JACK OF DIAMONDS

The Inn was typical for a village the size of Chumley Grove, he supposed. No more than six rooms, with a narrow hallway, a wooden floor worn out through years of use, and the paint a faded yellow. The ceiling was stained with age, waterstained from age-old leaks, darker corners blackened through years of flamed light. At least they had new electric features. Three of them lit the hallway, as well as four large windows letting in the late afternoon light. It would be long after dark before they made it home. He thought at most they had an hour before they had to be on the road again.

Artie carried three boxes up the stairs, trying to look every bit the self-serving servant he was pretending to be, watching the sway of Agatha's hips instead of the stairs in front of him. He bumped into her as she bent over, trying to fit the key into the door. She stood up to protest as she opened the door, and he pushed her into the room, dropping the boxes and kicking the door closed behind him. She was taken off guard and let out a scream that quickly turned into a giggle. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her with kisses. He bit at her lips, sucked on her tongue. His breath was hot aginst her skin. He pinned her arms over her head with one hand, following the line of her jaw down to her collarbone with sucking kisses. His free hand began pulling at the buttons of her top.

“Now let’s try that again, but only proper this time,” he said, pulling her blouse over her head, searching out her naked truth.

“Yes, let’s do,” she smiled.

Roger was sitting in a chair staring blankly at the open French Windows. Looking at him in the dull reflection of her mirror, Jenny thought she could almost feel a pang of regret. She told herself she could almost feel sorry for him. But she didn’t. Not since lunch with Artie. She was married to Roger, but he was no good to her now, was he? And she knew Artie was more than willing to fuck her. It was just amatter of how long she could hold out. But Roger had survived a vicious attack. It wasn’t that she wanted him dead, she didn’t. In fact, she’d been legitimately afraid Roger would die as a result of the beating. I certainly don't need that in my life. But Roger wasn’t the man she hoped he’d be, not by a long shot. She knew if London Society discovered her involvement in her husband's beating, well, they’d say it was bad form, wouldn’t they, and shut her out. And it was bad form, wasn't it? Her parents would never be able to live with the shame.

Who’d marry a person with a history like that?

Still, Roger's face was a mess. There was no denying it. She imagined it hurt every time he tried to eat, drink, or even speak. She wondered what would happen if he sneezed. His left cheekbone had been shattered according to the doctor, and the x-rays showed just how bad it really was. Accordingly, his jaw had been fractured in two places. Not broken, the doctor stipulated, but fractured; with a combined hairline fracture and shattered cheekbone, Roger would be in a lot of pain.

Well, that was a nice bedside manner, wasn’t it?

He prescribed a tincture of morphine all the same—for the pain, he said— emphasizing that she was not to let him overindulge as there’d be none forthcoming. She remembered thinking, Forthcoming? Who even talks like that? He was to use it only when the pain was unbearable. It'd be nothing to forge the man’s signature and take it to the apothecary myself, she thought. She made certain to smile and act demure, diminutive, for him, committing herself to steal a page out of his notepad.

Always the obedient and socially acceptable wife.

But the pain was unbearable and Roger declined lunch. She’d resolved the issue by giving him a double tincture of morphine.

And a good thing, that, she thought, remembering how Artie had all but ransacked her under the table. A rough and tumble finger fuck that made her wet just thinking about his feathered touch against the soft folds of her flesh. After the initial shock of that first touch, she’d squeezed her thighs tight. Squirming on her chair in an effort to dislodge him. He’d simply moved his chair closer to her on the pretext of a hearing loss due to the guns. Her father nodded as if he’d understood, while Artie forced her legs apart. She wondered if there’d be a bruise…not that it mattered.

Roger'll never see it, will he?

And all the while as he savaged her under the table she tried to apply a touch of rouge to her cheeks, hiding behind the mirror of her compact.

She turned away from the memories and stirred, looking at Roger’s reflection in the mirror again, willing him to look up at her. There was a sadness lost inside the tight skin of his swollen face, and she thought she saw a bloody teardrop perched high up on his cheek. She shuddered and hated him even more for making her think she could be that person.

“Would I be remiss in thinking you will not be coming to the Ball tonight?” she asked.

Roger shook his head slowly. She wondered if it was disappointment he was trying to convey in his eyes—or maybe embarrassment at her having asked him such an obviously stupid question. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d expressed disappointment with her.

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s probably for the best if you don’t,” she said, trying to smile. “Under the circumstance…considering, I mean.”

Considering what?

The swelling had increased over night. Both his eyes were swollen shut, and she wondered how he’d managed to see where he was walking. His face looked hideous, nothing at all resembling what he once looked like. His nose had been broken, set, and taped; his jaw wired shut, and he had undergone surgery in an effort to repair his cheekbone. He suffered from what the doctors referred to as an open fracture. The left side of his face had fallen with the weight of the swelling. One more reason for the surgery, the doctor told her. And added that he’d most likely been concussed.

He would’ve beaten him to death if I hadn't stopped him.

