Jack of Diamonds

BOOK ONE

Under The Hunter’s Moon

Part I

CHAPTER 1

Artie could see the grounds were kept neat and trim; the brushes growing at the base of the foundation fresh cut and pulled away from the windows. Still, they somehow managed to climb the walls by leeching into the masonry. The stones themselves appeared faded with age, and he wondered when the estate was built.

Mandalay.

Places like this aren’t built, he told himself, they’re erected, like palaces, or monuments. That’s why they give them names. Which he supposed is what this was, a monument to some bastard’s vanity—so very much like the house he grew up in. Probably with a family as large as his own, but a much larger staff. The flowers lining the hedge rows were all vivid colours, as if to spite the recent spate of bad weather.

If that’s what you call it.

The flowers were green, red, gold and purple, and they caught the morning sun and glistened with morning dew. There was a chill in the air. Between the rains and recent floods, and now the cold, the crop was all but lost. He looked at the stones lining the circular drive as Reggie turned the truck around. The stones were wet, and steaming, bathed in the last of the morning’s dew. Three days ago they were lost under vast pools of water. The truck sputtered as Reggie lost the gear until it lurched back and he hit the brake.

“Okay, good enough as is,” he grinned, pulling up on the handbrake. “Sure it's no trouble, Artie? It won’t take long, I promise. But Claire…now I want you to know she’s special to me,” he said, trying not to sound sappy. But he couldn’t help it. “She is. She’s the cook here.”

“You told me, Reg. Ad nauseam.—”

“Add what?”

“Just go. I’m already colder than a witch’s tit,” Artie laughed. “I told you I’d help you, and I meant it. I helped load it, didn’t I? But Jesus, Reg, I should’ve come in the Springtime, like I meant. I thought the country meant sunshine—and warm. It’s supposed to be warm, you know. If I would’ve known it was going to be this cold, I would’ve waited until Spring. But alas, it was not to be. Nay! And why you ask. Why am I here at all?”

“You’ll get around to it eventually,” Reggie grinned.

“And eventually I will,” he laughed, “because this is hardly the time, or the place. We’ve got a crop to unload.”

Reggie laughed. “It doesn’t matter why you’re here. I could never complain about you being here. I love the idea that you want to work. It beats London living any day. All that cold, everyone close up and in your face. And dark. It’s a dark and gloomy place, Art.”

“I won’t argue the fact,” he said, putting his gloves on and stepping out of the truck.

“A man needs space, Art. Better here than wasting your time back there looking for old mates,” Reggie said, opening the back door.

“Can’t say tracking any of them old bastards down was ever top of my list, Reg,” Artie said, hugging his arms around himself, trying to keep warm. At least we’re still in the sun, he told himself.

"Come on? What about Dickerson?” Reggie asked, opening the door. “Best shot I ever saw. And I’ve seen a lot. I saw him blow a hole clean through a leaf at fifty yards. A leaf—on a bet for a bottle of wine, no less. Best wine I ever had, I’ll have you know. A burgundy they said. You ever had a burgundy?”

“Sure, lots of times.”

“ ‘Sure, lots of times.’ ” he mimicked. “Well, not me,” Reggie said with a slow shake of his head. “That was my first,” he added, tying the door out of the way. “You can’t explain how something like that tastes. Not wine,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “It’s impossible. You can’t describe a flavour.”

"Of course you can,” Artie laughed. “They have people that go around the continent, and that's all they do. They taste wine, and they eat in fancy restaurants.”

“They do not! Why would you pay someone to do something like that?” Reggie asked, looking up at him and squinting into the sun as it broke the tree line. He shielded his eyes. “And how do I get a job like that?"

“The people that live here would do that,” Artie said with a nod towards the manor-house. “Hell, they pay someone to take care of their shit. That’s what money gets you, Reg. Look, go let her know you’re here; this standing out here is doing my old bones no good.”

“You’re not that old, Artie. Besides, I’m older than you!” Reggie laughed, stepping away from the truck.

