. There was a different flavor to the hospital at night.
Fewer staff, comparative quiet--although how anyone could be expected to sleep
with a nurse repeatedly entering to take one’s temperature was beyond him--and
a more relaxed atmosphere. Imprisoned in his immobile body, all he could do
was listen and listen he did, most eagerly to the hushed gossip of an orderly
and two nurses.
“I always said those Collinses were creeps,” the nurse declared, “but who would
have figured on one of them being a murderer. Well, it just goes to show.” She
didn’t say what it showed, but stopped there as if it was obvious.
The other nurse, younger and still naïve, shook her head, “Barnabas Collins,
though. He was such a quiet man.” She had seen him once from a distance, but
in the glow of the tawdry glamour of a tragedy, it seemed more interesting to
pretend acquaintance.
“They always are,” the orderly said sagely. “I heard they found a dozen bodies
in the house.”
“I heard more,” the older nurse objected. “Can you believe it about Dr.
Hoffman?”
Stokes listened on as they detailed horror after horror that had been
unearthed. His caregivers being medical personnel as well as gossip hounds,
they indulged in more graphic details that would have had him retching, had he
had any control of his stomach muscles. As they delved into revelations of
decayed flesh, the logical part of his mind screamed at them. Barnabas Collins
had arrived in Collinsport relatively recently. The remains found predated his
arrival. Ergo, even if Barnabas was guilty of the murder of one of the family,
someone else had been busy before he’d come to town--the stiletto-wielding
Carolyn perhaps?
“Shouldn’t they have a guard on the old man?” the orderly asked the older
nurse. “I heard Quentin Collins was saying that his cousin had been making
threats against the professor. What if this nut comes after him?”
The nurses looked at each other uneasily. Murder becoming less enthralling as
the threat came closer to home.
Puzzle pieces were falling into place for the professor and he didn’t like the
picture that was forming.
* * *
1897
Victoria wondered how the gypsies could stand living in this wreck. Seventy
years from now the Old House wouldn’t look much worse. She tried to find a
comfortable position on the sagging upholstered chair, as Magda laid out the
Tarot cards in a complicated pattern.
Magda was silent at first as she absorbed the images and Victoria found herself
staring at the cards with interest. One of them was particularly intriguing.
Enscribed “La Lune,” the picture began to change for her and blurred into
something that she thought might be similar to tripping on acid.
**Dark forests and a woman running for her life . . . The scent of prey . .
. unthinking hunger . . . Screams . . .The wolf, but not a wolf . . .
Claws ripping into flesh . . . The moon weeping tears of blood . . .
Unending sorrow and remorse . . .**
The sensory impressions overwhelmed her and she snapped back in her chair.
Magda watched her carefully. “You got the Sight, eh?”
Victoria shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You see things in the cards,” Magda insisted. “What you see? Tell Magda.”
“I thought you were going to read them for me,” Vicki reminded her.
“Tell Magda.”
Haltingly, Vicki tried to relate what she’d seen, but it was patchy for her and
painful to put into words. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Magda laughed. “You got the Sight, all right. You sure you never had it
before, when you were a little girl maybe?” When Vicki assured her that she had
never had visions before she’d come to Collinwood, Magda shrugged. “You gonna
have them now. This ain’t something you can escape. It’s what you are.”
Victoria didn’t find this comforting or reassuring. “You’ve been doing this
for longer. What do *you* see in the cards?”
“Fire.”
“Fire?”
“That’s what I tell you. Two women, maybe three.” Magda pointed to several
cards. “Trouble for you if you ain’t careful.” She stopped.
Victoria was getting tired of this. She knew instinctively that she didn’t
have much time. These cryptic mutterings and elliptical silences were
annoying.
“I tell you much more if you crossed my palm with silver.”
“I gave you every cent I could get my hands on,” Vicki objected. “As soon as I
can get more money from Edward, I’ll give it to you.”
Magda looked at the girl with a crafty expression. “They say there are
jewels.”
“Mrs. Collins’ jewelry?”
“Nah, but if you can get them--” she broke off as she saw Vicki grimace. She
could work on the girl for those later. “I mean jewels that are hidden.”
Magda’s eyes glittered as much as the gems she craved would. “I hear legends
about them. I come right back.”
* * *
1967
The sheriff cleared his throat and faced Carolyn Stoddard and Quentin Collins.
“I know how difficult this must be for the both of you.”
