Jack of Diamonds

CHAPTER 25

“May I ask who it is that's calling?” Mr. Berry asked at his most pretentious, standing at the door, looking at Artie’s mud-splattered boots. “Would it be too much to assume you have a card, sir?”

“Artemus Spencer. From Kent,” Artie smiled, pulling a small card out of his back pocket. It had a fold in it, and he tried to straighten it before handing it to the man with a shrug. "It's my last one."

Mr. Berry looked at the card, and then looked at Artie.

“From Kent? And they're all out of cards in Kent, are they? Is that how you'd like me to present you to his Lordship? With this card?” He looked down at it briefly. “Artemus Spencer, from Kent?”

“Tell him...tell him I’m the son of Barlow Spencer,” Artie smiled. “That should be good enough to get my foot in the door.”

“Good enough?” Mr. Berry said, again, with the same smarmy pretension and haughtines.

"They were school chums. If that doesn't jar his memory, you can tell him I brought his horse back, and I'm looking for a reward."

"Reward? And what reward would that be?"

"Tell him, Barlow Spencer," Artie said, suddenly serious. He was done with the man, and folding his arms across his body, leaned against the door frame, staring directly at the man. Mr. Berry was still reluctant to let him through the door, and at a loss as to what would be proper. The man might actually be the son of some obscure Duke from Kent he knew nothing about. Stranger things have happened. He stepped to the side. “If you’d be so kind as to followm me. You can wait in the East Library while I present your card.”

“The East Library? You have glabal allocations for your rooms?” Artie laughed as he stepped through the door.

“It makes life easier,” Mr. Berry replied.

“I’m sure it does, but Rolvenden wasn’t that big,” he managed to smile. "It only had nineteen rooms. The carpets were threadbare, at best. It leaked."

The East Library was actually quite impressive in the daylight. He looked up at the domed ceiling. There were elegantly carved spindles, and small recesses stuffed with statutes. This was the recently refubished, so-called Classically frescoed mural, by the two Italian artists. He still couldn't believe no one noticed they'd painted satyrs dancing and cavorting with cherubs in the clouds. But the colours were vibrant and alive, and the carved spindles he realized were painted, as were the recessed statues. It looked more than what it was with its cherubs and puffy clouds because there were stained glass inserts, newly glazed, splashing more colour against the walls like rainbows of light. There were large paintings everywhere, fine Renaissance statues set up on spindled plinths, and free-standing vases placed in open corners.

Two wide, winding staircases bisected the room and there was a large balcony above where the stairs met. And books. Lots of books. The wooden bannisters were painted white and were at least a foot wide. The balusters were ornately carved and stained almost black. The white enhanced the room as the predominant colour; the black hi-lights made it stand out more. Artie could understand the choice. The daylight brightened the room enough for him to study the large chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The chain holding it wasn't as thick as he'd first thought, but it was at least an arm's width, Artie noticed. He was glad to see it had already been changed from candle power to electricity. The floor, the part that was visible under the massive red and black carpeting, was parquet; the wood reflecting the light coming in through the stained glass windows.

“Ah, the butler returns,” Artie said with a smile.

“His Lordship has kindly invited you to join the family for lunch.”

“Lunch? I'd gladly accept, except I'm not properly dressed for the occasion,” Artie said with a shrug.

“His Lordship anticipated that you might readily decline the offer, and has asked me to valet for you.”

“Is that really necessary?” Artie asked. “I seriously just stopped by for the reward.”

“Apparently your father and his Lordship attended Oxford together?” Mr. Berry asked as he led him out of the room. He opened another door, leading Artie through the same wide hallways he remembered passing through last night.

“It may have been Oxford. Either that, or Cambridge—who really pays attention to anything their parents say?” he added.

“Well, I can assure you it was Oxford. Did you not attend as well? I'd rather thought you would have?”

“Cambridge. But I decided it was better to volunteer once I found out what my father and his brother had planned for me.”

“They made plans?”

“What else do you do with the youngest son? Doubtless, I’m not what you'd consider Church of England worthy. Can you see me playing the Vicar? Neither did I.” He smiled when Mr. Berry gave him a shocked look of disbelief.

