JACK OF DIAMONDS

So someone pointed out--a good friend of mine--that they didn't know what order the story parts were in because they weren't posted in a proper sequence. So I thought I'd post this little sidebar of how the story reads. I put up the first paragraph or two for each post, to help in case there's some confusion.

CHAPTER ONE...PART 1

Artie could see the grounds were kept neat and trim; the brushes growing at the base of the foundation were cut away from the windows, but somehow managed to climb the walls by leeching onto the masonry. The stones appeared faded with age, and he wondered how long ago the mansion had been erected.

Mandalay.

Places like this aren’t built, he told himself, they’re erected, like palaces, or monuments; given names.

CHAPTER ONE...PART 2

Artie followed Reggie through the kitchen door, carrying a large crate of beets. There was a wooden crate half full of apples close to the door; a large stove with a coal scuttle against a blackened wall; a chopping block as large as a table standing off to the right; a sink and tub with a countertop running the length of the far wall. The room was large, spacious, neat and organized, with jars full of spices and herbs lining the walls.

CHAPTER ONE...PART 3

The lane was a single rutted track of unpaved road after three days of rain, most of it still under water, making it difficult to negotiate, but the horse seemed to know the path and walked at its own pace. The sun was up, true, but it was still early enough to remind Artie of just how much he’d rather be laying in the arms of a beautiful woman who wanted nothing more than to enjoy the day with him. The low rolling hills steamed in the distance as sun broke over the horizon, a light mist seeming to catch on the trees and hedgerows, the distant farms looking like a smudge in a Turner painting.

CHAPTER TWO: An honest thief…PART 1

Jenny Ashcroft pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself. She was sitting in the darkness of her boudoir, staring at her reflection in the bevelled mirror of her dressing table. Sipping a large glass of whiskey—neat—she was wondering where she’d gone wrong with her life. How had she managed to let herself fall for a man she knew nothing about? Because really, she knew nothing about Roger—except that he cut a dashing figure in uniform, and that he was going ‘Over there,’ as they liked to call it, to give ol’ Willy a sound thrashing.

CHAPTER 2...PART 2

"Deal!" Artie said, stuffing himself back into his pants and doing up the buttons of his fly.

He'd leaned over and untied her hands as soon as he realized how far she was willing to go; he wanted to feel her holding him, milking him, pushing her dressing gown aside and exposing her breasts to him as he finally spilled his seed into her mouth.

He looked at her breasts in the soft moonlight, the nipples teased to harness by the night air coming through the open window. She was spitting into a small lace hankie, looking at him with a tight smile, her long dark hair covering half of her face.

CHAPTER 2...PART 3

Somewhere a clock struck the hour, echoing through the emptiness. Artie looked at the open windows, the moonlight slipping in through the etched glass, spilling across a Turkey carpet partially covering the parquet floor, and washing up against a book lined wall. There was a large piano-forte tucked into one corner, the dark, ebony coloured legs reflecting the soft moonlight. A large harp and small chair stood nearby, along with a music stand and violin, as well as a cello and two chairs. Paintings lined the West wall, and he thought, I wouldn’t have put them above an open fireplace.

CHAPTER THREE…PART 1 (Is sometimes less than honest.)

They ran through a wide hallway hung with tapestries and paintings; cliched suits of armour seeming to lurk around every corner—every nook and cranny—with armaments, breastplates, and coats of arms hanging between the murals, paintings and tapestries. It made it easier with the hallway lit up by the new electric fixtures; they helped reveal the dirt and grime of the last century though, where cobwebs gathered in dark corners like parliamentary numbers. The hallways were panelled in Norwegian pine, for no other reason she supposed, than her grandsire admiring the colour.

CHAPTER THREE...PART 2

She could hear the door opening and held her breath, trying to steady her breathing, anticipating his arrival, so unexpected as it was. He wasn’t trying to be quiet and she could sense him standing at the foot of her bed. For a moment, she wondered what Artie was thinking, seeing the man she professed to hate watching her as she pretended to sleep. She peeked through half-closed eyelids, barely able to discern his figure in the soft moonlight spilling through the windows; unable to see the small, clipped moustache and receding hair; watching him as he slowly removed his jacket and tie.

