by Oisin McGann
Nathaniel had Clancy start packing the next morning. He wanted to get away from this house and everything in it. Elizabeth’s shameless attempt to seduce him into betraying his father had reminded him why he had fled to Africa nearly two years ago. This way of life was unbearable; being surrounded by people who were bred to believe that success was more important than loyalty, or love or even plain, common decency. He needed to find some space, some time to himself. His revenge on Gideon and his brood would just have to wait.
The fact that he was under house arrest meant nothing to him—let anyone try and stop him from leaving. He would wait out the day and make his escape in the early hours of the morning. There was the small matter of Hugo’s impending betrayal to deal with, but Nate would corner his father at dinner and warn him then. He wasn’t sure how great a threat Hugo could be, but he was still in no position to oust the Duke.
There were a couple of hours before dinner, and he decided to spend them going through the papers he had taken from Marcus’s desk. He was not the studious type and had put it off long enough. Besides, he didn’t want to have to take them with him—he would have enough baggage as it was.
The business documents threatened to put him to sleep, but he combed through the texts, searching for anything that might relate to his brother’s death. But he didn’t know enough about the business to determine if anything was incriminating or not. He decided to hand them on to Silas before he left.
Then there were the letters Marcus had kept with him wherever he went: the peach-colored, scented envelopes of letters that Tatiana had sent to her big brother in America; the flowing script of Roberto’s lyrical prose and the spidery scrawls of Nate’s observations from Africa. Nate clutched them so hard they crumpled between his fingers and he found himself close to tears. With all the scheming, all the conspiracies, it took these simple pieces of writing to remind him how much he missed his brother.
He was stuffing the letters back into their envelopes with unnecessary roughness when his eyes fell on his most recent letter, which Marcus must have received only just before he left America for Ireland. Drawn on it in hasty lines was a map of what looked like streets. No, he corrected himself—not streets, corridors. It was like the maps they had made as children when they played games in the hidden passageways; but if it was on this envelope, it meant Marcus had been doing some exploring in the week before his death. It appeared to be a route marked in paces … and it started in Marcus’s living room. The route ended at a point marked with the words: “panel next to fireplace.” Seconds later, Nate was rushing down the corridor towards the elevator.
He knew the doorway behind the bookcase in Marcus’s living room and wasted no time in pushing the worn copy of Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher to open the door. Inside, he found a candle and matches and started along the narrow corridor, ignoring the dust and the insects and spiders that had made the dark place their home.
The route on the map took him deep into the house, through passageways he hadn’t known existed. Finally, he reached a ladder extending up through the ceiling and down through the floor. Reading the map with a frown, he took hold of the ladder, gripping the candle as best he could, and started climbing upwards.
The ladder led him up to another corridor, and it was twenty paces along this passageway that the map ended. In front of him was another door, with the compulsory box of candles and matches on a shelf to one side. Blowing out his candle, Nate peered through the tiny peephole in the door. His heart sank as the room he saw beyond confirmed his fears. His hate for his family became absolute.
Nate moved away from the door and lit his candle once more, following the map’s directions back to his dead brother’s living room. Something rustled in the dark near his feet as he made to open the door and he kicked out at it, presuming it was a rat or mouse.
As he opened the bookcase in front of him, a flash of red darted out between his feet, shot along the skirting board and disappeared behind a chest of drawers. He heard it skitter away out of sight. Getting down on his hands and knees, he started crawling around, looking under the tables, desks and chairs. The little creature dashed out from under a divan and into Marcus’s trophy room. Nate crawled in after it. The room’s walls were lined with the heads and hides of other animals his brother had valiantly shot dead. There were glass cases for the smaller trophies. Nate crawled back and forth, searching under the bottoms of the cases.
A maid barged in at one point, found him on his hands and knees on the floor, and quickly excused herself, blushing violently. He sighed and continued his search.