“This way, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Berry said, leading the way up another winding staircase.

Artie ran his hand along the bannister.

“How long have you been with the family?”

“I’ve been with his Lordship for thirty-five years.”

“Anybody ever fall over this?” he asked, leaning over the rail and looking at the floor below. Not a long drop from here, but it might hurt, he told himself.

“I don’t see how they could,” Mr. Berry replied.

“No?” Artie laughed. “We were five boys and a girl. I can’t even count how many broken bones Nurse had to set, or stitches—God I hate stitches.”

“You've had stitches then?”

“Got the scars to prove it.”

“This way, please,” Mr. Berry said, turning left.

Artie followed.

“I hear his Lordship has daughters?” Artie asked. Mr. Berry turned to look at him. Not threatening, but stridently aware and cautious. Artie smiled again.

“And where did you hear that?”

“My mother, of course.”

Mr. Berry allowed himself a brief smile. “Two. Both married, I’m happy to announce.”

“Happy, are you? Not as happy as I'll be when I tell my mother,” Artie laughed. “I assume they’ll be present for lunch?”

“I expect they will, except for Mr. Ashcroft, of course.”

“Why, what's with him?”

“He was attacked last night.”

“Attacked? By whom?”

“There was a thief here last night.”

“Last night?”

“Mr. Ashcroft stumbled upon him. Apparently the man was ruthless and beat him severely with a weapon.”

“A weapon? Where was Mrs. Ashcroft while all of this was going on?”

“She stood in silent witness to the whole thing. In shock I would think.”

“And the man never touched her? Surely, she must have a description, then? Or was he a gentleman thief?” Artie said with a laugh.

“The man was masked, sir. Mr. Ashcorft is lucky to be alive. This is hardly something for anyone to laugh at, if I may be so bold, sir,” Mr. Berry said, opening the door to a room that once served as a gentleman’s chamber.

*

Lunch was a sumptuous affair served in a gazebo, overlooking the garden. The only access was an outdoor staircase forty feet wide. Artie counted thirty steps before losing count. The gazebo was built on a landing above the garden, its base a wall of solid brickwork stained green with lichen, moss and time. Ivy had taken root some time ago, and even though successive gardeners over the years had tried beating it back, now they simply maintained. Artie looked at delicate paths of red and white bricks meandering through the garden below. There were decorative benches and delicately made arbours hidden in tight recesses. Farther on was a small pond, beautifully landscaped with bricks and rocks, a narrow bridge where one could stand and watch the water fall off into a stream. The stream tumbled down a trough of broken stones—with the water catching the afternoon sun in a cascade of brilliant colour. Willow trees swept the hills in the distance, their branches dancing in a light breeze, scratching at the sky. But the sky was clear, and blue, and what few clouds there were earlier, had blown out to sea long ago.

The Pavilion—Lord Aylesbury, the Baron, refused to call it a gazebo Artie noted—was sealed closed against the threat of weather. Eight glass panels, each one etched and inlaid with stained glass around the edges, caught the afternoon sun. Reflecting and refracting the sunlight, they created a palette of colours that washed across the weave of a white linen tablecloth. The table was made to sit fourteen. Huge bouquets of flowers--the last of the season, he supposed--stood in several vases, decorating both the table and buffet. There were two large tureens, several silver servers, plates, silverware, and crystal glasses all dancing to a different tune in the afternoon sun. There were also several braziers standing near the table, making the room comfortably warm. Three footmen stood in attendance to serve lunch, with three kitchen maids bringing each successive dish up from the kitchen.

Artie arrived dressed in a double-breasted suit of blue linen with white shadow stripes—there was nothing subtle about it, he told Mr. Berry who was preoccupied brushing the jacket for him. The pants were an easy fit, right down to the cuffed ankles and the brown and tan two-tone shoes. His hair was oiled and combed, and he was cleanly shaved. When he first looked at himself in the standing mirror, he smiled. As much as he may have thought Mr. Berry made a mistake with the custom cut and colour, he was pleased with the look; all the same, he refused to wear the boater Mr. Berry suggested.