Carolyn looked down and Quentin assumed a somber expression.
“But I need answers and you two are the only ones who can help us figure out
just what happened here.”
“I know I speak for Carolyn, when I tell you that we’re both most anxious to
help,” Quentin intoned as he began to remove the band from a cigar.
Uneasily the sheriff opened up a notebook and began to ask questions. Both
Carolyn and Quentin were cooperative and forthcoming. Too forthcoming almost,
he thought. Miss Stoddard’s behavior especially bothered him. She said all
the right things and appeared to be upset, but something was missing; if the
sheriff had been a more articulate or perceptive man, he might have realized
that it was if she didn’t feel what she expressed, couldn’t feel. But, he told
himself the situation wasn’t normal at all. What was appropriate behavior when
your mother had been strangled, your uncle had killed himself, someone had
broken the neck of a houseguest and the police had just told you that they’d
found the decaying remains of multiple murders in a disused part of the house?
What slowly came out of the interview was the confirmation that it would be to
the benefit of the authorities to have a discussion with Mr. Barnabas Collins.
When asked about Dr. Hoffman and who might have killed her, Quentin with a
seeming show of reluctance, opined that there had been something strange about
Julia’s relationship with Barnabas. He had been arguing a lot with her mother,
Carolyn told the sheriff, tears in her eyes. They had found him in parts of
the house where he wasn’t supposed to be. But of course, they both said it was
ludicrous that Barnabas could know anything about it.
The sheriff coughed some--the smoke from Quentin’s cigar was almost
overpowering--and asked for the date of Barnabas’ arrival to Collinsport.
“When Barnabas first came to Collinsport?” Quentin repeated blankly.
“Yes.”
Carolyn glanced at Quentin and then at his nod supplied an approximate time
frame.
“Okay. I think that’s it for right now. Do you know where your cousin can be
found? I’d like to ask him some questions. Just routine, you understand.”
“He’s probably at the Old House,” Quentin said.
“Great. Thanks for all your help. We may have to talk to you about this
again. I’m sorry, but--”
Carolyn took a deep breath. “We understand, Sheriff. Anything to help find
the monster that did this to Mother.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Stoddard. We’ll find him.”
“Oh, I know you will. We have every confidence in you.”
* * *
1897
Evan watched as Quentin paced up and down the length of his study. “I told you
how matters stood, Quentin. Judith had ready cash in the amount I needed. You
didn’t.”
Quentin smiled silkily. “I know certain things about you that my dear sister
doesn’t, friend.”
The lawyer shrugged; he had been expecting this. “As do I about you, *friend*.
I did what I could for you. The only reason you’re still entitled to live at
Collinwood and receive an allowance is because I wrote in the bequest.”
“Very generous of you,” Quentin said sourly. The sum would barely keep him
comfortable. “Was it your idea to do the same for Carl, Edward and the
children?”
“Er . . . well, I might have advised your sister that it would be in her
best interests.” The way he’d constructed the will, if any of the legatees
tried to overturn it and failed, they would forfeit any inheritance.
Quentin swirled the brandy in his snifter. “Well, *friend*, I am not going to
be beholden to my old maid of a sister for the rest of my life. So . . .
you’re going to help me find a way around this little obstacle or I’ll be
forced to make your life very difficult for you.”
* * *
1967
Blood did not bother Danielle Roget. Indeed, she liked to see it, spill it
preferably, even taste it. Cigar smoke, on the other hand, she considered
vile. Her polite request that the Comte extinguish it had only resulted in him
exhaling a cloud of the fumes into her face. “That cochon of a sheriff will
not be satisfied with the head of Barnabas Collins.”
“You worry too much, my dear Danielle.”
She did not think so at all, but she gave no sign. Perhaps le Comte was not
what he used to be. She would go her own way. She always had before.
* * *
1897
Obeying the new mistress of Collinwood’s summons, Beth presented herself to
Judith in her grandmother’s former bedroom. She found Judith taking inventory
of Edith Collins’ considerable collection of jewels.
“Beth, come in and shut the door.”
The maid did as she was bid. Judith had always been distant with her, probably
because of Jenny, and because of what Beth knew. If it had not been for that,
Beth knew she would have been dismissed long ago.
“Do you recognize this?”
“It’s the coat Qu--Mr. Quentin gave me to mend,” Beth said surprised. “It was
missing a button. How did it end up here?”