He saw a skittering movement under the curtains and lunged after it, but the creature was as small as a mouse and moved almost as fast. It scooted under a case and he scrambled over the floor in pursuit, reaching in to grab it and nearly knocking the case over. The creature evaded him again, but this time he saw where it was going and, jumping to his feet, bounded over and slammed the living-room door shut to stop it escaping. The little creature changed direction, teasing him to come after it again.
“Enough playing,” Nate panted, grabbing a polar bear skin off the wall. “Your master is dead.”
He threw the heavy hide over the engimal before it could run again. It was slowed down long enough for him to pin the skin over it and force it out into his hand. It was bright red, with black spots like a ladybird, and was a similar shape. It ran on a single ball tucked into its belly.
The creature’s large, single amber eye looked up at him and it gurgled some gibberish at him. Marcus had bought this little mite a few years ago and Nate had always been fond of it. He wasn’t surprised that Marcus wanted him to have it. It must have gone wandering not long before Marcus left for the Mournes. Like Tatiana’s songbird, it could make a wide range of sounds, but most of them were in the form of human voices. None of them made any sense, and if they were in any language at all, it was one that nobody in this world understood. That was why Marcus had named it as he did. Because it babbled on and on.
“Hello, Babylon,” he said softly.
“Hello, Nate,” the engimal replied, and Nate nearly dropped it as he recognized Marcus’s voice. “Hope you’re well, old bean. Unfortunately, if you’re listening to this, I must be dead.”
Nate clutched the creature in trembling hands, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.
“As you’ve no doubt realized,” Marcus’s voice continued with a slight underlying hiss, “Babylon has the capacity for recording speech. I only found out myself a few months ago. He can also follow simple instructions; such as giving you this message—when you are alone and you call him by name. Dashed clever, isn’t he? But that’s another conversation for another day. Perhaps in the afterlife, eh? Let me get to the point.”
Nate drew in a sharp breath. The thing spoke exactly like Marcus. He had heard of these “mimic messengers” before, but had never come across one. Hearing Marcus speak to him from beyond the grave like this was downright spooky.
“For some time now,” the voice went on, “I’ve had my eye on the throne. You know I’ve always been ambitious, and I finally came to the conclusion that I could do Father’s job better than he could. I wanted control of the family. It was what I was brought up to do, after all, and I thought it was about time. And, well … You know what that meant.
“I had to murder our father, Nate. I found a secret way into his bedroom and I intended to kill him in his sleep. Now, you might think it’s a bit extreme, but I also know you won’t be too upset either—you always hated the arrogant blackguard even more than I did. But since you’re hearing this message, I can only assume that I have failed in my attempt and he has snuffed me out instead. What a confounded bore this whole business is! I hope I made a handsome corpse.
“So consider this a warning, old chum. You and Berto were never cut out for this life; I’ve done some pretty horrendous things since I started work and I’m certain that neither of you would have the stomach for them. And you’re d
efinitely not ready to take on Gideon and all the other coves who are going to come at you now that I’m gone. They won’t play fair and they’re more ruthless and vindictive than you’ll ever know. Take my advice: go into exile—take Daisy and Tatty and go to the far side of the world. For God’s sake, Nate, get the hell out of that house.
“Father won’t protect you; it’s not his way. He always said you and Berto were too weak to be Wildensterns … and you are, I suppose. You’ve no taste for blood—and that’s what the world is built on. Other people’s blood. Don’t let them spill any of yours, Nate. Take what money you can and run. I don’t want you joining me just yet.
“Ta-ra, old bean. Look after yourself.”
And with that, Marcus fell silent for the last time. Nathaniel put his fingers to his cheek and found it wet with tears. He remained sitting there for another hour.
Daisy was in the church, praying for guidance. Judging by her continuing state of bewildered distress, her prayers seemed to be falling on deaf ears. She had still said nothing to Berto about his affair with Hennessy, but she had spent more time horse riding, using it as an opportunity to speak to the head groom, to find out what kind of man he was. To her disappointment, Hennessy did not appear to be the devil himself, but was instead a quiet, simple man from Donegal, with a wry sense of humor and the kind of humble dignity often found among those in service.