“I’m not good with hats,” was all he said.

Baron Geurnsy, 3rd Earl of Aylesbury, was a large, portly man--beer barrel-shaped is the only way to describe him, Artie thought. He certainly isn't barrel-chested. He was dressed in a brown, three piece suit, the waistcoat fitting snug against the wide expanse of his belly. There was only a fringe of grey hair left, not unlike that of a monk, but with dazzling blue eyes dancing under heavy brows. At least his eyebrows were still dark—the last nostalgic holdover of a fading youth, he liked to say. He stood up the moment Artie was announced, extending a large hand and smiling generously as he invited Artie to sit.

“I’m told Berry was sent up to valet for you—glad to see you found something for him, Berry,” he smiled, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with Artie wearing his son's clothes. Mr. Berry accepted the compliment with a slight bow of his head. “Right then! Capitol, I must say! Right girls? Capitol!” he added, looking at his two daughters, and his daughter-in-law about to sit down again.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said before sitting. "Forgive me, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce the Baroness? Darling, may I introduce Mr. Artemus Spencer. He's the son of an old school mate. She'll want to know all about your mother and Rolvenden. It seems they've met. In London! Imagine that."

"Yes, imagine. But I'm afraid I haven't been home in some time, Mum," Artie said with a shrug just before he sat.

“I heard you brought Jenny’s horse back?” Gerald said, standing and extending his hand across the table. “Gerald. My wife, Daphne,” he added, just before he sat down.

“Artie,” he said softly. “And yes,” Artie smiled, looking at Margaret still sitting as Simon rose to extend his hand. “I did.”

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Simon laughed as he took his seat.

“Oh? Why's that?” Artie asked.

“Please, sit down, Mr. Spencer. Sit,” the Baron laughed, pointing at a chair to his left. “No, no, not there—here—between the girls,” he laughed. “Roger’s not likely to be down, and Aggie’s all alone anyway, desperately in need of an escort, aren’t you, dear?”

“I wouldn't say ‘desperate’, Poppa,” she smiled.

“Just lonely,” Gerald laughed.

“Oh, Gerald, please,” Daphne said, trying to sound disappointed, but failing and only making herself sound pretentious.

“She hasn’t been with a man in what—eight years? Believe me, she’s lonely,” Gerald said with another laugh. “Him wearing Andy’s clothes better than Andy ever did, won’t help matters.”

The Baron was seated at one end of the table, the Baroness at the other; there was an awkward moment of silence before the first dish was presented to the Baroness for her personal inspection before being served.

“I heard your husband was attacked last night?” Artie added, looking at Jenny.

“A right bounder, the man was,” the Baron said, talking around a forkful of salad.

“And you have no idea who he was?” Artie asked, leaning back and letting the footman serve him salad.

“The local Constabulary are on the case, but to be quite honest, I have little regard for their ability to even solve a crossword puzzle,” the Baron laughed. “Speaking of which, have you seen the latest in Pearson’s? Capitol!” he laughed. “Genius!”

“Oh, Poppa, no one wants to hear you going on about those silly word games you play,” Margaret said from across the table.

“On the contrary,” Artie smiled. “My mother wrote to me lately saying how it was the latest rage in the countryside.”

“There! You see? I shall have to purchase a collection straight away,” the Baron laughed, sitting back and letting the footman take his half-eaten salad away.

“And what is it about the Constable?” Artie asked. “You say you have no confidence in him?”

"They sent a boy out! He's lucky if he's twenty-five."

Gerald laughed. “At least they sent him help from Okehampton. He was here last night on his own--I thought he was rather effecient. He seemed to be asking all the right questions, but I suppose they felt like they still had to send him help. So they sent a woman!”

“A right bloody distraction, you mean,” Simon was quick to say, and both of them tore off into peals of laughter.

“Yes. They were at the stables when I brought the horse in—I’m sorry, what’s the horse’s name?” Artie asked, turning to look at Jenny again, a smile playing across his soft lips.