“I had Mary bring it,” Judith replied in a dismissive tone. “I wasn’t aware we
employed you to repair my brother’s wardrobe.”
Beth bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Miss Judith. I didn’t think you would object.”
“Do you know what this is?”
Mystified, Beth glanced at the object Judith held up to her. “It’s a button.”
Her employer seemed to want more. “It looks it matches the ones on Mr.
Quentin’s coat.”
“Do you know where I found it?”
Beth shook her head.
“In my grandmother’s dead fist.” Judith waited for that to sink in. “You and I
were the only ones with keys to this room. I know I didn’t let Quentin in
here.”
“I didn’t either, Miss Collins. The keys are . . .” she stopped remembering
where she’d had them last and when Quentin had paid his first visit to her.
Judith smiled at the young woman grimly. “My brother has a great deal of
charm.”
“I didn’t give Mr. Quentin the keys,” Beth said beginning to panic a little.
“I would never have done anything to harm Mrs. Collins.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t,” Judith agreed. “But my brother would and did.”
Beth knew in her heart that Judith was right. She didn’t want to believe it,
but he was without scruples. She saw it every time she looked at Jenny. “What
. . . what are you going to do?” She could feel her shoulders slumping with
the burdens of reality and her situation.
Judith turned the button over in her hand. “You were trained as a lady’s maid.
It’s been a quite a step down for you to assume your present duties, I know
that.”
Was she being dismissed? What did this have to do with Edith Collins’ murder?
“We kept you on because of . . . well, you know the reasons.” Judith grew
brisk. “I shall need a lady’s maid. You would continue taking care of Jenny
and serving as a go-between with Mrs. Fillmore, but your duties would return to
what you were trained for. I believe the room you occupy is deficient in
certain amenities. I’ll see that the situation is corrected and I think I
could see my way to a small raise.” She named the sum.
Beth swallowed. It was more than what she personally would call “small.” She
listened with half an ear as Judith spoke of requiring loyalty.
Judith slipped a small object wrapped in silk into Beth’s hand. “This belonged
to my grandmother. Perhaps you recognize it?”
Beth undid the fabric. It was one a ring of opals and diamonds that Edith
Collins had worn as long as Beth had been at Collinwood, probably longer than
that.
“It was my grandmother’s favorite. I’m sure she would have wanted you to have
it.”
Beth doubted that. She stared at the ring knowing full well what it
represented.
“I don’t want any scandal,” Judith continued.
Of course not, Beth thought bitterly. That was why they treated Jenny like an
animal and had sent her children to a stranger to be cared for, anything to
avoid notoriety.
“So we will naturally not say anything about this,” Judith held up the button
and the coat. “As for your affair with my brother . . .” she didn’t wait for
Beth to deny it, “You’ve proved you know how to be discreet, just remember
where your loyalties lie,” she paused meaningfully, willing Beth to understand.
He uses me, Beth thought. Why shouldn’t I use him? Not that he would confide
in her anyway, but if he did . . . he murdered the old lady. He drove Jenny
mad. He’s irresponsible and cruel and . . . I melt every time he touches
me.
“As long as there is no scandal,” Judith finished.
* * *
1967
The passageway was pitch black, but darkness did not frighten Barnabas. Not
the sort of darkness that was the absence of light anyhow. He’d heard the
sirens and felt the walls of the Old House shake with the vibrations of the
boots of heavy-soled policeman searching for him.
Barnabas kept still. It was an art form he had learned of necessity. One did
not lie in a chained coffin for a century and a half without learning how not
to move. What he was to do after the immediate danger was over, he did not
know.
**Barnabas?**
The hunted man started. A luminous form was starting to take shape ahead of
him.
“Eliot?” he whispered. “How are you--?”
**Never mind about that. There isn’t much time and there is so much to tell
you. I think I know what is happening, but so much of it is unclear.**
Barnabas heard the sound of the police begin to fade away. If he was
fortunate, they would not have the same information and perhaps they could
piece together a complete idea of what the nightmare they were embroiled in was
and how to escape it.
* * *
1897
In the safety of her room, Beth stared at the ring Judith Collins had given
her. It must be worth a lot of money. Perhaps . . . she could sell it . .
. the only things keeping her here were Jenny and the babies . . . and a
futile hope of Quentin; did she want to be a servant for the rest of her life?
A hopeless lunatic, someone else’s children and a man who would use her till
there was nothing left. She could sell the ring and leave.
