*
Pierce descended from his rooms early, not wanting to be late for his first Reminiscence. Upon reaching the ground floor he was directed by a footman to a lounge close to the main dining room. Whereupon entering he discovered it to be empty apart from a bartender at the far end.
If it weren’t for the carpeted floor, Pierce would have thought he’d entered a ballroom. The space was airy and bright, the ceiling rising impossibly high with large crystal chandeliers. Occasional chairs and large mirrors ran along the walls, creating the illusion of a larger room.
Unsure how to proceed, Pierce decided that if he were to stand awkwardly, he might as well have a drink in his hand. He approached the bar in the corner, taking in the various bottles to choose from.
“What can I get for you Commandant?” asked the bartender. Pierce almost looked behind him, still unused to his new title.
“I’ll have a glass of that on the rocks,” he replied after a slight hesitation, pointing to an amber coloured bottle with a Gaelic name on the label. The bartender made it quickly and Pierce soon found himself standing awkwardly with a drink in his hand.
After a couple minutes of staring hopefully at the door, he decided it would be better to not appear so eager for company. After all, the first person through the door might be Colonel Buford and he could quickly find himself staring down a barrel at twenty paces. He took a sip of his drink, which was very good, and strolled to one of the large floor to ceiling windows to take in the view.
Upon closer inspection the windows were actually doors that led to a stone patio overlooking a garden. Stone benches and statues lined a gravel path that seemed to lead towards a hedged maze. On the far side of the patio Pierce could see part of the Manor, twinkling window lights dotting the vast dark stone rising above the ground like a cliff. In the distance he thought he could see the dark mass of the North Tower, even more forbidding by its lack of illumination.
“What a wonderful uniform Patrick! We could have the same tailor.”
Pierce was broken away from his examination of the outdoors by a friendly voice behind him.
“I figured you’d be here early,” continued Schell from the bar. “So I decided to arrive early and keep you company.”
Pierce turned and took in his friend in horror as he approached from the bar with a glass of champagne in his hand. It did appear as though they had the same tailor. Now that Pierce had the original to compare it to, his initial assessment of his own uniform was terribly accurate.
Wilhelm Schell stood looking at him quizzically, dressed head to toe in a black Nazi SS uniform, complete with red swastika armband.
“They are somewhat similar I suppose,” offered Pierce after finally finding his voice.
“Similar, why they’re almost identical,” countered Schell affably. “Although I must admit that I pull it off somewhat better than you.”
Pierce smiled in response, still shocked by his friend’s appearance. He knew that Schell had been in Germany during the war, and had admitted to being in government. He had even said that he had followed along with the Nazi’s, by not opposing them directly if nothing else. But the uniform he was wearing did not support this line of reasoning. The SS only accepted full fledged Nazi’s. Pierce was stupefied and sickened by the man standing before him.
“You said that you’d left the Foreign Service when the Nazi’s came to power,” stated Pierce hoarsely.
“I did. I left and joined the SS,” he answered nonchalantly. “I could tell which way the power was shifting and decided to follow. I received a post within the foreign intelligence section of the SS.”
“How could you do something like that? You were no Nazi,” accused Pierce harshly. “Were you?”
“Not really,” Schell shrugged in response. “I certainly did not believe in their superior race nonsense. But what was I supposed to do? They offered me a similar job working abroad and I accepted. I never knew about the camps or the special action groups. I was recruited to the Manor in 1943.”
“But you knew how the Jews were being persecuted! The Nuremburg laws were already well in place.”
“Of course I knew,” Schell replied calmly. “But what could I do about it?”
Pierce was taken aback by his friend’s nonchalant attitude towards his past. So mush so in fact that he hadn’t noticed the appearance of new members in the lounge.
The pair walked and mingled with the other members, Schell introducing him to those he had not met. The room filled up quickly and Pierce was impressed by the multitude of dresses, uniforms, and clothing. Everyone was wearing their regular clothes from when they had been recruited by the Hunt. He felt slightly overwhelmed by all the colours, faces and voices that were filling in the lounge.
It was not until Colonel Buford arrived that Pierce finally realized the concern that had been nagging him as he had toured the room.