“Isobelle,” she said, looking down at her plate. She had yet to make eye contact with him.

“Isobelle,” Artie said, turning to look back at Simon and Gerald.

“I met her—well, both of them, actually—and yes, I will admit he does strike me as rather young."

"Young! He's a boy!" the Baron laughed again.

"I also agree that I rather fancy being interviewed by her. Rather than him, I mean. I couldn't tell you if that's a personal recommendation—or maybe just a fantasy? I haven’t decided yet. But I take it, from what you're both implying, that women like her are not suited for that sort of work? Or is it that they shouldn't be allowed to do that sort of work?”

“Do you think they should?” Gerald countered.

“My mother would certainly qualify,” Artie laughed. “With five of us boys, she was always able to sort out who took what from whom. She has a sharp mind—”

“No doubt made sharper with those crossword puzzles you say she enjoys,” the Baron agreed.

“No doubt,” Artie smiled as a footman brought a tray of salmon mousse canapés around, followed by shrimp salad served in romaine hearts. “What I mean is this, just because a woman’s attractive, doesn't mean she can't be intelligent. I’m willing to admit she’s quite stunning—”

“Is she?” Margaret asked, trying to sound impartial.

“Not as stunning as the present company, I admit,” Artie laughed, “but stunning none-the-less,” he added with a smile, slowly reaching his hand under the table and touching Jenny’s thigh. He could feel her stiffen in shock as she took a deep breath—startled by his brazen touch—but continued eating her lunch as though there was nothing wrong.

He slowly pulled at the dress she was wearing, bunching it up over her thigh. She looked at him briefly and closed her legs tight. Artie looked at her and smiled, squeezing her thigh and forcing her legs apart.

“Do you feel this woman will be any help to the Constable, at all?” Simon said with a note of exasperation it was impossible to miss. "No. She's too much of a distraction. A boy that young with a woman like her--"

“I fail to see what her being a woman has to do with any of this,” Agatha said gently.

“Oh, please, Aggie,” Simon laughed. “Really? A woman's not made to do the same things a man can do.”

“I disagree,” Artie smiled, turning to look at Simon. He was pulling at Jenny’s leg, running his hand up the inside of her thigh.

“You disagree?” Gerald smiled.

“I do. Madame Curie? A woman of science. Virginia Wolfe? A woman of letters. What of music, and art? Woman account for a great deal in the world, and to dismiss them out of hand, I feel, is a mistake. Underestimating their abilities, or refusing to acknowledge their contributions, are also mistakes men will undoubtedly regret.”

“One would almost think you were an avid supporter of the Suffragettes,” Daphne added with a pleasant smile.

“And you were not?” Artie asked.

“What does a woman need the vote for?” she countered.

“You feel no need to have a say in anything?”

“That’s what I like about her,” Gerald laughed, slapping her thigh.

“No doubt,” Artie smiled.

“I must say, I dislike the tone of your voice,” Gerald said, suddenly serious.

“Did you serve?” Artie asked, looking at him directly. He waited five seconds before he went on. “No, you didn't, did you ? I didn’t think so. I can tell by looking at a man whether he was at the Front or not. There’s something in his eyes.”

“And you can see that looking at a man?” Aggie asked.

“I don’t know if other men can, but I can,” he said, looking at her steadily.

“Neither one of them served,” she said, the scorn evident in her voice. “Andrew served. He volunteered as soon as he could. He was in Paris. He was playing there and said he'd taken to painting and was going to stay another month. He never came back though, did he?"

"I'm sorry, playing? Playing what?"

"He was a touring violinist. Now, we lend his wardrobe out to unexpected guests who get invited to lunch, or asked to stay for tea. And you’re right, Gerald, every time I see someone coming up those steps I give a little gasp of surprise. And why shouldn't I? It’s like seeing a ghost, isn’t it? The ghost of your brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Artie said, inclining his head.

He reached his hand up toward Jenny’s crotch, feeling the softness of the silk undergarment she had on, and began running a finger along the edges, feeling the involuntary shudders as a finger paused and gently prodded. She attempted to move her hand under the table but a footman moved in beside her, bringing the next course. She was forced to move to her right and Artie politely moved as well, then they both moved to the left as the footman stepped between Artie and Agatha.

