jack of diamonds

“I suppose this is why there were the only two costumes left?” Nigel said, stepping into the foyer and looking around. He had to admit it was very impressive. Everything around him dripped opulence. Yesterday was his first time in one of these palaces—there was no other word he could think to use—and he smiled to himself. It was reminiscent of the luxurious hotel lobbies in Paris where the Generals headquartered. The Generals always occupied the largest of the suites, perhaps thinking rank had its privileges? With money comes opulence, he thought. But tonight, instead of soldiers, officers and politicians with their mistresses, here there were costumed guests from the surrounding manor houses.

He looked at Sonia and she did a Charlie Chaplin impression that made him laugh. She twirled her cane about and did the Chaplin walk, following a Footman with a tray of canapés through the crowd. Several of the people laughed at her antics, and watching her, Nigel realized he didn’t know anything about Peter Pan.

“Hang on,” he called after her, and she turned to look at him.

“You have to tell me something about this Pan character.”

“He’s not Pan, he’s Peter Pan.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One’s a Greek god, and the other’s the boy who never grows up.”

“Yes, you keep saying that.”

They made their way from the foyer into the salon. Nigel saw the table. It was set for fifty guests, and he wondered if anyone had even bothered to do a head count. The place settings sparkled, the crystal glasses reflecting the lights in wild colours that fanned across linen napkins and plates made of fine bone China. He looked at Sonia who laughed when she saw the heaps of food piled on servers and side tables. She looked at Nigel and smiled.

“Are you still hungry?”

“I’ll want to be leaving early so I can get to the hospital and see Anatoly,” Chernetsov was saying to the Baron as he finished his wine.

“I totally understand. You’re lucky to still have him,” the Baron pointed out. There wasn’t a day that went by when he wasn’t reminded of Andrew in some way; seeing Spencer’s son earlier today had been the worst. They were of a similar height, and coming down the stairs as he did, with the sun behind him while wearing Andrew’s old suit had caught him off guard.

They were seated at the large dinner table. There were forty-three guests eating the huge feast Chernetsov’s kitchen staff had prepared. The Baron remembered how stressful the days leading up to the Balls they hosted could be, but having your son sustain such an injury just hours before, well, once again, that pretty well topped it as far as he could see.

“Amazing meat pie,” the Baron said, sitting back and taking a sip of his wine. “And an excellent red, as well. What is it? Merlot?”

“Expensive.”

The Baron laughed, slapping the table with his hand and drawing stares from those around him. The Baroness, sitting between Lord and Lady Ainsworthy of Mandalay Manor, and Chernetsov’s wife Bubbi across from her, locked eyes with him and narrowed her brows to a tight vee. The Baron saw her and leaned forward, dropping his napkin on the table. He looked at Chernetsov who leaned in to meet him half way.

“I heard they found a body out by The Lightninged Tree.”

“A body?”

“So my Stable-Master tells me. A Russian.”

“What’s he doing on your land?” Chernetsov asked.

“It’s all the flooding we’ve had. Obviously killed somewhere else. We had two Constables come by this afternoon—we were having lunch—and they were there investigating last night’s theft. They’re the ones that found the body.”

“And they came to ask you questions?”

“Not at all. They wanted to talk to my guest, and Jenny.”

“Jenny? What on Earth for? Why would they want to question her?” he asked, and the Baron looked down the length of the table where he could see Jenny sitting beside Spencer. Agatha sat to his left. He tried remembering which ear the man said he was deaf in.

“You have a guest?” Chernetsov asked. “I trust you extended an invitation?”

“By all means. He came dressed as that Spanish thief.”

“Zorro.”

“Yes. That’s the man. But when he came in, it was only to discover there were at least three others dressed in the same costume," he said with a laugh. "How embarrassing for him.”

“Why? Doesn’t that give him the freedom to move about and molest every woman in the house?" Chernetsov said with a smile. "Who’s going to know? He has a mask, and he can quite easily say it was one of the others!” Chernetsov laughed again. “It’s a brilliant disguise. Which one is he?”

“He’s seated between Jenny and Agatha.”

“And these two Constable? Would I be wrong in assuming they’re here as well?”

“It would be remiss of me to think they gave up such an opportunity. In fact, I’m almost certain that’s them down near the end. Not a very good disguise, considering he’s not wearing a mask. And this is the man they sent to find our thief.”