“It’s all that time in the trenches, Reg,” Artie called out. “After that first winter, I didn’t think I'd ever get warm again."

Reggie stopped. “But you got out, Artie. Comes with Class privilege, I’d say. It may have taken you two years, but you did it. A nice cushy translating job behind lines? That’s nothing to complain about.”

“That was a long time ago, Reg.”

“Was it? Then why am I still having dreams about it?”

“Keeping you up all night, is it?”

“Nah, nothing I can’t sort out in my head, Artie.”

“I still get them, too, Reg. I guess that’s why I like drinking and whoring,” he laughed. “Now go!”

Reggie ran to the side door. Artie watched him knock quickly, rapping his knuckles and blowing on them as he stepped around the corner, stomping his feet. Artie could only see Reggie’s breath around the corner, but imagined it wrapping itself around his thick beard. At the same time, he was feeling the cold slice through him as he turned to watch the sun cresting the hills.

The sooner I can get to work, the sooner I’ll warm up.

He watched the head cook poke her out of the door—Claire, the love of Reggie’s life—wiping her hands on her apron and already talking. That was the moment Reggie chose to step out from around the corner and kiss her on the mouth. She laughed, throwing her arms around Reggie’s neck, hugging him. It was almost romantic if it wasn’t so sappy, Artie thought, smiling to himself.

Reggie’s definitely smitten.

Saying she was a spritely girl didn’t do her justice, Artie thought. She was tall, surprisingly thin and pretty, with a head full of dark curls and ringlets spilling out of her tight white bonnet. Her eyes caught the light from a single shaft of light breaking through the lattice work above her, and her eyes sparkled, dancing with the dust motes around her as she laughed. She had a smile bookended by two small dimples. Dressed in the house colours of silver and black, the dress was old and well-worn. The black was faded to a smoky grey, the silver piping torn in places; her apron was stained with blood from the morning, whether a chicken or beets, Artie couldn’t say.

Reggie pulled her arms from around his neck and explained the situation. It wasn’t long before she was following him to the truck. She walked up the small path and put a hand out to the brush the spiders’ webs. She wiped the webbing on her apron and fought with it all the way up the path.

"This is Artie. I told you about him,” Reggie said, pausing. Artie could see he was obviously trying to remember if he’d told her about him. That might make things uncomfortable, he reasoned.

“He’s here to help me unload. Come in last night on the 9:00 o’clock from Exmouth.”

“Artie, is it?” she said, looking up at him and shielding her eyes.

“Artemus Spencer, at your service,” Artie said, with a sweeping bow.

“You served together, did you?”

“We did,” he said with a quick nod.

“Came to get drunk with him; talk over old times, are ye?” she asked playfully.

“We may,” Artie nodded again, slower this time, wondering if there was a warning in her voice. He looked at Reggie standing beside her, tight-lipped and frowning, and smiled. Reggie was hers and she was letting him know. He wasn’t part of the regiment anymore because the War was over. He’d told her he was a lifer, but that was just a lie. Now, at forty-two, his life belonged to her. It was obvious he was happy, all the same Artie made a mental note that Reggie would always be loyal to her first.

“He doesn’t talk much about his time over there, and I don’t ask him,” she said.

“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Artie smiled.

“I won’t hold you to nothing, but I’m just saying, we both found ourselves at a needful time. Do you know what I mean?”

“I’m not going to be here long.”


“I needed him as much as he needed me. I want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to make your stay comfortable, but when you leave, you have to promise me not to take him with you.”

“Take him with me?”

“The way he talks about you, he’d follow you to the ends of the earth—”

“This rain didn’t do me any lick of good, Dearest,” Reggie said, trying to distract her. “But I managed to save more than half my crop.”

“I won’t,” Artie said, and she could see he meant it.

She turned to Reggie.

“And when will the rest be ready?"

“When? They won’t. This was all we could save.”

“This is it?” She picked up a leaf lettuce

“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, looking at the wilted leafs.