“Cozy?” he asked her, and then grinned.

He looked up at the Baron.

“I understand there's a Ball planned for the night?”

“There is,” the Baroness smiled. “I do hope you’ll make the effort to attend?”

“I hear this is only the first one? Surely the Season in London is finished? All the young ladies presented to the King and Queen?”

“We do things a little differently out here in the country," the Baroness said, her voice as gentle and inviting as her smile. "Once the Season comes to an end in London, we all move back to the country and have our own social season. The Soltice Season we like to call it. It leads right up to Chritsmas.”

“We don’t call it that, Mother,” Gerald said rather stiffly. “It’s been called that since they first started with it, whenever the hell that was.”

“There’s no need for that kind of language,” the Baroness quipped.

“Is that somebody—? Is that those two Constables?” Simon asked, squinting his eyes.

Mr. Berry turned his head and immediately left.

“I think it is,” Gerald laughed. “I imagine old Berry's about to have a fit with them over this.”

*

“Excuse me, my Lord,” Mr. Berry said, bowing low but still able to watch Sonia and Nigel standing politely at the top of the wide staircase. “It seems there’s been a complication.”

With the wind was swirling about them, Artie could see Sonia fighting to hold her skirt down while Nigel busied himself scraping his pipe clean with a pocket knife; he appeared as unconcerned as Sonia was uncomfortable. He really is young, he thought.. And my God, she's stunning.

“What kind of complication would be important enough for them to break up a luncheon with my family, and our guest?” the Baron asked, keeping his voice low as he half-turned in his seat to look at the two Constables.

“They say they have questions for our guest,” Mr. Berry nodded, looking toward Artie.

“Questions?” the Baron asked, raising his voice; everyone at the table heard him and together as one, turned to look at the two Constables.

Artie used the opportunity to adjust his chair once again, feeling his arousal mounting as he did.

“This could be interesting,” Simon smiled, nodding at Artie briefly.

Mr. Berry was still bent down, whispering in the Baron’s left ear and Artie wondered what the butler was saying. He was certain it involved him and cursed himself for not having had a better excuse for having the horse in the first place. Obviously, he didn't think it through as much as he should have. He didn't expect them to drive out and inspect the area. That was just plain dumb luck as far as he was concerned. Or maybe he'd underestimated them? He’d have to think on his feet.

“They want what?” the Baron asked, turning to look at both Artie and Jenny.

“Looks like you won’t be getting an invite after all,” Gerald laughed, turning to look at Artie.

“Are you saying our guest is the thief?” Agatha said.

“No. But either way, it looks like this could be the beginning of a scandal? And you know how dear Poppa hates the idea of being tainted by scandal? He'd die of embarrassment,” Gerald laughed, all of them watching the Baron throw his napkin on the table, stand up—excusing himself—and approach the two Constables.

“Any ideas as to what that may be about?” Simon asked.

“They’ve caught the thief, no doubt,” Daphne said. “It has to be that. What other reason could they have for disturbing lunch?”

“No manners?” Gerald replied with a grin.

“No, they haven’t, have they?” Jennifer smiled, and looking at Artie, opened her thighs wider. No one was paying attention to either her or Artie, and she arched her back slightly—subtly—pressing herself against his hand and letting him push his finger deeper inside her; he slowly began pistoning his finger into her. She reached under the table, pulling on his hand and rubbing it against herself before she climaxed behind her napkin and pushed his hand away.

She looked about and then stood briefly, sliding her dress back into place.

“I thought I dropped a shrimp,” she said, when her mother turned her head to look at her.

Artie sat back in his chair, looking at her closely before placing his wet finger in his mouth, smiling at her. He turned in his chair and faced the others.

“That’s why we use napkins, dear,” the Baroness responded, hesitating a moment, and Artie thought for a moment she may have suspected something. But she turned her attention back to the Baron as he made his way to the stairway and spoke the two Constables.