“Shall I ring for Simco and have him bring you something? I’m afraid the doctor said you will not be eating solid food for a time, although he failed to say how long that would be.”

Roger held up two hands, showing her six fingers.

“Six? What? Months? Days? Weeks?”

He nodded.

“Six weeks? Oh, Darling, I’m so sorry. It’s looks as if you’ll be laid up here for a while. I trust you’re not thinking of going back to London to recover? Not looking like that.”

She was still facing the mirror, watching his reflection as she applied her lipstick. She wondered what she was going to do now that Artie has pushed his way into her life. Who am I fooling? she asked herself. Who pushed who?

The last thing he wanted was to have her as a partner. He’d said as much. She’d been a fool to think he’d take her on as a partner in the first place; an even bigger fool to accept the terms of his partnership. But she had to prove to him that she meant it. Still, he could've easily said no once she accepted the offer. But he didn't. What is that? Integrity? Worse, she’d eagerly sought to seal the deal, hadn’t she? It was the memory of how easily he’d climbed the walls, though. She couldn't deny there was something about the man that had drawn her to him. And that was before he took off the scarf wrapped around his head. Once she saw his face, she knew she’d do whatever he asked her to.

Looking at Roger and seeing what Artie had done to him should’ve infuriated her. And it had. There was that brief moment when she thought he’d beat Roger to death. Once everything settled down, she had time to think as Roger was taken to the hospital. She held his hand, smiled at the matron attending him as she played everything over again in her mind. She’d been excited by everything. The whole scenario was more exciting than anything Roger could've come up with. She'd never been so aroused—and in control of herself. Seeing Roger being beaten had excited her to no end.

Why's that?

She had no idea.

And now I'm the partner of a thief. A willing partner.

“Have I shown you my costume?” she asked in an effort to distract herself. “It was meant to be a surprise, but since you won't be there, maybe I should let you see it beforehand?”

He mumbled something she couldn’t understand, and when she looked at him, waiting, he relented and nodded. She ran out of the room, returning a moment later holding a voluminous light blue dress with white trim. She was carrying a shepherd’s staff as well as a small basket of silk flowers. She laid it on the bed, spreading it carefully, and then ran out of the room again, returning with a pair of glossy, black shoes.

“I’m afraid I’m not able to put it on for you, but can you guess what I am? I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I should know better than to expect you to speak. But I’m Little Bo-Peep, in search of my sheep,” she laughed. “Do you like it? It’s very pretty, don’t you think? I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. I was afraid I was going to have to ask Jack to drive me out to Okehampton, or even Exeter, or Plymouth. And there it was, right in the front window of that little shop in Chumley Grove. He really does get the best things, but then, he has all year to look for them. I had the perfect costume picked out for you as well. Would you like to see it?”

He shrugged, and she went on.

“Only if you’re up to it, mind, but you can still wear it. Although, it might be a little too much, under the circumstances, I mean. Keep in mind though, that I bought it last week,” she said, running out of the room again. Returning with a large box, she dropped it on the floor and opened the lid, pulling out a cape, black silk shirt, black pants, boots, and a mask.

“It’s Zorro, complete with mask.” She paused, looking up at him. “I'm sorry, it’s the same type of mask the thief wore, isn't it? You might still be able to wear it. Can you see?" she asked, bending down to look at him. "Who knows, maybe no one will know who you are? There’s sure to be others wearing the same costume. The man said it was popular. It was that, or Scaramouche. But he doesn’t wear a mask.”

Roger got up out of the chair and walked over to take a look at the costume. He pushed the box out of the way with his foot and bent down beside her, taking the mask out of her hands. She smiled at him, feeling nervous as he studied the mask. He nodded slowly, holding the mask up to his face. When she smiled, nodding, he threw the mask at her, and standing up, walked out of the room.

Claire looked up at what she’d always considered was the elegance of Marlborough House. She remembered marvelling at the beauty of the ivied gables the first time she saw them. They seemed to give the house an air of majesty and grace she felt was missing from many of the other Manor houses in Chumley Grove. That’s because Marlborough House is the oldest, she told herself. It was a distinction she’d never taken into consideration before, but she knew it made a difference when you worked in a place like this. She never told Greggson what she thought when she first approached him two weeks earlier, offering to bake three dozen pies for the evening's costume Ball. Artie insisted she make the effort; Greggson was reluctant to accept her help all the same. What cook would want her in their kitchen? She’d explained exactly that to Artie, and a week later Greggson agreed.

She’d never been inside the other houses before—other than the kitchens—and had no way of knowing where to begin her search. She thought if she could befriend one of the housemaids she’d be more likely to hear rumours as to where the Skull was hidden. Artie said in order to find Cromwell’s Skull, he needed to have an idea as to where to look. It was all on her, Artie said. All she had to do was get him on the pitch, and he’d figure it out. She said she didn’t want to do it, but he’d insisted. Artie can be insistent, she told herself as she presented herself at the kitchen door. Even negotiating a fair wage for me. Does he really think I don't know he talked to Greggson?

