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JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAPTER 18

By ben woestenburgPublished 2 years ago 14 min read
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JACK OF DIAMONDS
Photo by Ryan Hughes on Unsplash

The sun slipped slowly into the distance, locked in a blaze of bright autumn colours. Willow trees, standing in silent silhouette on the horizon were twisting and bending—crying in protest as the last vestiges of summer slunk passed—naked branches whipping as the wind picked up from the East bringing storm clouds scuttling across a darkening sky. Aspens, in serried masses row upon row, were bowing and undulating as if they were servants, while steady elms, with the taciturn patience of age, were standing proud, as if they were knights on a chessboard. The long grass writhed across variegated hills and hummocks—every hump, knoll, prominence, and tor—rippling in the setting sun as though they were waves on an emerald ocean.

Sonia had put the top up, and what heat there was from the engine did little to keep away the cold. Nigel sat shivering in the seat beside her, and for a moment Sonia was afraid that perhaps she’d misjudged his addiction. Perhaps Nigel was feeling the ill effects of his withdrawal already?

“Are you alright?”

“No,” he said with a trace of irritability. “I’m cold; no, I'm fucking cold. Oh, I'm sorry, did that upset your delicate nature?"

"My delicate nature?"

"Don’t these things have any heat?" he asked. "I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother’s carriage had a brazier in it. You don’t even have a goddamned blanket.”

“I have a blanket.”

“You do? Because I don’t see one in here. I know it’s getting dark, but it’s not that dark.”

“And it’s not that cold, either. Do you want me to pull over and get it out of the boot for you? Is that what you want? Because we’re almost in Chumley Grove.”

“It’s Chumley. Nobody here calls it Chumley Grove, except for people who don't live here. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be warmer once we pick out our costumes for the night. Have you decided what you want to be?”

“What?” She looked at him and then turned her attention back to the road. The dirt lane they’d been traveling on had been replaced by paving stones—worn down by time and weather—still, she supposed it would be another ten minutes before they reached the village itself. She hadn’t considered what sort of costume to wear. It was a costume Ball, after all, and as such—as a woman—she’d be limited as to her choices: Princess, fairy, elf, shepherdess, the list wasn’t long, and the selection certain to be limited.

“Any ideas?” she asked.

“I suppose it’s all going to depend on what’s available.”

“As long as the last costume isn’t a horse, I suppose,” she said with a grin.

“If it is, I hope you don’t expect me to be the horse’s ass?”

“Had enough of being that already, have you?” she smiled.

“Very funny. You can see I’m laughing, can’t you?”

Chumley Grove was a small village—less than seventeen hundred people—most of them employed in one way or another by either the railway, or as servants for the neighbouring aristocracy. As the main hub of civilization in the valley—civilization consisting of the six manor houses in the area—Chumley Grove supplied all the necessary needs of gas, food, and lodgings. The village’s main road housed two inns, three pubs, an automobile shop specializing in mechanical repairs, a smithy; as well, there was a doctor, a dentist, and a lawyer who shared the same building; a land surveyor, (employed by the Great Eastern Railway), and a bank. There were also three shops with the latest French fashions, as well as London’s latest. The streets were wide, cobblestoned, and the shops brightly painted, with wide spread, colourful awnings.

Sonia parked at the Town Hall, next to Nigel’s Triumph.

“Shouldn’t Charlie be here?”

“Tea time, remember? If I know Charlie, he’ll either be at the pub for a bite to eat, or home.”

“That doesn’t seem right?”

“Why?” he asked, stepping out of the Bentley and looking about. He took a deep breath, feeling a chill in the air, and reached into the saddle bag of the Triumph, pulling out a folded cardigan.

“I hope that’s not your costume?” Sonia laughed.

By Umanoide on Unsplash

In the end, Sonia walked out of the shop wearing a Charlie Chaplin costume, while Nigel had settled for Peter Pan.

“Peter Pan? Who in blazes is that?” he asked, looking down at the green stockings and shaking his head as he caught his reflection in a store window. "And how is this going to keep me warm?"

“You don’t know Peter Pan? The boy who never grew up? JM Barrie? Peter and Wendy? He even wrote it as a play on the London stage—well, you would’ve been too young to remember any of that.”

“But you do?”

“1905 may seem like a long time ago, but believe me, I was fourteen and it was magical.”

“Then why didn’t you take the costume?”

“And be the boy who never grows up? I thought it was rather apt for you.”

And there was that smile.

She even tried moving her moustache like Chaplin but failed miserably, and he found himself laughing with her.

“Yes, you’re so much better as a little tramp,” he grinned.

“And you’re a wit as well?”

“I stumble about more than banter,” he confessed, and she smiled again.

