JACK OF DIAMONDS

Agatha stepped out into the bright afternoon light, looking up at the clear blue sky. She saw a lark floating lazily on the air thermals, and she found herself watching it; remembering Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending, she began humming to herself . It was the piece she’d been learning on the violin, but that came to an end now that the violin had been stolen.

She’d changed from the dress she wore at lunch—something more appropriate for the motor car she liked to think—a mid-length dress and jacket to match. She pulled her leather driving gloves on with practiced ease as she made her way toward the stables and garage out back. Adjusting her hat and tying it down with a length of lace, she held her hand out as Jack, the automobilist, held the key out for her. Tall and uncomfortably thin, he was dressed in a black suit and cap; his boots were meticulously clean as always, she noticed.

“She’s been filled up, so petrol shouldn’t be a problem, miss,” he said. “And I’ve put the top up as well, just as you asked, but it may be cold all the same. It’s not summer anymore.”

“I’ve dressed appropriately, thank you, Jack,” she smiled.

“Are you certain you don’t want me to drive, miss?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m taking Mr. Spencer into Chumley to look for a costume, so if there are any problems, I’m sure between the two of us we’ll be able to come up with a solution. Any ideas?”

“Pardon, miss?”

“For a costume.”

“I hear the moving pictures are a big inspiration; for both men and women. Mary Pickford; Douglas Fairbanks; Charlie Chaplin, that sort. Tramp, pirates and damsels in distress”

“Yes, I’d heard as much. Have you seen him? Mr. Spencer?’ she asked, looking into the garage. “He said he’d be out here waiting for me.”

“He went to the stables, miss,” Jack said, nodding in the general direction.

“Why? I told him I’d drive him into town.”

Artie came walking around the corner of the garage, looked at the Daimler TS Tourer sitting out in the afternoon sun, and whistled softly. He stepped up to the side of the automobile, looking inside—both the front and back seat. A large automobile, the back bench was plush velvet, with more than enough room to serve tea.

“Isn’t this what the King rides in?” Artie asked.

“It is,” Agatha said, waiting as Jack opened the door and helped her up.

“And you know how to drive?” he asked, opening the door and sliding in beside her. He looked at Jack, saw a brief nod of encouragement, and sat back easily.

“My late husband made certain that I learned, so yes, I’m quite proficient.”

“Well, I’ve never heard anyone say it quite like that before—proficient, I mean—so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Artie laughed.

“And have you learned to drive, Mr. Spencer? Are you proficient?”

“I learned during the war. Pretty well had to. Didn’t like it too much.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“There aren’t enough damned roads!” he laughed again.

“I won’t dispute that,” she agreed, turning the key.

The ride in the countryside was comfortable. The roads were rough in places, worn smooth in others through years of travel, and Agatha was able to avoid the larger potholes and skim over the smaller ones. She could see Artie watching her closely as she drove, until he finally sat back in the seat again, relaxing. She smiled as she looked at him, thinking him handsome. He could do with a haircut, she thought, but even that, she had to admit, he somehow managed to pull off.

In a day and age where men wore their hair short, Artie’s hung on his collar. She wondered if it was intentional—a young son’s way of shocking his mother sort of intent—or if it was simply a matter of not really thinking about it, or not bothering to care. Somehow she suspected it was the latter. Mr. Spencer didn’t strike her as the sort of man who cared about what others thought. Or was she merely hoping that’s the sort of man he was?

That’s just me wishing it was Andrew sitting beside me.

She wondered if it was as simple as that.

The man comes in wearing Andrew’s clothes, looking better than a man has a right to, and all I can think of is…no, I can’t think like that. He’s gone.

He’d changed back into his own clothes, and though it wasn’t suitable wear for a man of his station, once again, he somehow managed to pull it off. He had a rakish look she found intriguing, and she wondered if that was why she’d been so quick to offer him a ride into town? She could see his chest through the loose shirt he wore, and imagined it to be as well-muscled as his bare arms in his rolled-up sleeves. It was as if he went against all modern convention of manners and decorum. It seemed obvious he cared little for how he dressed, while at the same time, it was obvious he cared about how he looked. He was clean-shaven and his hair still neat, even if it was too long.

Andrew would have never approved.