“Can someone tell me what’s so special about this Ball, anyway?” Artie asked.

“You haven’t heard?” Agatha replied, turning to look at him.

“About what?”

“Well, first of all, it’s a Costume Ball; the first one of the Season.”

“How many are there?”

“Six. One hosted by each of the Manor Houses,” she nodded.

“All of the Houses host one Ball each,” Margaret added at almost the same time.

“Are they all Costume Balls?” Artie asked.

“Just tonight’s,” Agatha laughed. “But tonight’s Ball is special.”

“Special? What’s so special about it? Aside from it being a Costume Ball?”

“It’s the Lord Potector’s Ball—well, that’s what we call it,” Agatha smiled.

“What does everyone else call it?”

“A waste of time,” Simon laughed, and Margaret hit him playfully.

“Why do you think that?” Artie asked.

“Because every year they hide this stupid skull in one of the Manor Houses. Whoever finds it, gets to keep the contents. But no one ever finds it,” Margaret explained. "But it's not for a lack of looking, is it Gerald?"

“Maggie, please? There’s more to it than that,” the Baroness said over her shoulder, “and of course Artie’s invited.”

“No, there isn’t, and you know it,” Simon laughed.

“I’d be honoured to attend,” Artie laughed. “But I have no costume. Besides, what are the contents of the skull?”

“I’ll be going into town later. I’d be happy to drive you in and help you look for a costume,” Agatha offered.

“There’s at least two hundred gold sovereigns inside the skull,” Gerald laughed. “But no one’s ever been able to find it—or retrieve it—so no one really knows how much is in it, except the host—and whoever he assigns to hide the damned thing.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because if you do see it, it’s usually impossible to get to,” Agatha added.

“Impossible how?”

“One year, it was in the hands of a gargoyle on top of a turret, at Mandalay Manor,” Margaret laughed. “We could see it; we just couldn’t get to it.”

“You mean it’s never just in the one place?”

“That’s the fun of it,” Daphne said, sounding dry.

“Every year, as the Host, it's your duty to put a new sovereign in it, and at the end of the night, pass it on in proxy, to the next House,” Gerald went on.

“And no one’s laid claim to it in over two hundred years? These Houses haven’t been around that long.”

“That’s because it’s been going on for longer than the houses have been here,” Gerald replied, the sarcasm obvious in his tone.

“And where's it hidden this year?”

“This year?” Agatha laughed. “Why? Are you going to climb up and retrieve it for us?”

“Not for you; for me!” he laughed, watching as the Baron nodded his head, walking back to join them.

"It seems they have some questions for the two of you,” he said, looking at Jenny and Artie once he sat down.

“Me?” Jenny asked. “Why? Do they think I have something more to say?”

“Well, there’s something about last night,” the Baron nodded.

“And me?” Artie echoed.

“You brought Jenny's horse in, didn’t you? You’re probably the last one to have possibly seen him,” the Baron nodded.

“I saw no one—aside from the horse,” Artie explained.

“Apparently, it’s not what you saw, but more along the lines of what they failed to find,” the Baron replied, reaching for his wine with a noticeable sigh. “They simply need a better explanation and feel you were being—what’s that word she used? Elliptical.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Gerald said with a contrived laugh.

“And did they say that might be?” the Baroness asked.

“They did not—and would not—say. She was being elliptical herself, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well then, I suppose we’d better go and get this all sorted out,” Artie said, laying his napkin on the table and standing up. He helped Jenny with her chair and then held out a hand for her, escorting her across the garden and to the stairs.

“Bastard!” she said, taking her hand away the moment they were away from the table. “I hope they’ve caught you out,” she added.

“Yes, you so obviously didn’t enjoy any of that,” he smiled. “But a nice try all the same. Just remember this, if they have anything on me, they have it on you as well, because like it or not, you’re in this up to your tits.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“Vulgar?” he laughed. “I’ll come by and show you vulgar…later.”

“Later?”

“With all these rooms here, I’m almost certain we’ll be able to find a room to slip into and discuss events.”

“What events?”