“It hasn’t all gone; it will if I leave it in the fields, though. You’re the first person I thought of, Claire. I thought, ‘I wonder if they’ll be wanting some good greens up at Mandalay Manor?’ You could make a stew, or pot pie. Maybe some soup for the staff? Don’t think you'll be able to get away with anything else. Ask Artie. He knows about all that.”

“He does?” she asked.

“Food and stuff? Artie knows all about that stuff. He used to live inside one of these fine houses.”

“Do tell, Artie?” She looked up at Artie with a critical eye, her hand going up to shade her eyes again. “You never worked in no house, Artie. You don’t look the type. Not like a valet, or even a footman, for that matter.”

Artie shook his head. “That’s because I’m not.”

“He lived in one, Claire. He’s the bloke I been telling you about. We met in France. This is Artie! I told you about him. He’s a distant cousin to some Lord, or lady—who knows what? I don’t even think he knows. I know I can never remember. What is he Artie, your cousin?”

“My father. He’s a Baronet.”

“You’re the son of a Baronet? The right Honourable Artemus Spencer, is it then? Or is it? What sort of title does that give you?” she asked, turning to look up at Artie again.

“I’m just Artie. Artie’s fine.”

“How do you know he lived in a place like this?” she asked, looking at Reggie now. “You meet him over there and he tells you he used to be a gentleman. He knows how to hold a fork all proper like—even knows which fork to use—so you believe him because he can says things you know nothing about?”

She turned to look up at Artie again.

“Do you know Latin?”

“Of course. Satis impetro in,” Artie smiled.

“What’s that mean?” Reggie asked.

“Enough to get by,” Claire replied.

“You know Latin?” Reggie asked, sounding surprised.

“My father was a Latin scholar at Cambridge. Do you think that’s what makes a gentleman? Because he knows Latin?”

“Why lie about something like that? His family had money, just not him. But he went to Cambridge.”

“What, you got no money?” she asked Artie.

“I’m the youngest son. The youngest son usually goes into the clergy. You know, like The Vicar of Wakefield?”

“Should I know him?” Reggie asked.

“It’s a book,” Artie smiled, looking at her.

“I know it’s a book.” To Reggie she said: “Look. Did I say he was lying? Did I say I didn’t believe him? You met him over there, and you say you trust him; that’s a different sort of trust. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. If you say he saved your life, or you saved his life, you’re obligated to at least make an effort and try to be friends. So you two get this stuff unloaded, and I’ll go talk to Carhill and make it all straight. When you’re done, I’ll give you some bread pudding from last night.”

“With cream?” Reggie asked.

“Why would I offer you bread pudding and not give you cream?”

*

Artie followed Reggie through the kitchen door carrying a large crate of beets. The kitchen was almost empty. There was a young scullery maid at a sink scrubbing pots in a cloud of steam. She looked to be about fifteen. Someone had placed a crate of apples by the door, and Reggie pushed it over to hold the door in place; The room was warmed by a large black and white stove, with a coal scuttle backed up against a blackened wall. A chopping block as large as a table was standing off to the right. A countertop running the length of the far wall was the main work space. At the far end was where the girl was washing pots. The room was large, spacious, neatly organized with everything labeled in a clear, neat hand. Endless jars full of spices and herbs lined the walls. Pots and pans were hanging from the ceiling, gleaming in the light stealing in through the large window. The window looked out over an herb garden in the back, and the distant woods rising out of an endless field of daffodils.

If you're gonna be climbing and jumping about, you better get yourself back into shape, he told himself, feeling the weight of the beets. They hadn’t seemed as heavy when he’d loaded them this morning. He knew if he wanted to get into telling shape, working a month or two on Reggie’s farm would be the best way to go.

He needed to get away from London. He needed a place where he could reorganize his thoughts and work out what he wanted to do with himself. Reggie being Reggie he was willing to understand and had been quick to offer the farm as a sanctuary. What better place than the Devon countryside, Artie thought? And a little bit of hard work never hurt anyone.