It was a short walk back the Town Hall where she was parked, and Nigel enjoyed the silence. It gave him a moment to think, and look at her. Her hair had been tied up and stuffed under the battered derby, and the moustache they painted on her was a mixture of kohl and God only knew what else; but she had a sparkle in her dark eyes, and with the over-sized shoes, baggy pants, and tattered jacket, she was quite striking. It was hard to believe she was almost ten years older than him.

She's more Pickford than Chaplin. Or maybe Evelyn Nesbit?

“You said you were married? He died in the War?”

“It’s really quite tragic, isn’t it? War widow, and all that? And all of us still so young—well, as far as I’m concerned,” she added.

“But you said you were at the Front? I mean, you were there—through the worst of it. The nurses and doctors, they died all the time; hospitals got shelled; planes dropped bombs. It was horror.”

“It was.”

“And you never thought of getting away from there?”

“It wasn’t like that where I was. We were quite safe. But I stayed, hoping I’d be able to see Edgar, and I did. Not a lot. But at least we had two moments before he was killed. We got to spend leave together in Paris once—seven weeks in Spring. I remember it rained a lot. But we didn’t go outside much,” she smiled.

“No, I don’t suppose you would’ve.”

“You never married? Why not?”

“Oh, not what I expected to hear from anyone but my mother.”


“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I mean, you’re still quite young, I suppose—”

“I’m twenty-four. I’ve been with women, you know.”

“You’re only twenty-four? And you served in the—”

“I lied about my age. I was fifteen, and the recruiting officer told me to come back when I was older. When he turned his back, the sergeant signed me up. He knew I could ride a motorcycle. He saw me earlier. So they put me on a motorcycle, gave me a gun, a bag of grenades, and sent me out across the lines delivering messages from General to General. I spent a lot of time in Paris.”

“And you fell in love?”

“With Paris? Who didn’t?”

“I mean with a woman,” she laughed, and then they were at the Bentley. She walked to the boot and pulled out a large wool blanket, tossing it to him as he stood beside the door.

“Wouldn’t want you getting cold.”

By Mike Smith on Unsplash

As Artie entered the foyer at Marlborough, he thought it was about as close to home as he’d ever feel. There were the same wide bannisters on the staircase he remembered from his own youth, along with the black and white checkered floor he and his sister used to play on; potted plants, statues, paintings, bookcases, all the knick-knacks he’d expect to find in Rolvenden Manor were placed tastefully about the entryway. He looked up at the large chandelier hanging over the entrance and smiled. He remembered leaping from the bannister to the chandelier on a dare from his brother when he was sixteen years old. Well, it had been more than just a leap, he remembered. He’d had to take a running start, and that had involved running up a length of the bannister before leaping out and latching onto whatever handhold was available. His parents were furious with him as they had to bring a ladder in for him to climb down.

But it had been worth it.

He held his hand out to Jenny, who was dressed in a Little Bo Peep costume, her ample breasts on display.

“And what’s that saying?” he whispered to her as he helped her negotiate the three short steps leading into the salon. “ ‘My cups runneth over?’ ”

“Very funny,” she said, obviously not amused.

She was wearing a large silver wig projecting a foot above her head, its ringlets and curls barely able to contain her own lustrous lochs which appeared to have been wrapped up tight underneath, not allowing the wig to sit properly.

“I’d suggest you don’t make any sudden moves,” he added.

“And I suggest you fuck off,” she replied, offering him a small curtsy as he let go of her hand and offered his own bow.

She looked back and pulled at the long train of her dress, reaching for it with her shepherd’s hook, which itself was wrapped with gold ribbons that were already beginning to come unravelled. The whicker basket she carried was filled with silk flowers that were tied together and looked about to fall out.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked, looking at Gerald, and then looking at the obvious snag where her train had caught.

“I thought you were doing quite well enough,” he laughed.

“And must I tell you to fuck off as well?”

“Really Jen?” he smiled. “Can we not take you out anywhere?”

“Apparently not,” Margaret said with a note of disgust.

“Don’t you start,” Jenny said, turning on her.

“Sibling rivalry,” Simon laughed. “It never fails to amuse me. Shall we let them sort it out?” he asked, turning to look at Daphne.

“It might be quicker,” she said, and Artie watched as they stepped past the three siblings, waiting in the entranceway and letting them sort themselves out. Artie could see Chernetsov and his wife standing at the entrance to the Grand Salon, a bemused look on his face as they waited.

The voluminous dress Jenny wore swept the floor around her, and Artie supposed it must have taken her an hour just to dress. Gerald had opted to appear as Louis XVI, while Daphne—now standing with Simon who was dressed as an obese Henry VIII—was Marie Antoinette. Margaret was Anne Boleyn, while Agatha was dressed as Titania, Queen of the Fairies. The Baron and Baroness were the last to enter, both dressed tastefully elegant and holding masks, and both quick to greet Chernetsov and his wife.