The ring was a beautiful thing. She dimly remembered Jenny once telling her
opals were unlucky, but how could something so pretty be unlucky? She’d never
owned anything so lovely or so valuable before. What would it feel like to
wear such a jewel?
Beth impulsively slipped it on her slender finger. A few moments later she
crumpled to the floor.
* * *
Vicki examined the crumbling pages of the ledger that Magda had shoved under
her nose.
“Well?”
“After you finish telling me what you saw in the cards.” Vicki closed the book.
Magda looked at the set of the girl’s mouth and knew she would not yield. She
turned back to the cards and was silent for a few minutes. “People here are
not what they seem; they wear masks,” she said finally. “You gotta learn
what’s behind them.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Victoria remarked in a bitter voice that
sounded strange to her.
Magda frowned as she pointed to several cards depicting women wearing crowns.
“Sometimes these just stand for something, you know? But these . . .”
“They represent people I’m going to meet,” Vicki said slowly.
“Dangerous women,” Magda confirmed. “They will leave you alone unless you get
in their way. You gotta be careful. You ain’t gonna be alone for long though.
There’s an ally in the cards--besides me, but . . .” she frowned. “Someone
you know . . . but you need to see him clearly or everything gonna fail.”
Vicki pressed her on a few points, but couldn’t get any more clarification.
Finally, she looked at the book Magda had brought her knowing nothing else
would be forthcoming. There was a drawing of a lion and a passage in spidery
handwriting that was difficult to make out. As she examined the drawing, she
began to hear something. A heartbeat? Someone she knew . . . someone who
would be an ally . . . the lion’s mouth . . . the way would be through
the lion’s mouth . . .
* * *
Charity Trask examined her reflection. The mirror was cracked and beginning to
yellow, but that wasn’t why her face seemed foreign to her. Unlike the
daughters of Mr. Brocklehurst, the late Reverend Gregory Trask had expected her
to wear her hair and dress as plainly as his pupils. Jane Eyre had been more
of a fashion plate than Miss Trask, but that wasn’t the case anymore.
Now Charity defiantly adjusted the bow on her stylish hat. Even keeping in
mind that a governess was expected to dress conservatively, she still thought
her appearance was a vast improvement. If the sidelong glances of the male
passengers on the train had been anything to go by, she was not mistaken in her
assessment. Some of those looks had skirted the edges of mere admiration at a
pretty girl. There had been one man who had done all but leer at her. While
pretending disdain, Charity had been secretly flattered. She was flattered
even now. Perhaps she ought not to be. Papa would have been horrified at her
brazenness and want of decency. “Papa’s not here though,” she told herself. A
secretive smile blossomed over her lips before she schooled it back into a more
proper expression.
Charity preened and primped for some minutes before it struck her how icy cold
the ladies’ cloakroom had become. She drew her cloak about her more securely
and returned to the waiting room.
* * *
After looking both ways to make sure no saw him, Tim Shaw knocked on Beth’s
door. Although the young woman had as much as told him that she wasn’t
interested, Tim was willing to try his luck again. Something told him that
Beth would be the key to his fortunes. She kept to herself, the servants he’d
befriended had said, but she seemed to be observant, intelligent, and
careful--just what he needed. Besides, the girl was lovely, prettier even than
Charity had been.
She opened the door and looked at him so blankly that for a second he wondered
if she was not unwell.
“Are you all right, Beth?” When she didn’t reply, he thought he knew why,
“Look, I know you said you didn’t think it was a good idea for us to be . . .
to be friends, me being Mr. Edward’s secretary, but I think you could use a
friend and I’d like to help you if I could. I won’t take any liberties, I
promise,” he told her smoothly.
“I could use a . . . a friend,” she said slowly. “I’m sorry if I was rude
to you before. Why don’t you come in?”
To his own surprise, Tim hesitated. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
Beth smiled. “Very certain. Come in.” My, isn’t he a pretty one, she thought.
She did need “friends” and something told her he could be quite useful. As it
was, her plans were very ambitious and she was going to require all the help
she could get. It would be difficult, but she’d started from almost nothing
before; it was almost like old times. She’d been prepared to meet whatever
fate lay in store for her until Quentin had decided to interfere. Really, she
was almost grateful to him for murdering her. Almost.
“You don’t look like all right.”
Was he still harping on that? “I’ve had a difficult few days,” she told him.
“But I promise you I’ll be my old self very soon.”