That’s what his Uncle used to say—which was ironic considering the man never worked an honest day in his life. He’d been an influence on Artie. Whether that was good, or bad, had yet to be determined, not with the war breaking out when it did. But in 1909, when Artie was fourteen years old they were involved in a lifestyle Artie soon grew attached to. It involved meeting widows and their charges—daughters, nieces, cousins—on the French Riviera. The idea was to have them pay for everything. It helped that Artie could speak French, as well as German and Italian.

But Devon was better than going back to London and trying to make a go of it again, he reminded himself. London had proven to be nothing but trouble. For himself, his sister, and everyone he knew. He’d lied when he said he hadn’t tried looking for his old army mates. He'd even gone as far as finding a few of them.

That's not the life for me.

In London, as a thief, he was shocked to discover how easy it was for him. He could scale the outside of a building in under a minute, enter a window and take whatever money was laying about. He’d be back down on the street before the victim even realized they’d been robbed. You’d think life in London would be easy, but the streets were full of veterans begging for handouts—armless, legless, sightless—and while there was little they could do, and little anyone else was willing to do, what did that tell him about living in London? It would be a hard life. He came to that realization when he tracked down Fitzhenry, the gunnery sergeant who'd sobbed into his beer about how his wife left him, and his children were afraid of him.

And why would he think she might stay?

Fitz had always been a violent man. The perfect soldier as far as the British Army was concerned. A natural born killer set loose in the Trenches of France. It’s easy enough to mask a man’s violent nature during the chaos of war. But once he returns from the Front, there’s no war for him to hide behind. Where else was he to take his anger out other than his wife and children. Not a woman to let herself be abused, his wife packed her bags and left—taking the children with her and going to Leeds. She left him with the promise that if he ever showed up at her door she’d cut his balls off while he slept and watch him bleed to death.

Artie wanted to ask him if she was good as her word, but just looking at Fitz he could see he believed her. And yet, even with all that he’d lost, Fitz still refused to change. He refused to help himself. He still went out every night looking for fights.

Well, he finally met his match, didn’t he?

One cold, wet, October morning, they found Fitz in an alleyway with a knife sticking out of his neck. He’d bled to death, laying in a puddle filled with his own blood. It was never clear whether Fitz bled to death, or drowned in a bloody puddle filled with his own piss. Artie supposed it would’ve been written up as a tragedy had Fitz been a more reputable man, but he wasn’t, so he died in an alley with a knife sticking out of his neck.

Shame to lose such a nice knife.

“Reggie says you were something special in the War?” Claire called out from the other side of the wash tub where she was pumping water and scrubbing potatoes.

“That’s right, we were,” Reggie chimed up, before Artie could even utter a word.

“I believe that question was addressed to me,” Artie smiled on his way out to the truck.

“You mean, you think it was addressed to you,” Reggie laughed, waiting for Artie to step out of the door. “You have a habit of forgetting things, sometimes, don’t you, Dear?Like, who you’re talking to for one thing,” he said, making certain Artie was out of earshot. “And who were you talking to, Claire? Sergeant Spencer, or myself? Because not only have you forgotten who you’re talking to, but you’ve forgotten that you don’t ask someone what they did during the War.” he added, looking at the others in the kitchen. “None of you. Because we killed men. Every day, we killed men. We’d rather not talk about it because some of enjoyed it.”

“I’ll show you what hurt is if you don’t get these greens unloaded in time for lunch,” she said, waving a large potato at him.

“And what time would that be?” Artie was quick to ask, stepping inside and carrying three boxes of field greens. “Have you stopped working, thinking it’s lunch?”

Reggie laughed as he went out the door.

“I’ll have to start getting things ready pretty quick if we’re expecting to have it on the server by one o’clock,” Claire touted. “And right after lunch, I’ll have to make the biscuits for afternoon tea at four. Dinner’s at seven, and God only knows how many that will be for.”

“How many is it usually for?” Artie asked, making his third trip to the door.