CHAPTER THREE...PART 3

Artie could feel the strange rage coming over him, just as it had that first time he went over the top during the War. It wasn’t something he’d call hatred—it’s hard to hate someone you don’t really know—but a kill or be killed mentality he’d relied on in order to survive. There isn’t much hope of surviving once you’ve climbed out over the top of a trench into a hail of bullets. It was just blind luck not being killed. Once you actually encountered the enemy, you did anything you had to in order to make it to the end of the day. He remembered beating a man’s face to a bloody pulp with his rifle butt; bayonetting three others, and then clubbing a man to death once he ran out of bullets. He didn’t know if it was the sight of blood, or maybe the scent of it, or even the sound of his rifle stock hitting flesh and breaking bones, but he’d revelled in it.

CHAPTER FOUR...PART 1 Instruction in the law

Nigel Bannister looked up from the book he was reading, watching the hallway closely; he could still hear the echo of the door slamming closed downstairs. He had the lights dimmed somewhat, thinking there was no need having all the lights on, not with everyone at the fair. It was the major reason he’d volunteered to stay behind and answer whatever calls might come in—knowing there’d be none because of the fair. It gave him a chance to study the police procedurals he’d neglected for far too long. He wasn’t planning on spending the rest of his career in the middle of Devon. He had his eye set on London.

CHAPTER FOUR...PART 2

The roads were a boggy mess. Niles was grateful to have taken the Triumph rather than using Charlie’s Austin under the circumstances. There were times he’d had to get off the bike and push it out of the mud, reminding himself of his time at the Front serving as a motorcycle courier. It had been much the same as this on a good night, he told himself. He couldn’t imagine what the trip out would’ve been like in the Austin. He hoped the doctor wouldn’t have any troubles. The man was far too old and frail to be pushing his auto out of the mud. Still, the night was clear, and any threat of the rain they’d ben having for the past three days was blown out to sea by a calm wind coming up from the south.

CHAPTER FOUR...PART 3

Berry directed Nigel to the East Library, guiding him soundlessly through wide hallways hung with elaborate paintings, sculptures, and wall hangings he was certain his mother would have admired. They meant little to him personally. An ostentatious show of wealth, and little else, he thought. Like the jacket Berry had given him to wear, a little long in the sleeves. He willingly admitted to himself the paintings were quite fanciful, and while they were possibly quite valuable, it also reminded him that the people working the farmsteads on the outlying grounds probably paid for many of these treasure with their toils.

CHAPTER FIVE...PART 1 Dominion of a Prince

Marlborough Estate was the smallest of the six Manor houses located in what the locals were now calling Chumley Glen; it boasted eighteen rooms. But it was what one might label the senior representative of the six; the arbiter of local history. It’s own colourful history went back to 1705, and the house had been through as many renovations as it had owners. Some claimed it was haunted, others that the walls were simply too tight. It hosted all the major celebrities of Europe through its colourful history: Handel, Mendelssohn, Litz; Christopher Wren, Isaac Newton, Edmund Halley; Pope, Defoe, Swift—the anecdotal tales about the house had gone through as many incarnations as it had renovations.

CHAPTER FIVE...PART 2

Madam Chernetsov—Bubbi—a large bosomed, matronly woman, looked over the list for tomorrow night’s upcoming entertainment and shook her head slowly, asking herself how she could have ever agreed to letting her sons help organize this year’s upcoming costume Ball.

A juggler—and what is the sense in that? she thought, fighting back a feeling of distended disbelief. And a magician, as well? What is this, a children’s party? At least they still have the octet I asked for—but a Jazz band? An American Jazz band? she thought with disdain. Why would anyone think we needed an American Jazz band?

CHAPTER SIX...PART 1 A THREE PIPE PROBLEM

Sonia checked her look in the small compact’s mirror.

One last time, she told herself, before turning the key and shutting the engine down. She pulled on the handbrake before touching the corners of her lips and wiping a small smear of lipstick she’d missed the first two times she’d checked; she had to ask herself if it even mattered anymore.

Really, who am I trying to impress?

There were no men in her life, which only made it sadder, she realized. She pushed her blonde hair into place and picked up her hat, carefully setting it in place and pushing the stray strands back into the bun she’d hastily tied up before leaving home. She pushed up on her breasts, making herself appear larger, fuller, firmer, for all of one second she thought, and then laughed at herself.