The doors opened and Buford paraded in wearing a flowing white robe. Nobody seemed to take notice of his entrance, doubtless having witnessed it many times before. But Pierce was intrigued by it and walked over to take a closer look. Buford stopped to talk to a woman wearing a luxurious evening dress with a stylized silver brooch when it dawned on Pierce.
Buford was wearing the riding robe of the Ku Klux Klan. Suddenly Pierce knew what was wrong and it became completely evident as he looked around the room. Here were almost two dozen people from throughout time gathered in one place. And they were all wearing the uniform, insignia, or other such signs denoting their membership in histories most evil and malevolent organizations.
The room began to spin around him as his mind started cataloguing this rogue’s gallery. Bufford was in his KKK robe, talking loudly to De La Gena in the gear of the Spanish Inquisition. Schell and Sirinova were getting reacquainted by the bar, in their SS and KGB uniforms repectively. Laflamme, laughing with two men, was clad in the reactionary clothing of the French Revolution during the Reign of Terror. They were all, overtly or otherwise, a pageant of humanity at its worst.
It was then that he glanced at himself in the mirror and his heart stopped. He was one of them. Hand picked and recruited like everyone else here. If he had been recruited early, what did this uniform signify and what was he to become in the future to merit the invitation.
“Are you all right?”
Pierce blinked repeatedly and Veronique Laflamme slowly came into focus before him. “Sorry?”
“I asked you if were all right,” she repeated warmly. “You appear slightly ill.”
“No I’m fine,” he replied weakly.
“Very well,” she said losing interest. “Aren’t you going to compliment my dress?” She then did a quick turn, the movement making her thin dress rise provocatively. She was wearing a classical blue and white silk dress with a felt cap bearing the tricolour of France. The very personification of Marianne, or Liberty of revolutionary France, right down to the revealing bust line.
“It’s very nice,” he said noncommittally, trying to keep his eyes above her neckline.
“Granted it’s not as elegant as what some people are wearing,” at this she darted a death stare at the women in the ball gown. “However it’s what I wore in Paris and I maintain an authentic aura for the Reminiscence.”
“Very commendable.”
“I must say your uniform is quit imposing,” she said taking his arm and angling him towards the bar. They passed Schell and Sirinova, with Veronique not even glancing in their direction. Schell made a quick gesture pointing at himself, then at Pierce, concluding with a wink.
Ordinarily not very perceptive in social situations, Pierce’s recent enlightenment must have sparked something in his brain. Because he knew what Schell was alluding to with his simple gesture, he was a stand in. Ordinarily Veronique would have been hanging on Schell’s arm for the event. However with Wilhelm and Elena now engrossed in flirtatious conversation, Veronique needed a replacement to complete the visual scene she was trying to convey.
<
br /> Pierce indeed felt like a prop as they toured half of the room then took a position by the bar. She divided her positions between two favourites; an arm draped over his shoulder while she looked back over her shoulder, and leaning slightly against him and the bar while talking to those who passed by.
The room suddenly quieted down and Pierce turned around to see that the doors had opened and Dr. Cleaver had entered, flanked by two footmen. After realizing the significance of the members’ clothing and what they represented, Pierce had wondered what Cleaver would be wearing and who he had really been. Despite the Doctors disclosure of being from Victorian England, Pierce had been hard pressed to decide how he would appear.
“Ladies and Gentleman of the Hunt,” he announced to those assembled before him, “we shall dine and reminisce of days past.” His appearance was slightly disconcerting and surprising to Pierce. Although dressed in formal dining wear, right down to the tails of his coat, he was also adorned with the accouterments of a secret order. A thick gold collar draped from his neck across his chest along with an elaborately stitched and gilded sash. Pierce didn’t know what specific group he’d been a part of, confusing him slightly. He’d always thought of masons, shriners, and the like to be involved with charities and helping others. He’d never thought of them in a negative light, despite the myriad of books by conspiracy theorists.
He followed everyone out of the room through the large double doors and tried to piece this new information together in his mind. He was now more curious than ever to learn what Dr. Cleaver’s past was and how he fit into this manor of malevolence.
A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1) Page 50