“Mr. Spencer? Mrs. Ashcroft? I trust your husband is resting well?” Nigel asked, stepping forward and offering his hand to Artie.

Artie shook it. The man's hand was soft and uncalloused. His grip was firm, but hesitant, as if he were trying to release his grip and pull his hand away.

“It seems we didn't have the opportunity to properly introduce ourselves earlier. I’m Constable Bannister, and this is Special Constable Nazar.”

Sonia stepped forward, extending her hand to Artie; then reaching forward, offered it to Jenny.

“Well then, how do we do this?” Nigel asked, looking at Sonia.

“Why'd you lie about the horse?” Sonia asked, looking directly at Artie.

“Lie about the...? What are you talking about?” Artie tried smiling, looking at both Sonia and Nigel, before looking down at Jenny.

“We went out to the tree—just to have a look around,” Nigel offered.

“There were no hoof prints. In fact, the leaves weren't even bothered. And there'd been a flood. Parts of the field were still underwater. We took Richard out with us—the blacksmith we were talking to when you showed up with the horse—because he said the horseshoe had a mark on it the thief had no way of knowing about.”

“What's that have to do with me?” Artie smiled.

“Nothing, except you lied?” Sonia repeated.

“All right. You’ve caught me out. I did lie,” Artie said, barking out a quick laugh. “I honestly never expected you’d go out there and look. But I lied to protect Reggie, and miss Hansen,” he added.

“How could you think we wouldn’t go out there, especially in light of what we found?” Nigel asked.

“Why? What did you find?” Jenny asked.

“We can’t say,” Nigel was quick to counter.

“That sounds suspiciously cryptic,” Artie said with a laugh.

“Did you at least tell my father?”

“We did not,” Nigel replied, trying not to look at her.

“Then why suspect Artie?”

“We didn’t say he was a suspect,” Sonia corrected her. “We simply want to get at the truth.”

“You’ve all but accused him of whatever it is you think you found.”

“Please, Mrs. Ashcroft,” Nigel smiled; still holding his pipe he began filling it from the pouch he pulled out of his pocket. “You both lied to us—in your own way.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“We’re just trying to sort through everything,” Sonia explained, looking at Nigel angrily. He avoided her stare.

“And yet, you're claiming that I lied?” she asked. It was not so much having been caught in a lie, but more at having been accused of lying in the first place that seemed to bother her.

“You told a lie, Mrs. Ashcroft?” Artie laughed.

“Apparently.”

“This is a serious matter, Mr. Spencer,” Nigel said, lighting his pipe and blowing out a cloud of thick smoke.

“I never said for a moment it wasn’t,” Artie replied, catching a brief taste of the smoke in the air and looking at the man. Understanding. He smiled.

“Mr. Spencer? You’ve confessed to lying in order to protect Mr. and Mrs. O’Dowd?” Sonia said, looking at her notes.

“They’re not married,” Artie pointed out.

“They’re not?” Sonia asked, referring to her notes again, flipping through the pages.

“Does it matter? Look, we were coming back from the Fair—me and Reggie—and there was this horse, just standing there on the side of the road. Reggie said it looked like one of the horses he’d seen Jenny--Mrs. Ashcroft --riding from time to time. So I took it. I told Reggie to take the truck and I rode the horse home. Reggie was furious with me, saying people would accuse him of stealing it. I told him I’d return it first thing in the morning. I didn’t want anyone thinking I’d stolen it, or that Reg stole it; I’m sorry, I made up the part about finding it tied to the Lightning Tree—that’s what the locals here call it, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jenny nodded.

“But Reg said the tree was supposed to be the edge of the property. Apparently, there are no real property lines out here. There’s never been a need for it before, I imagine. I thought, if I told you I found the horse there, no one could say it was stolen, because it was still on the property.”

“And the card?” Nigel asked.

“The card?”

“You said the jack of diamonds was tacked to the seat?” Sonia reminded him.

“Oh that. Yeah, it was. I didn’t lie about that. I thought it rather strange when I saw it.”

“So you took the horse home, and thought you’d bring it out in the morning?” Nigel asked.