“And the body?”

“They’ve sent someone out from Exeter for that. He, I can assure you, is not here tonight.”

“And you're telling me this because I’m a loyal supporter of the Whites.”

“They’re sure to want to ask you questions.”

“Them? Or do you mean the man from Exeter?”

“The man from Exeter would be my guess. I doubt if those two down there could get the clap in a brothel.”

“How are we supposed to keep track of our friend Mr. Spencer over there, once he puts his mask back on? There’s four other Zorros out there,” Nigel pointed out.

Sonia looked at the three other Zorros seated around the table, and smiled. As far as she could see, there was no comparison. Artemus Spencer was tall, his shoulders broad, and his stomach flat. One of the three Zorros was at least a foot shorter; the second one had a large stomach hanging over his belt; the last one didn't even have a sword. Only Spencer was wearing a sword, she noticed. She wondered if he knew how to use it.

As the youngest son born into this world, it wouldn’t be unreal to think he may have taken up fencing as a pastime.

Her late husband had taken to boxing.

It’s like fox hunting. They all ride and go fox hunting.

“If you can't spot the difference between the four of them, I suggest you give up on your dreams of becoming an inspector, and stick to being an artist.”

“That hurts," he smiled. "And what about Chernetsov, then?”

“Chernetsov? We leave him alone. We’ll watch him--that's fine--but we can’t be seen approaching him. Agreed?”

“At least we agree on that. The last thing we need is Bilge on our asses accusing us of compromising his case. What about Saunders? The Pig Man? Do we tell him about Saunders?”

“I doubt it. At least, not right now, no.”

“Why not?”

“Like you said, he’ll accuse us of trying to compromise his case.”

“So we watch Spencer?”

“We watch Spencer.”

“You don’t expect him to do anything, do you?”

“I think we’ll know if he tries to give us the slip,” she smiled, taking a sip of her wine and enjoying it.

“And why would he do that? He knows we’re watching him,” Nigel pointed out.

“Once again. I'm sorry. These costumes might as well have lights on them telling everyone who we are. 'Constable! Constable!' " she cried out in a mocking voice. "The Baron’s obviously told Chernetsov who we are. Ashcroft’s wife—”

“Jennifer. People around here call her Jenny,” he smiled. "She's quite loved by everyone."

“That's good to know. I don't think it matters. But I’ve been watching her, and she’s been watching us for quite some time.”

“And do you think she’s mixed up in this?”

“Why? Or do you mean because of the hankie you found? Or maybe I should say, the semen? What are you thinking? She dropped it? And still fresh, you said. Are you thinking it was her husband's? Or maybe our thief?”

“It’s not like I picked it up from behind the bed. It was right there, in plain sight. Do you think our thief dropped it himself while he watched her through the window? He'd have to have come in through the window, carrying it. Why not just drop it outside?”

Sonia turned to look at him. “That sounds like something a man would do. Men are such pigs.”

“You seem shocked just considering it. If that’s not the answer, what are the implications you’re considering? Is it an impropriety?”

“An impropriety?" she said with a laugh. "Such as? Or maybe I should ask you what your idea of an impropriety is, first?”

“Must you?” he asked.

“What?”

“Say out loud what both of us are obviously thinking?”

“It could have been her husband,” she pointed out, but not sounding convinced.

“I don't think that's even a possibility.”

“I’d like to think it is, otherwise, she's guilty of more than just an indelicate indiscretion. Adultery's still a crime, last I checked.”

“Have you met her husband? Well, to be honest, you’d have to have met him before the beating he suffered.”

“What does that matter?”

“Maybe I should just rephase it; it’s not something a lady does willingly, is it?”

“What isn't? And why say it like that? My God! In the words of Lady Macbeth: ‘Unsex me now’.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Do you think, as women, we don’t fantasize about sex?”

“And now you're trying to shock me?”

“Shock you? I’m simply telling you that a man isn't the only one who thinks about sex.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Nigel said, turning his head and looking out over the dance floor. He listened to the jazz band, admiring the woman’s voice, wishing he had a sketch book so as to capture the moment—the lights, the music, the sight—all of it.

“You're right, it's definitely not getting us anywhere. So why don't you let me handle the delicate nature of the questions? You obviously have no experience when it comes to the fairer sex.”