* * *
The hard, oak bench in the waiting room was very uncomfortable. It was very
much like a church pew, Charity thought. The station itself might have doubled
for a cathedral with its vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings, not that her
father’s churches had ever been so beautiful.
“God,” the Reverend Trask had been fond of saying, “does not want anything but
his humble servants’ obedience.”
He hadn’t said no to all those donations, Charity said to herself. Where had
all that money gone? He never spent it, not that she could see, on himself, on
Mama, certainly not on her. Where was it? Papa had funneled much of the money
into the school, but there must have been something left.
Charity collected herself. The Collinses would want a proper governess, not
some gadabout who couldn’t keep her mouth closed for staring. Unable to keep
still, she drew out a much-creased letter. Why she did this, she was not
certain; by now Charity knew the contents by heart and they would hardly alter
with another reading.
Someone loomed over her and barked out, “Are you the governess?”
Charity looked up. “I’m Miss Trask.”
“The governess,” he repeated with emphasis.
She folded the letter and put it away. “I am Miss Charity Trask and if you
mean have I been engaged to be the governess for Collinwood, then yes, I am.”
“I thought so,” the man said with just enough of a sneer to be offensive. “Are
you ready? I’m supposed to take you to Collinwood and we’re going to be late.”
He spoke as if it were her fault, she thought. “The train was on time and I’ve
been here since half past, Mister--?” she said mildly as she took in his
appearance. He wasn’t a bad looking man, but there was nothing about him to
impress. She wondered at the black leather gloves and decided that his attempt
at a mustache would better have not been undertaken.
“Dirk Wilkins,” he told her with ill grace. “Come on.”
“My trunk--”
“--it’s already on the carriage.” He picked up her valise and led the way.
She was hard pressed to keep up with him.
“You’re not in black,” Dirk said suddenly.
Was he sane or just habitually rude? Charity knew she could expect some
hostility from the servants, but this seemed very unreasonable. There was
nothing wrong with her dark blue dress. “No, I’m not,” she agreed. Then she
saw the black armband he wore. “Did . . . did someone pass away?”
“Mrs. Collins.”
“The children must be very upset.”
Dirk shrugged. He helped her into the open carriage. “I don’t know about
that. You should be in black.”
“I didn’t know that anyone had gone on,” Charity said defensively, wondering
how she was supposed to be expected to know about this. “Of course, they must
be beside themselves with grief, losing their mother--”
For the first time, Dirk laughed. “Mrs. Collins was their great-grandmother
and if you’re going to last at Collinwood, you better not talk about Mrs.
Edward Collins.”
Charity looked and felt confused. Edward Collins had not made mention of a
wife, but she had assumed that one existed. “I’m afraid I know very little
about the family.”
“Edith Collins is the one who died. Edward is her oldest grandson.”
“And Nora and Jamison are his children,” Charity said definitively. She knew
that much.
“Quentin is the next. He’s trouble. Then there’s Carl.”
Charity tried to fix the names in her head.
“He’s away. And then there’s Miss Judith,” his voice softened. “That’s all of
the family.”
She dimly noted that this name was the only one for whom he bothered to use an
honorific. The fact that there appeared to be two bachelors and one widower in
the Collins family was taking paramount place in her mind.
“Then there’s Edward’s fiancée.”
All right, two available men.
“A Miss Winters. She came to Collinwood recently.” He fell silent.
Charity turned her attention to the scenery they were passing. The village was
not large, but it made up for its size with the bustle. They passed shipyards
and what Dirk tersely informed her was the fledgling cannery. And then they
passed along through seemed like miles of undeveloped land--all of it Collins’
property.
Two unmarried men from a wealthy family . . . even Jane Eyre found her Mr.
Rochester . . .
It was when they began their ascent to a large hill that Charity Trask saw
Collinwood. She inhaled sharply. It was massive. She had not expected
anything on this scale.
Even if nothing came of the Collins men, there would be other opportunities,
she promised herself, eligible men and parties and a life of comfort; anything
had to be better than Worthington Hall. At the very least, she was going to
enjoy a new start.
She was thinking about her clean, bright, new future when she stepped into the
foyer and saw the startled face of Timothy Shaw.
* * *
1967
Barnabas finished recounting what he knew. He felt drained emotionally, but
hopeful.
Eliot digested what he’d been told. Finally he spoke, **Have you ever heard of
the I Ching?**
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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