“Yes.”

"Why? I mean, Reggie had a truck. You could've ridden the horse here and taken a ride back in the truck. So why didn't you?" Nigel asked.

“And you were no where up near the tree?” Sonia asked.

“It’s not near the road we were on, so no, I wasn’t.”

“Where’s O’Dowd now? He wasn’t there when we went out to question Miss Hansen.”

“Reggie? He's off to London by now, I'd imagine.”

“Why did he have to go to London?” Sonia asked, looking up from her notebook. "It seems rather sudden, don't you think?"

“I didn’t ask.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’? What business is it of mine what he does? Or where he goes, for that matter? He said he had business to take care of in London. I said have a nice trip. Again. What does it have to do with me?”

“Did he tell you that he had business in London?”

“Well, he told me he was going there, so I suppose he did. You can ask him when he gets back. Why are you asking me?”

“Well, we don't know when he'll be back, do we?”

“When he gets back? He’ll get back when he gets back, I suppose. Ask Claire. She’ll know more about why he went than I do. Do you have any more questions?”

“I may have, depending on what we find. You’re not leaving soon, are you?” Nigel asked.

“Leaving? I doubt I’d be able to leave, even if I wanted to,” Artie laughed.

“And why’s that?” Sonia asked.

“Well, it’s the start of the Season, isn’t it?” Artie smiled.

“The Season? What season?”

“ ‘The Season of the Skull.’ Isn’t that what they call it?” he turned, asking Jenny.

“No. I told you, it's the Lord Protector's Ball. It's the start of the Solstice Season,” she said. “Now, will you kindly explain to me what it is you say I lied to you about? Is it the part where my husband is beaten half to death by a thief who climbed up the walls like a capuchin monkey? The part where the man broke into my bedroom? The part where he rode the horse out of the stable—”

“Wait! What?” Artie said quickly. “You don’t think I stole the horse, you think I broke into the house and beat her husband! You think I’m the thief?”

“There’s more to it than that,” Sonia said softly, almost sounding apologetic.

“Is there? Then tell me; maybe I can help you figure it out?”

“I’m sorry. This next part’s a little delicate,” Nigel responded.

“Delicate? How can her husband being beaten half to death be considered delicate?”

“It has to do with a hankie I found last night," Nigel said, looking directly at Jenny. "Special Constable Nazar? Perhaps if I could ask you to talk to Mrs. Ashcroft in a way that won’t be misconstrued as indelicate?”

“Indelicate?” Artie laughed. “You certainly have a way of beating around the bush, don’t you? It must be what you’re putting into your pipe that gives you so much insight.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sonia asked.

“Can’t you smell it?” Artie smiled.

“Smell what?”

“That isn’t just tobacco he’s got in there.”

“No?”

“A fine Constable you make,” Artie laughed. “Perhaps Gerald’s right?” he looked at Jenny. “It’s opium!”

“Opium?”

“Go ahead, tell her I’m wrong,” Artie said, confronting Nigel who appeared speechless.

“My doctor prescribed it after the accident I had last year,” Nigel said.

“ ‘Last year’? Do you mean he gave it to you for the pain?”

“What else would it be for?”

“But it’s been over a year?”

“What does that matter?”

“Were you at the Front?”

“I was, but I wasn’t injured during the War.”

“I didn’t ask you that,” Artie pointed out.

“I was a motorcycle courier.”

“Do you know what happened to soldiers when they're given too much morphine?”

“I saw, yes.”

“Come along, Mrs. Ashcroft, we’re done here. I think it might be in everyone’s best interest if you call the Constabulary in Okehampton and ask for someone who’s not addicted to opium.”

“That will take days,” Sonia said quickly, looking at Nigel and shaking her head. “I can run the investigation. I still have questions.”

“You?” Nigel protested.

“They obviously have no confidence in your abilities,” she retorted.

“You can’t do that!” Nigel said, ignoring her and calling out to Artie. “You’ll ruin my reputation!”

“You were about to accuse me of breaking into her bedroom and beating her husband half to death. What do you think that will do to mine?”