“What about talking to Agatha Guernsey, then?” he asked after a moment, turning his attention back to her.

“The sister-in-law? What do you think she’ll tell us?"

"She was with him, remember? Charlie said he saw the two of them together."

"The woman’s so obviously smitten with our Mr. Spencer, she’d never believe us if we told her he was our lead suspect. How do you think she’ll react when we tell her he’s the man that went through her drawers?”

“Is he a suspect, then?”

“Why are you even asking me that? Who else, in this room, could it be?” she added, looking about the room.

“He admitted he lied to us in order to protect his friend, O'Dowd. That doesn't make him guilty. At best, he's a liar. The horse was obviously no longer on the property. It was probably wandering around, just as he says. If we’d have found the horse at O'Dowd’s farm, he’s right, it would’ve amounted to an accusation of theft. I’m sure anyone would’ve done the same thing under similar circumstances.”

“They could have brought it back that same night, though. Why wait until the morning? He admitted his friend knew who owned the horse. And he didn't say anything about the card, did he? Not until we asked him about it—I mean, after he gave it to us in the first place.”

“Do you hear how ridiculous it all sounds? He gave the card to us, willingly. He could’ve easily tossed it aside, on the lane, and not said a word about it, but he didn't.”

“What do you think it means?” she asked.

“Are you asking me if it's our thief’s calling card?”

“What if it's a message?”

“Put there by the real thief?”

“For him?”

“Which is why he’s still our best suspect. You believe he either knows who the thief is, or he’s the thief himself.”

“Does he look like he could scale the outside walls of a manor house?”

“Do you think any of the other Zorros here are capable?” he smiled. “Have you even seen Zorro at the cinema? Have you seen what the man can do?”

The night didn’t so much wear on as it did slip by, Sonia thought, sitting back and fanning herself with the bowler that came with her costume. She felt good though, better than she thought she would, considering. Considering what, she had to ask herself? The fact Nigel hasn't shown any symptoms of early withdrawal? She was grateful for that. But the promise of it was still there; all of the chills and aches, the puking and shitting, waiting for her out there on the periphery.

She remembered him telling her earlier how he’d been unable to dance since his accident, but she’d refused to accept that as an excuse tonight. The truth, she’d soon discovered, was that he’d never learned to properly dance. She could see that almost immediately. And how could he have, she wondered? The formative years of his youth had been spent at the Front during the War. So she dragged him out to the dance floor once the American Jazz band started playing, and taught him the basic steps he needed to know for all the popular dances of the day.

“Have you been watching Spencer?” Sonia asked, sitting back in her seat with one foot up on the seat of the chair beside her. She was still fanning herself with the hat, looking down the length of the table and thinking how men had it so easy.

“Watching him? Not at all,” Nigel laughed, using a napkin to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

“Let me see if I understand this? You’ve spent your evening drinking wine, eating food the likes of which we’ll never see in our lifetime, and dancing?”

He listened, nodding as she listed things off, and grinned. “Sounds about right.”

“And what will we tell Detective Inspector Bilge when we see him next?”

“You mean besides telling him to fuck off? Well, how about that I’ve been eating everything I can?” he laughed, reaching across the table and emptying yet another splash of wine into his glass. She watched as he topped off her glass and sat back in his chair, watching her. She could see black flakes on the white linen table cloth and reached a hand up to the moustache they’d painted on her; it felt a little thin, she thought. She reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair, shaking her long blonde hair out, bending over so that it hung in front of her, almost touching the floor. She sat up, whipping the hair up at the same time, letting it splash down her shoulders as she picked up the bowler and began fanning herself once again. The hair framed her thin face as she sat back, the high cheekbones and soft, doe eyes somehow enhanced by the slowly disintegrating moustache.

“To be honest, I lost track of him an hour ago,” Nigel said, taking a drink.

“Well, I haven’t,” she smiled.

“You’ve been watching him from the dance floor?”

“Let me just say, I’ve been watching him,” she smiled again.

“And what have you discovered about our mysterious Mr. Spencer?”

“What have I discovered? I’ve discovered that the ladies here seem to have gravitated toward him.”

“Gravitated? That’s an interesting word to use.”