“Miss Hansen!” Mrs. Unrah, one of the under cooks greeted her, her smile lighting up her round face. She had a cherubic look about her—short, squat, always laughing—and stepped aside, reaching out to take the canvas bag Claire was carrying.

“Let me help you.”

“If it’s quite alright, I brought my knives with me,” Claire smiled, giving her the bag.

“It’s always best to have your own things in a new kitchen.”

“Glad to have you on board, Claire!” Greggson called out, and she wondered if the man was sincere, or simply paying lip service for the sake of the staff.

And what did Artie say to change his mind?

“I’ll believe that after you’ve paid me,” she laughed.

“And how many of those delicious pies are you contracted for? And how is business, by the way?”

“Rather slow, right now,” she confessed, hanging her coat up on the hook behind the door. “And I’m grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me. But there’s a certain freedom to it, being on your own, I’ll give you that. The hours are long—endlessly long—but I’m doing it for myself, so there’s that to be said about it.”

She reached for an apron at the same time, tying it about her waist.

“And Reggie? How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him hawking his wares about of late.”

“That’s because I’m putting them in my pies!” she laughed. “But I told you last week, half the crop was ruined with that rain two weeks ago, so he’s taken the opportunity to nip off to London, with a promise to stop off at Okehampton on the way back.”


“Okehampton? And what’s there?”

“I want to be opening up my own shop,” she explained. “Saunders has pigs and I want one for next spring.”

“Larry Saunders? The Communist?”

“The same.”

“And London?”

“Ah, Mr. Greggson, you know how it goes. That man gets a notion into his head, and there’s no beating it out of him,” she smiled, taking her knives out of the bag and spreading them on one of the three chopping blocks in the kitchen. “He thinks the banks in London are somehow more reputable, and as a result, more solid than most others, and that’s that.”

“Good on him, then, good on him. And I wish you all the best with your endeavours, Miss Hansen, but remember, I’ll always hold a place open in my kitchen for you,” he smiled.

“And would that be in the larder? You know that’d never work,” she laughed. “How long do you think it’d it be before I’d be wanting to take over your kitchen?”

“True enough!” he laughed.

“Is this block good enough? Or will you be using it for something specific?”

“Over by the window might be better suited for you. There’s more light.”

There was a commotion at the door and five negroes filed in—four men and a woman—three of them carrying instruments. They stepped in and looked about, their smiles fading as they faced the kitchen staff.

“We in the right place?” one of the men asked, looking at Claire.

“I was told to expect a quartet,” Greggson pointed out.

“They’s always fo'gettin’ we got us a singer now,” the man was quick to say, nodding his head at the only female in the group.

“All the same, you’re early,” Greggson added.

“No knowin’ on how long it’d take for us to get here,” the man explained. “You can’t fault a man makin’ allowances for unforeseen circumstances, can you?”

“Well, there’s a room off to the back where you can put your things. Do try to stay out of the way, though.”

“I can help if you like?” the woman spoke up.

“Help? What can you do?”

“Anything you need me to,” she grinned. “I can clean the ‘tatoes for y’all, or whatever else needs doin’.”

That was the moment Chernetsov walked into kitchen. He paused as he looked about, smiling briefly, somehow still looking confused. The women were quick to give a polite curtsey seeing him, and Claire followed their example as Greggson stepped forward, wiping his hands on his apron, smiling politely and bobbing his head.

“Good to see you this morning, sir,” he said amiably enough. “I trust everything’s in order, so far?”

“So far, so good; isn’t that the expression, Greggson?”

“Indeed it is, sir,” he laughed. “A holdover from the Big War, I believe.”

“Is it now? Well, that’s something I learned today then, isn’t it?” He looked at the five Negroes standing at the door. “I thought you were supposed to be a quartet?” he said, looking at the tallest man in the group.

“We got us a singer.”

“I’m sure Greggson will take good enough care of you, right Greggson?”

“Just about to settle them in, sir.”

“And Miss Hansen? Good to see you here. When Greggson suggested hiring you to make your famous pies for the night, I told him not to let the opportunity slip. I so enjoy your pies whenever I see that man of yours about, selling your wares.”

“Thank you, sir. Very kind of you. I’m happy to hear that, I am.”

And then there was a horrifying scream in the foyer.

Claire went running out as fast as everyone else. She was sickened at the sight of the man on the floor, his body twisted as though someone had dropped a wet string of noodles on the floor. She looked up at the swinging chandelier above and clearly saw the skull hidden in among the lights, disappearing from view as the pendular arc of the chandelier slowed. She looked at the person standing beside her.

It was the Negro singer.

“There’s something hidden up there,” she said with a gentle nod at the swinging chandelier

“I didn’t see anything,” Claire replied, trying to sound convincing.

“No? I looked up because I saw you looking up.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Who am I gonna tell, woman? Who’s gonna believe anything I say?”