“Ten.”

“Ten? Is the family that big?” he asked, waiting for her to answer.

“Well, there’s Lord and Lady Ainsworthy, their three daughters and husbands, and the children—you couldn’t forget the children even if you wanted to, because they’re usually underfoot here in the kitchen.”

“How big’s the staff for a place like this?” he asked, waiting still.

Reggie came back in with a box full of carrots.

“The staff? Well, I can’t rightly say. There’s the five of us in the kitchen here, I can tell you that much. Mrs. Wilding’s in charge of the maids—ladies maids, parlour maids, chamber maids, house maids, the children’s nanny, then Nurse—oh, and the between maid—”

“Between Maid?"

“She works where she’s needed. Here, or upstairs in the house—”

“How many rooms do you have here? I mean, you must be cooking and cleaning around the clock!” Artie laughed.

“Eighty rooms.”

“Eighty rooms! Did you hear that, Reg? That’s ridiculous.”

“I did, and what’s ridiculous is you telling me I should be working and then you stand here jawing with my girl.”

“Your girl?” Claire asked, trying to sound indignant, but failing. “Is that what I am to you?”

“I'll get right to it, Reggie,” Artie laughed.

“Mr. Carhill sees to the gentlemen’s needs.”

“Carhill?”

“The three footmen serve as valets for the gentlemen—then there’s the tea boy, the stable boy, the three groomsman working in the stables, a driver for the automobiles, the Gamesman, gardener, the groundskeeper.”

“I’ve lost count all ready,” Artie laughed, making his way to the door.

“Right then. What’s all this now, Miss Hansen?”

Artie looked up at a stern looking man of fifty, standing in the doorway where his large shadow crossed the floor as he casually leaned against the doorjamb. If the man had been a horse, Artie was certain he’d stand at least seventeen hands high. There was a hard look about him. His face was weathered, cut deep with wrinkles. He was clean-shaven, and his head bald.

“And what’s it look to be, Mr. Carhill? We’ve got greens from Reggie to unload, as I told you.”

“And where’s O’Dowd now? I merely ask because we’re not usually in the habit of taking deliveries from O’Dowd on a Thursday morning.”

“Right here, Mr. Carhill,” Reggie said, stepping out of the pantry.

Artie was at the door with a crate of green, looking at the man blocking his way.

“I didn’t know you were aware of what day we take Reggie’s deliveries Mr. Carhill,” Claire replied evenly. “And what’s it to you if we take our deliveries on a Thursday, rather than a Tuesday?” Claire asked, looking up from the tub of potatoes she was peeling.

“We run the house on a tight budget, Miss Hansen. You may not be aware of it, but Mrs. Wilding and I have to budget for anything we buy. And that does not mean you can purchase what you want, when you think we need it. That’s not how it works. You should be aware of that. If we take deliveries from every local farmer whenever he feels we should, rather than when we deem it necessary, it would amount to fiscal anarchy, Miss Hansen. Fiscal anarchy.”

“Anarchy, you say?” Artie laughed, looking up at the man, he skirted past him and made his way to the pantry.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced?” Carhill said, looking at Artie from his great height on the door step.

Reggie joined Claire to face down the large man.

“He’s a mate of mine, come to stay for a time,” Reggie said. “Come on, Artie, there's work to be done.” He pushed his way past Carhill who moved aside reluctantly. Artie came out of the pantry.

“Come to stay with you, is he? And you think nothing of bringing him here?” Carhill asked Reggie, half-turning in the doorway.

“Work’s work, mate,” Artie said with a smile.

“And where's the harm in that, Mr. Carhill?” Claire said, dropping a potato into the tub and placing her hands on her hips. She was staring at the man with what could only be called a look of defiance.

“The harm, Miss Hansen? Don’t you see what the harm might be? We can’t have just anyone coming in to make deliveries, even if he’s a friend—or a mate—of a regular supplier. It’s all about the possible turpitudinous character of the said gentlemen.”