“Well, the two sisters, and their in-laws, have been dancing with him all night, as well as Chernetsov’s daughter. The men don’t look too pleased.”

“I thought Chernetsov had two daughters?”

“He does, but the younger one’s about to be married and it would be inappropriate for her to pay any attention to him. As for the others…”

“Inappropriate?”

“The social dictates for women are a little stricter when it comes to their freedom, due to the social dictates imposed by, whoever it is that imposes these things. Society in general, I suppose.”

“Social dictates? You mean like Socialism” he laughed, taking another sip of wine.

“Must you be such a boy?”

“I can’t help myself. It must be the wine,” he added, lifting his glass up in a silent salute.

“Must be,” she agreed, picking her glass up in reply.

He watched her looking down the length of the table where they could both see Artie sitting in his chair, looking up at the chandelier. Suddenly, Artie stood up, and they watched him leaving the salon, entering the foyer. He was standing under the chandelier when he was joined by Jenny Ashcroft after a short while. They spoke for a time, and Sonia noticed how he was pointing up at the chandelier. She looked, but couldn’t see anything.

A movement caught her attention at the other end of the table, and she could see that Chernetsov was staring at Artie as well. He was talking to the Baron, and several of the other Lords and ladies of the surrounding manor houses, but he kept a close eye on Artie all the same

“I think I know where the skull is,” she said, sitting back and smiling.

“What skull?”

She leaned forward in her chair and looked directly at him. “Do you seriously not know what this whole night is about?”

“Tonight? Something to do with the start of something or other. I don’t know; I can’t remember. I’ve never been one to pay attention to these things. I’m not a very big fan of the social dictates addressed by polite society, so I try to stay away from these things.”

“Well, lucky for you, I am—a fan, I mean. Tonight’s ball is the start of the Season. That’s not to say it coincides with the Season in London—”

“The Season? What do you mean by the Season? What Season?”

She shook her head slowly. “Every year, the families—the aristocracy if you will—present their sons and daughters at Court. The sons aren’t as important as the daughters, of course, but that’s because no one wants to have a daughter living at home, unmarried. With boys, it doesn’t matter, they’ll get married at some time or another, and if not, they’ll be given a commission and shipped overseas to serve in His Majesty’s service…but a daughter?”

“They still do that?”

“Yes, they still do that. It’s archaic—barbaric in fact—when you think that a girl’s future depends on her acceptance at Court—the societal pecking order and what it brings to the family.”

“What do you mean, brings to the family?”

“If she’s pretty enough, she’ll find herself a Duke, or a Count, or maybe some obscure Prince, and the family will prosper.”

“Why should the family prosper?”

“It doesn’t matter, you’re missing the point.”

“So you have a point?”

“The point is this, out here in the country, it’s always a big affair moving to the city so you can let yourself be seen. But once a girl’s betrothed, the family returns to the country and entertains the lords and ladies they’ve been in contact with, where the business of Empire building takes place. Out here though, the city comes out to the country. Most of the people here have made the trip out from London. They’ll spend the night—make a weekend of it—and then head back to London in the morning. I know, you’re going to say those days have long since passed, but some traditions never die, like the Balls the six families here in Chumley Grove have been hosting for the last two hundred years.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My late husband came from a titled family, much the same as our Mr. Spencer over there.”

“And what’s this skull you’re talking about?”

“It’s a sort of Scavenger Hunt they play among themselves.”

She put her hand out, grabbing Nigel by the arm. She was looking directly at Artie, and Nigel turned around to look. Artie was back at the table, undoing the sword and placing it next to his wine glass. He bent down and removed his socks and shoes before he said something to one of the women; Jenny Ashcroft put a hand to her mouth at the very moment Artie pulled his mask down, stepping away from the table. Nigel could see exactly what Artie was about to do—and so could Chernetsov. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the top of the balcony, where he jumped up onto the wide balustrade. Three quick steps on the top of the rail and he leaped out across the distance, latching onto the chandelier. It made a distinct noise as several of the crystal ornaments crashed to the floor below. With the chandelier swinging like a pendulum, Artie let go as soon as it reached its apex, landing on the balustrade on the opposite side of the room, stepping down with Cromwell’s skull in his hands.

There was a sudden roar from the people below, and Artie took an exaggerated bow, laughing.

“Tell me one more time why he’s not our only suspect,” Sonia said.