It made her despise him all the more.
But now Daisy had something else to worry about. Elizabeth’s maid, Mary, had come to her earlier in the day, her eyes red and raw from crying. Her hair was hanging down over one side of her neck, which came as a surprise because Mary was a conscientious girl, who was always very careful about her appearance around the family. Then Mary showed her why her hair was hanging down. The maid had gone with Elizabeth to meet Hugo in the conservatory. Hugo had started “givin’ ’er the eye,” as Mary put it, and Elizabeth, who had been watching her brother, had contrived to leave him alone with her maid. Once his sister had left, Hugo had turned on the charm—or so he seemed to think—and after a momentary courtship, had tried for a kiss.
Mary was “havin’ none of it, but couldn’t rightly say so to his lordship,” so she had tried to be coy and turn away. That was when Hugo had pulled her against him and bitten her neck. His bruised teeth-marks were still clearly visible on the skin just above her shoulder. He had even broken the flesh in a couple of places.
That was what she got for “being a tease,” he’d said.
Daisy had walked her right up to the Duke’s study and demanded that Hugo be forced to apologize. The Duke had assured her that no apology would be forthcoming, nor was it the policy for members of the family to apologize to servants.
Now, Daisy knelt in the church and prayed for guidance. She did not care much for this church. It was cold, which was not unusual for churches, but it had a menacing air about it too, and there was too much gold ornamentation for her tastes. It seemed to be everywhere. It was positively gaudy. It was disturbing how fond this family was of its gold.
Someone else was coming up the aisle. She could hear soft footsteps on the mosaic floor, but she did not look up. She wanted to be alone, and as long as she kept her eyes closed and the conversation remained between herself and God, she probably wouldn’t be interrupted.
The wooden pew on which she was kneeling creaked and she felt the weight of another’s knees bow it slightly. Daisy resisted the urge to open her eyes and see who it was.
“You are a devout woman, Melancholy,” a voice said quietly, shockingly close to her ear.
She looked up to find Hugo kneeling right beside her. Daisy was overcome with a sudden rage.
“Don’t you dare open your mouth to me!” she hissed at him.
“But I feel compelled to, my dear,” he crooned. “After all that your mouth has been saying about me. It seems my mouth has been uppermost in your mind.”
“Only when it bites into the necks of servant girls!” she snapped. “What kind of savage are you?”
“I confess, my appetites get the better of me sometimes,” he said airily, his hand coming to rest on hers where it lay on the back of the pew in front of them. “I am a passionate man, used to taking whatever he wants. But you must understand: I am from a harsher time and I know I can be overly sharp. I am a sword in need of a sheath.”
“It’s less your sharpness, but more the danger of infection from your rust that I fear,” Daisy retorted, getting to her feet. “Like so many men, sir, you are a weapon with no sense of direction. If you’ll excuse me, I think I should remove myself from the range of your sword before it seeks a scabbard it cannot hope to fill.”
And with that, she left.
XXVII
WELCOMED INTO THE FAMILY
DINNER WAS ESPECIALLY lavish that evening, and the Duke was slightly less truculent than normal, failing to insult a single relative throughout the first course. He pointedly ignored his youngest son, but Nate hardly noticed. Sitting between Daisy and Gideon, Nate avoided conversation and picked at his food. He had no appetite. Elizabeth sat across from him and attempted to attract his attention several times, constantly trying to make eye contact. He rarely looked up from his plate.
Marcus’s last message haunted him. His brother had tried to murder his father and had been killed in return. The thought made him physically ill. He was sick of it all—all the talk of conspiracies and threats and murders. It had surrounded him all his life so that he had grown up thinking it normal. Now he was jaded, worn out from the constant tension, the fear that had been instilled in him from birth that someone somewhere was out to get him. How could he have spent his whole life like this? How could he ever have thought this was a normal way to live?