“Is that supposed to mean something, Mr. Carhill?” Claire asked.

“Turpitudinous character?” Carhill beamed, pleased with himself.

“Look, mate,” Artie said, approaching the man and looking up at him. “I’ve come to stay with my old army buddy Reg, here. The dikes overflowed with the rain he says you’ve had these last three days here, and half his fields are flooded. I came in on the train last night, and offered to do what I could to help in the morning. We managed to salvage what we could, just the two of us. Leaving it until next Tuesday is just asking for the rot to set in. Bringing it here made more sense; salvaging what he could, made more sense. Now, do you want to stand aside and let us get on with our task, or are you going to beat her up about helping out a neighbour in need?”

“Army buddy, is it? I know what that means, all too well. I haven’t always been a butler. But, we’re not at war anymore, are we?”

“No, we’re not,” Artie smiled.

“Then why deliver on a Thursday, rather than a Tuesday?”

“I told you. The fields are flooded.”

Reggie came back in with what he claimed to be the last box.

“I’m pretty certain refusing to take my goods would not be conducive to a beneficial relationship for anyone around here. I’d be forced to go elsewhere with my goods, and they’d know the reason why you can be sure. Where do you think that would leave you when you really need me and my stock? How about the next time there’s a major dinner happening?” Reggie said with an underlying tone that said he wouldn’t tolerate the man.

“Do you think we run a charity here?” Carhill asked.

“A charity?” Reggie laughed.

“Do you think you can just show up and drop off your goods without prior notice?”

“Prior notice? Do you mean, send advance word? Perhaps, ring up the house and seek permission?” Reggie smiled.

“It’s what one would expect.”

Artie looked at Reggie and slowly shook his head.

“If I was in possession of a telephone, perhaps I would’ve contacted you. Are you telling me I should take my goods elsewhere?”

“It might be conducive to a more beneficial relationship. Isn’t that the word you used?”

“It’s a far cry from my suspected turpitudinous character,” Artie replied.

“How’s that beneficial to anyone? There’re plenty of manor houses about; I suppose we could have gone elsewhere.” Reggie mused.

“Perhaps you should in the future?”

“Now tell me why you feel the need to negotiating something you’re not qualified to negotiate for?” Claire asked, stepping in between the three men. It wasn’t so much a question as much it was a statement. Carhill looked down at her, and nodded, letting her pass.

“This is my kitchen, not yours, Mr. Carhill,” she said, looking up at the man. “You go look after your boys and leave the simple, everyday running of the kitchen, to me. If I say we need greens to make soup, or stew, then I’ll accept them. Even if we don’t need them at the moment, and it helps out a friend, we’ll take them. Do I make myself clear?”

“I believe I am responsible for the fiscal navigation of this kitchen—”

She looked up at him and shook her head silently as she untied her apron and laid it on the large chopping block.

“What are you doing, Miss Hansen?”

“Let’s see how you negotiate your way through lunch, shall we, Mr. Carhill?”

“Lunch?”

“Yes. I’m done here. I’m done with your meddling. I see no need for a man like you, telling me how to run the kitchen. As the man said,” she pointed out, nodding at Reggie, “there are a great many houses in the area. I’ll have you know, I’ve been contacted by several over the years, looking to lure me away from Mandalay Manor.”

“You cannot leave,” Mr. Carhill protested.

“No? Watch me. You,” she said, looking at Artie, “pick up those boxes and put them back into the truck. He’s yet to pay for them.”

“Happy to oblige, Mum,” Artie laughed, picking up three crates of vegetables.

“No! Leave them where they are.”

“They're unpaid for, and as such, belong to O’Dowd. I will not tolerate you coming into the kitchen trying to enforce your measures on me, Mr. Carhill. You may think you run this house, but you know little, or nothing, about what it takes to run a house of this size. Lunch is set for one o’clock, Mr. Carhill, I suggest you get your staff ready to make preparations,” she said, reaching for her overcoat hanging on a peg behind the door. She walked to the largest of the chopping blocks and began to wipe down several of the knives.