“Perhaps you may find your Oberon tonight?” Artie smiled, looking down at Agatha and offering her his hand as she approached the three steps. It was difficult for him not to think of her laying naked underneath him, her body writhing in the soft glow of the afternoon light. He had to force the thought out of his mind.

“She’s more likely to find Bottom in this crowd,” Gerald laughed.

Agatha turned to look at him. “Louis XVI, I believe? You do know how things ended for him? While those about you are losing their heads tonight, try not to use yours—you do not want to appear out of character.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Daphne asked.

“Oh, Daph,” Jenny laughed, “she’s telling him what I’ve been telling him for years. Try not to overthink it.”

“Not at all,” Agatha smiled, looking at Jenny with a grin. “Anyone who knows even a little bit about Louis XVI, knows he had issues producing his issue. The dauphine may not even have been his. It seems poor little Louis had problems down there,” she laughed, pointing at Gerald’s crotch as she walked away.

“Well, I’ve never—” Daphne began.

“Then please, do not start now,” Jenny interrupted, following Agatha into the salon and greeting the hosts.

Artie stood silent, grinning, watching the two women as they melted into the crowd. It was hard not laughing in Gerald’s face, and he thought it more prudent to turn away from him and study the crowd.

“She certainly told you,” Margaret laughed, looking at her brother’s shocked expression. Taking Simon’s hand in hers, she moved ahead to greet the hosts.

“Well, at least you won’t have to compete with any of these others for the best kingly costume, will you?” Gerald said, looking at Artie.

Three other people were wearing the same Zorro costume.

“I’d say it gives you a sense of anonymity, having so many of the same costumes about,” Gerald smiled. “As for King Louis’s pecker, I’m doing well enough in that department, right Darling?”

“Do come along, your majesty,” Daphne said, walking to the salon and waiting to greet the hosts.

By Guzmán Barquín on Unsplash

The salon was much larger than he would have thought, judging by the size of the foyer. There was a long table with place settings for fifty guests, and every maid, Footman, butler and under butler from all of the Manor houses stood at the ready, waiting to serve dinner. Artie looked about the room and saw Claire standing near the kitchen door.

“Please? Excuse me for a moment,” Artie said, nodding in Claire’s direction as he sipped his drink.

“I’m sorry?” Artie asked, confused for a moment; Simon repeated himself.

“She’s the hired help.”

“Thank you, Simon, but I know who she is,” Artie smiled.

“Do you? And how could you possibly know her? Or do you know every pretty girl her about?”

“I’m living at her farm. Well, it’s not hers, it belong to Reg—”

“O’Dowd?”

“Do you know him?”

“Who doesn't know Mr. O’Dowd?”

“And you deal with produce?”

“Produce?”

“Reggie O’Dowd's a farmer. We served in the War together. He invited me out to stay with him for a time, and I gratefully accepted. If you know Reggie O’Dowd, you could only have met him having dealt with him and his produce. Claire is with him.”

“And what does that mean? With him?”

“I’ll leave you to sort that out yourself,” he laughed, and crossed the floor.

He lifted the mask he was wearing as he approached Claire, and she smiled when she finally noticed him. She was dressed in a simple black dress with a lace apron, sensible shoes and lace bonnet matching her apron.

“I was hoping you’d notice me here.”

“I had no idea my costume would be so popular.”

“And I had no idea I’d be here this long.”

“Did you have any luck?”

“Luck? This whole day’s been a right pisser,” she grinned. “You haven’t heard what happened?”

“No. Why?”

“What’s his name, Chernetsov? His son fell off the balcony railing.”

“What? What was he doing up there in the first place?”

“No one knows, but I might have an idea,” she smiled. “He tried to reach the chandelier when he fell. He missed it, but he set it swinging. That’s where they hid the skull.”

“You saw it?”

“It’s in the chandelier. But how do you expect to get to it? You’ll need a ladder to get up there.”

“You leave that to me. It’s what I do best.”

“You can’t expect to get to it without anyone seeing you.”

“I don’t have to. The whole idea is to find it and claim the prize. We’re not here to steal it; we’re here to claim it.”

“And how do you expect to do that?”

“It’s a ten foot gap between the rail and the lights. I need only jump it.”

Jump? Are you mad? You’ll never make that.”

“The secret to doing something like that, is to get a running start. You have to build momentum. I’ve done it before. I was a lot younger then, and a lot lighter,” he added with a smile, “but the principle’s the same.”

“And when do you plan to do it?”

“I suppose I’ll have to wait for the right moment, won’t I?”

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About the Creator

ben woestenburg

A blue-collar writer, I write stories to entertain myself. I have varied interests, and have a variety of stories. From dragons and dragonslayers, to saints, sinners and everything in between. But for now, I'm trying to build an audience...

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