Under the table, Elizabeth’s foot touched his shin and he moved it away, avoiding her gaze as she forked meat into her mouth. He had made no attempt to tell his father about Hugo’s plotting. He wanted no more part in any of this.
The second course was served, and there was much wondering over the reason for the Duke’s uncommonly good mood. As the steaming platters of duck, pork, beef, pheasant and heaps of buttered vegetables and bread were all laid on the table, Edgar stood up and cleared his throat. There was immediate silence.
“We are faced with challenging times,” he declared. “And now, more than ever, we must face adversity with all the strength we can command. I am happy, therefore, to welcome into our family four noble individuals whom God has seen fit to bring back from oblivion, and from whom much of our strength might originally have been drawn.
“Hugo, Elizabeth and Brunhilde …and let us not forget your unfortunate brother, Brutus.” He raised his wine glass and everyone hurriedly stood up and did the same. “You are Wildensterns—you must consider this house your own, and all those within it as your kin. Welcome home!”
“Welcome home!” the family cried dutifully and drank the toast.
Hugo and his sisters stayed standing after everyone else sat down. They were at the head of the table on either side of the Patriarch; they had tears in their eyes and looked deeply moved. Elizabeth and Brunhilde hurried to Edgar’s sides and knelt to kiss his hands, Brunhilde on his left and Elizabeth pressing her lips to the claw on his right. Nate lifted his head, looking first at Hugo then at his father, his blood going cold. It couldn’t be. Not yet. Hugo bowed to the Duke.
“I have hoped for this moment since the hour of my awakening. Sir, you honor us!”
And as his sisters gripped Edgar’s arms, Hugo snatched up a carving knife and plunged it into the Duke’s chest.
The room erupted into furious motion; some of the women screamed, men shouted, chairs were kicked back and hands grabbed for any weapon within reach. Nate reacted on reflex, his hatred for his father forgotten. In an instant he was up out of his chair, a steak knife in his hand as he leaped onto the table and bounded down to the end of it. Edgar had fallen back over his chair, but if the blade had pierced his heart it appeared he had little us
e for the organ. A throwing knife appeared as if by magic in his left hand and he slashed at Brunhilde’s abdomen, breaking Elizabeth’s grip at the same time and seizing her by the throat with his claw. Hugo pulled his knife out and drove it in again and then a third time before Nate crashed into him, hurling him to the floor. The four Maasai servants were already there, leaping to their master’s aid, two of them drawing pistols. But a gunshot rang out from the other end of the table and then three more in quick succession, and two of the black servants crumpled to the floor. Nate turned in shock to see Gideon and his sons charging into the fray, also armed with pistols. Gideon stopped and aimed, firing off a fifth shot that spun another of the Maasai round before a final bullet caught the servant through the head. Hugo used the distraction to elbow Nate in the face and lunged at the remaining bodyguard, who struck the ancestor’s wrist with the edge of one hand, knocking the knife away, before delivering a stunning blow to the back of Hugo’s neck. Gideon took aim again, but Nate kicked the gun aside, only to be pummeled into the floor by two of Gideon’s burly sons. He saw Berto hit the floor beside him, fighting like a berserker against three more of their cousins.
The cold ring of a gun barrel was pressed against Nate’s forehead and he froze, a growl rising from his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father struggling to regain his feet, blood spurting from one of the wounds in his chest and making the floor slippery beneath him. Gideon drew a short sword from under his jacket and strode towards the Patriarch.
“No!” Nate screamed. “Don’t you bloody dare, you—”
The barrel of the gun pulled away and slammed across the side of his head. As his vision swam, he rolled over, trying to crawl free, but too many strong arms held him. He watched helplessly as Gideon seized Edgar by the hair and pulled him into a kneeling position. Edgar roared, punching his claw up into Gideon’s groin. Gideon howled and collapsed to the floor, dropping the sword and clutching his injured privates.