CHAPTER SIX...PART 2

Sonia followed Nigel around the circular driveway, looking up at the huge edifice that was the front entranceway to Bedloe Manor. The masonry was trimmed with light cream coloured brickwork, the building itself brownstone; there were hedgerows and garden-beds running along the length of the foundation, as well as manicured walking paths that would have done the groundskeeper proud.

It had been a quick drive out, and she watched carefully as Nigel negotiated the potholes and larger puddles on the road with the ease and comfort of a practiced rider. She was able to avoid the bigger holes—feeling the jarring jolts of the potholes she was unable to avoid—most of them hidden under pond-sized puddles spanning the width of the lane in places.

CHAPTER SIX...PART 3

“He can’t possibly have stolen the horse,” Sonia said, looking at the man approaching.

“Why do you think that?” Richard asked.

“What man would be stupid enough to bring it back?”

“A good point,” the man agreed, and laughing with a quick nod, looked at the stablehand in the paddock. The colt was starting to kick up a fuss and the boy looked to be confused as to what he should do. Richard smiled.

“Besides, he knows how to ride.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” Nigel asked, stuffing his pipe.

“A man that’s that comfortable on a horse, obviously grew up near horses.”

“That’s what you think, is it?”

CHAPTER SEVEN...PART 1 TWO HOURS BEFORE

Artie woke up before the dawn.

His muscles ached from the climb up the wall last night, but he dropped to the floor and did forty quick push-ups regardless. He wasn’t getting any younger, he told himself as soon as he finished. Twenty-eight isn’t twenty-five. Still, it had been an exhilarating climb, even if he felt as if he’d been beaten with a cricket bat. He remembered how the first time he’d tried climbing, and nearly fell; since then, he carried a rope in case he ran into any obstacles. So far, that only happened the one time, in London; and he’d broken a finger that time.

I’ve had too many close calls over the years, though.

CHAPTER SEVEN...PART 2

Artie stepped outside, the cold night air a bracing slap after the warmth of Claire’s cluttered kitchen. Walking to the small stable on the other side of the house where he’d tied the horse for the night, he reached into his pocket and took out the apple he’d picked up off the counter. The stable wasn’t much more than a single pen, and while it smelled of horse shit and whatever other animals might have been living there before, Artie held the apple out for the horse, stroking its neck gently as he thought about the night’s events. It had all come as such a shock to him. As far as he knew, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone staying behind. Reggie said he had it all sorted out, having met with a few of the servants earlier while delivering Claire’s pies to the local pub. They’d all be going to the Fair that evening, and no one was staying behind.

All in all, it wasn’t such a bad night, he smiled to himself. In hindsight.

CHAPTER EIGHT ('ish)...PART 1 TWO HOURS AFTER

The ride out to the Lightning Tree—as Richard preferred to call it—took a little more than fifteen minutes. The road was ragged by all appearances, rough in places where the potholes were deep; but most of the potholes were off on the sides of the road, enabling Sonia to make better time than Nigel would’ve thought possible in an automobile. He could see her smile when she caught him looking at the speedometer.

It’s the type of road, he thought, made for a motorcycle.

CHAPTER EIGHT (ish)...PART 2

“Tell me about—what did you say his name was? O’Dowd!” Nigel laughed, suddenly remembering the name. “Tell me about O’Dowd,” he asked Richard.

They were in the Bentley again. Sonia had pulled the top up and Nigel was grateful, feeling the cold seeping through his wet trousers, reminding him of what the cold could be. He’d heard that some automobiles now came equipped with gas heaters, just for such occasions, he told himself, trying to suppress a shiver, but of course the Bentley didn’t.

It doesn’t matter how much you spend, you always forget something. But who forgets the heater?

“Yes, Reggie,” Richard replied. “Nice enough, fella, but Reggie O’Dowd’s an outsider. He showed up here after the War, claiming to be a nephew of one of the two previous owners—or something like that—at any rate, he said he’d inherited the place with their passing.”

“But you don’t think it’s true?”

“No one thought to question it,” Richard said with a slow shake of his head.

But Nigel could see that Richard had.

CHAPTER NINE...PART 1

Oh but wait, I haven't posted that yet! Remember, if you want to have your name in the story as a character--a maid, a butler, a cop, a crook--drop a TIP in the TIP JAR. The bigger the tip, the bigger the role your character will have.