“What are you doing?”

“Doing? Why, I’m leaving, Mr. Carhill. Can’t you see that? These are my knives, and as such, I’ll be bringing them with me. Any good chef worth her salt has her own knives. These are mine.”

“You cannot simply leave.”

“No? Watch me.”

*

The lane was a single rutted track of mud after three days of rain. Most of it was still under water, making it difficult to negotiate. The truck seemed to know the path and traveled at its own pace. It bounced through bone-jarring holes and slid down the other side of ruts, even as Reggie turned the steering wheel in the opposite direction. 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 out from behind a bank of cloud. A light mist seemed to catch itself in the trees and hedgerows, making the distant farms look like a smudge in a Turner painting.

Artie looked at Claire sitting beside him. He was holding on to the door frame to stop himself from being thrown about. It did little to help her though. She found herself tossed about as if she were a toy in a child’s bath. She was pretty enough for him to want to see her naked though, and looked away, back out over long fields of green. There were hedgerows everywhere he looked.

Still, that’s what makes it interesting when you considered foxing.

He remembered when he was younger—before the war, before he left for Cambridge, after his uncle and before his life fell apart. He’d go out riding with the coming dawn. There was usually six of them, with only four dogs between them—one old, one almost blind, and another he thought must be rabid. There’d been some mornings when there’d be almost a dozen riders, and three more dogs. Someone would blow a horn and cry out, “Let slip the dogs of war!” But the dogs would usually wander about the yard until his brother Geoffrey would be forced to round them up and they set off into the countryside.

Artie wondered if the sons and daughters of the surrounding Manor houses would meet and ride together the way he and his brothers had when he was younger. Or was that simply another time, he wondered? With three brothers and a sister, the size of the riding parties over the years always varied. But there was always at least one girl. There would always be a variety of sisters and their cousins visiting, and it seemed their only interests were the brothers, and sisters of their country cousins. Sometimes, the horses weren’t the only thing being ridden.

He looked over at Reggie hunched low in the seat and fighting to keep the truck on the narrow road. He was looking as if he’d been beaten down. Artie wondered how long he could last with a ruined crop. He looked at Claire and remembered what Reggie had been like Over There. He recounted the time they were in some French town and the whores welcomed them with open thighs.

Reggie always refrained.

He looked at Claire again.

Artie still didn't mind the idea of seeing her naked; he wondered if she felt the same way. He doubted it; never a good idea to get your hopes up when it came your friend’s woman. She hadn't shifted away from him though, and he could feel the press of her leg against his thigh.

“I'm somewhat curious as to what you’re going to do now, Reg. No wait. That’s wrong. I want to know what the fuck you think you’re going to do now? This has ruined you.”

“Something always comes up, Artie,” Reggie said, sounding somewhat forlorn.

"You think so, do you? Seriously? Even with all of this?”

“As long as we have food, we’ll manage. Claire can cook.”

“That’s what I do,” she said, looking ahead with a dead-pan expression.

“I know,” Artie smiled.

"Just in case you weren’t paying attention...like you were just now,” she quipped.

“When?”

“When you weren't paying attention.”

“And just what was I supposed to not be paying attention to?”

“When he said something always comes up,” she reminded him.

“Is that supposed to mean something? What are you going to do with all this?” he asked again.

“Well, we were thinkin’, me and Claire, that if she were to cook her pies, I could deliver them about.”

“They'd never let you do that.”

“Why do you have to say that so quick?" Reggie asked.

“Because I know they won’t. No manor cook is going to buy the wares off another cook and feed it to the household.”

"You think I don’t know that? I’m a cook, remember?”

"You can't sell it to the staff, either.”

“I know that, too,” she said.

“Who's left?”

“There are plenty of farmsteads and villages here about. She can cook, and she can make meat and veggie pies I can sell door to door if I have to. If we do it right, we can make a go of it,” Reggie said.

“And you know the right way?”