“So this Ball tonight?” Artie said, and still leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and his arms crossed, suddenly turning his head and looking at her.

“Yes?”

“It doesn’t seem to me that there’s a lot of preparation going into it. I’m not saying that it won’t be a success, but I don’t see the same preparation going into it that I’m used to seeing when my mother hosted parties.”

“That’s because we’re not hosting it,” she laughed.

“You’re not? But, I thought…I mean…the way everyone was talking, I thought the Ball would be yours?”

“It’s at Bedloe Manor, tonight.”

“And who owns Bedloe Manor?”

“Prince Igor. Well, that’s what people call him. He’s not really a prince. At least, I don’t believe he is. People just have a way of giving people names for things they’re not. He’s a Russian, from a rich family, who happens to be living in England.”

“An exile, you mean?”

“No. Not at all. They’ve been here for years. His children grew up here. They’re all friends with each other—Jenny, Maggie, Gerry, and And—well, they all grew up together. All the Houses know each other that way.”

“You mean the children.”

“I’m sure you know what that was like.”

“All too well,” he smiled, remembering the fox hunts and gatherings; the excitement of the Coming Out ball for his sister; his brothers’ marriages. He’d been lucky to get away when he did.

“And this is the Cromwell Ball?”

“The Solstice Season.”

“About that,” Artie smiled.

“It’s not the Solstice?”

“Exactly.”

“We know. Everyone knows, they simply remedied that by saying it refers to the end of the Summer Solstice.”

“And making it a costume ball helps people forget?”

“Getting drunk helps people forget!” she laughed.

“And do you get drunk? No; I wouldn’t imagine you do,” he said after a moment.

“Why would you say that?”

“Why? Too serious.”

“Serious?”

“Are you going to deny it?”

“Of course I am.”

“And how are you going to prove you’re not? You can’t very well get drunk. I can’t even picture you taking your shoes off and running through the fields barefoot.”

“Why not?”

“Once again, too serious.”

“And you would do it?”

“Of course I would.”

She looked at him and smiled. “I don’t doubt that you would.”

“Pull over and I’ll prove it to you. But if I do, you have to promise to do the same thing.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Because you’re too serious?”

“What if someone were to come by?”

“How many automobiles do you think there are out here? If it’s someone on a horse, they obviously can’t say anything to anyone who matters.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“I like to live my life with reckless abandon.”

“Reckless abandon?”

“I plan on finding the Cromwell Skull and claiming the prize.”

“Everyone plans that. No one’s found it yet.”

“They’re not looking in the right places are they?”

“And you know where to look?”

“Always look up,” he smiled.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, if you want to hide something, put it up high—on a shelf, on top of a bookcase. It’s rather simple when you think about it.”

“And you’ve been thinking about it?”

“Haven’t you? Are you going to pull over?”

“I will do no such thing?”

“That’s because you’re too serious.”

“Stop saying that.”
 “Why? It’s true. Poor weary, war widow. Your life’s not over, you know, but you like to pretend it is.”

“That’s hardly your place to say—”

“Say what? Didn’t you hear what Gerald said? I did. I’ll bet you it’s true. How many lovers have you had over the years? One? Maybe Jack, the chauffeur? One of the Footmen? Berry the Butler?”

“That will be enough!”

“Or what? You’ll pull over and show me you’re not the serious person you come across as? What do you think you would’ve done had that thief come crawling into your room?”

“He did.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took my things. No one else’s. Just mine.”

“I’d heard he stole the violin. No one said anything else about him breaking into your room.”

She was silent for a moment.

“It’s almost as if he took a piece of me.”

“Are you afraid he’ll come back?”

“I have a pistol. I know how to use it.”

“He didn’t steal it?”

“I don’t keep it in my room.”

“That’s good to know,” Artie laughed.

“Why?”

“Well, what if I come sneaking into your room?”

“I’ll shoot you.”

“Again. That’s good to know.”

She pulled over to the side of the road and looked out at the fields of knee high grass. The wind was blowing gently, stirring the tall grass as if a giant hand were petting a cat, it’s back arching, and undulating—like a woman under the hands of a lover. Artie turned and looked at her, then broke into a large grin.

He bent over and started to pull at his riding boots.

“Damned things aren’t made for this,” he laughed.