He nodded.

“Why do I have the feeling there’s a big ‘but’ hanging there somewhere?”

“But we need money,” Reggie smiled.

“We?” he asked, looking at Claire, who nodded. “Is that why you were so quick to invite me here? To borrow money? You know I have none.”

“Not now you don’t. But you’re the only man I know who knows how to get money. If you don’t have it, you knows where to get it. By hook or by crook, if I remember,” Reggie added.

“I don’t have a pound to my name.”

“Which is why I came to you.”

“I’m not following you, Reg.”

“Anyone else? They would’ve said they didn’t have a penny to their name. But not you; not Artemus Spencer. No. You say you don’t got a pound to spare.”

“What are you getting on about?”

“You know these people, Art. These people are your people. You understand them. You grew up with them. You know value when you see it.”

“Are you going to get to the point?”

“It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

“Done what?"

“I watched what you did—and how you did it—that night in Paris,” Reggie explained.

“We were drunk.”

“Which makes it all the more amazing. I don’t know what you stole, but I know you stole something. I saw you go in through that window. It was at least three stories up,” he said, turning to look at Claire. “He climbed up the side of the building like he was climbing a ladder. He was jumping from balcony to balcony like a circus acrobat, hanging off of gutters, and ledges—sliding down roof tiles—hanging by his fingernails. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Claire turned to look at him, and Artie tried to force a smile.

“He’s not wrong, is he? I mean, it’s true, isn’t it?”

Artie remained silent.

“Have you ever heard of Cromwell’s Skull?”

“You mean the real Cromwell?"

“I’d asked if you’d ever heard of it?”

“No. But I know who Cromwell was. I’ve never heard anything about his skull though. What do you know about it that I don’t?’

“That it's coming to Marlborough Manor.”

“How do you know that?"

“You hear all sorts of stories when you work in a house like Mandalay. People are talking in front of the servants all the time, because no one ever thinks the servants are listening. But the servants are always talking among themselves, aren’t they? So, you hear things.”

“And what, exactly, did you hear?”

“That they’re bringing Cromwell’s Skull out to Marlborough Manor—to start off the Solstice Season.”

“And what’s that?”

“It marks the start of the Festive Season, coinciding with the Hunter’s Moon. There’s a Fair in Chumley Grove that starts it all off. Everyone goes there. Then, each one of the six Manor houses host six fancy dress Balls. The first one’s always a Costume Ball. It moves from year to year. That’s when they hide Cromwell’s Skull somewhere in the house. Whoever finds it, gets to keep the contents of the skull.”

“And what are the contents of the skull?”

“Sovereigns. Real gold sovereigns.”

“Well, that puts a new spin on things, don’t it Artie?”

“And you want me to steal it?”

“I never said that,” she said, shaking her head. “I never said that at all.”

“What about you, Reg? You want me to steal it?”

“That’s not it at all,” she laughed.

“Then what?”

“The people living in these Houses are either titled, or monied. They have jewels. They have cash. And they have safes.”

“Safes?”

“Yes."

“And how am I supposed to get in when there’s a dinner party going on?”

“I told you, the Costume Ball will be at Marlborough this year. So the other houses will be empty. The servants take the night off. Sure, some are still there, but most of them live in the village, or have family there, so they’re off for the night. I’m sure you noticed the open window upstairs? At Mandalay? It’s been open for seven years. It doesn’t close.”

“So?"

“There are eighty rooms in Mandalay Manor. Every one of those rooms is a treasure trove. They never close that window. They think: ‘Who’s going to crawl through a window that high up?’ It’s at least fifty feet high.”

“And this is in Mandalay? Marlborough? Which one?”

“Mandalay.”

“What if I go to Marlborough instead, and find the skull?”

“You’ll never find it.”

“I will if you go in and find it for me.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

“Like you said, no one ever expects the servants to talk, but they do. Someone will know where it’s hidden. All you have to do is listen. Maybe you could offer your services in your capacity as a cook?”