Autumn

by Lisa Ann Brown

  Arabel shrugged. “Another mystery,” she said lightly, tucking into her breakfast and tea. Arabel then told Eli how she’d felt the threatening energy since the supposed death of Indra, which didn’t make any sense either.

  Eli’s expressive brown eyes bored into Arabel’s bright blue ones. He sensed her annoyance, more than any sort of fear.

  “The sooner we see that body and find out whose it is, the better. I personally haven’t felt any further negative disturbances, but I only seem to know when he’s lashing out in groups. There’s no real connection between he and I except for our shared interest in you,” Eli spoke softly.

  At this statement, Eli reached for Arabel’s hand and immediately with the contact, the colours burst in front of Arabel’s eyes. Bright, silky pink danced joyously with a pulsating indigo blue etched with flashing royal purple; they set her senses racing. Arabel sighed as her heart seemed to slam frantically in her chest and its beat increased three-fold.

  Eli ran his hand over Arabel’s long, glistening black hair. He tangled his fingers in the thick, silky strands. He murmured softly into Arabel’s ear. “You’re a welcome sight this morning, Miss Arabel Spade,” Eli said, and Arabel instantly forgot all being annoyed.

  Shortly thereafter, the news of another discovered corpse hit the inquisitive patrons of the dining room and Arabel and Eli hastened to the murder site. Arabel rode Whipsie and Eli paired with Jovah. Arabel was pleased to see the bold black stallion again as they headed in the direction Mr. Hill provided.

  It was misty out and the air was close, rendering the horses a touch nervous. Arabel could fairly see the shimmer of The Corvids collective bated breath hanging expectantly in the air above them as they rode. They passed the bridge with the laughing stream and headed toward the far side of Magpie Moor, where St. Martin’s Bog lay.

  No one was exactly certain who St. Martin had actually been or why he had a bog named after him. Legend only spoke of a man’s dead body discovered one day at the bog with a silver chain bearing the name “St. Martin” adorning his body and little else. Locals decided to name the desolate place after the mysterious stranger and they buried him there with a slanted limestone slab bearing the name on the silver chain, unconcerned as to whether the man had actually borne that name or not.

  Quite likely it was the site of a murder which had gone un-investigated since the time before anyone had memory of. Arabel stared at the old, slanted limestone tombstone now, and at the fresh corpse to the right of it.

  The man who had tried to kill her energetically.

  Markers surrounded the body and a dozen or so people were already within the vicinity of the corpse. The gathered crowd appeared to be either working the perimeter, examining the dead man, gossiping about the horror of so much murder, or just plain getting in the way, with more avidly curious strangers arriving to view the proceedings every moment. Arabel spied Chief Constable Bartlin and Mayor Aldritch pushing through the growing crowd, making their way over to the cordoned-off corpse.

  Arabel quickly moved away from the front line and ducked behind Eli’s tall frame. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone who might report her appearance back to Amelia Bodean. It appeared that the dead man was indeed Indra Northrup; Arabel and Eli could hear everyone clearly speaking his name now.

  Arabel concentrated on the body. She reached in deep to feel its residual energy, the last existing waves of who Indra Northrup had been. She frowned.

  “What is it?” Eli queried, noting Arabel’s increasing agitation.

  “The dead man, he’s not the same person who tried to kill me. Not energetically, anyway. I can’t fathom how this could be possible,” Arabel spoke abruptly, consternation colouring her voice. Eli gazed back quizzically at her.

  Arabel turned away from Eli to stare intently once more at the corpse. “It’s him physically,” Arabel continued. “These are indeed the features of the man who tried to kill me, but – it’s not the same energy as the force that wants me dead.” Arabel was more than a bit perplexed. “This man, Indra, he was gentle. He wouldn’t have wanted to kill Alice-May. He loved her. I’m certain of it.”

  Arabel closed her eyes; she blanked out the sights and sounds around her. She moved her attention back, all the way back to the moment she’d been with Sylvious North, at the Copse, searching for clues. Arabel moved to the freeze frame in time when she’d first touched the ripped remnants of Alice-May’s black dress. The dress her despicable killer had bought her, the one he’d dressed her in so carefully so as to ensure that she would look extra lovely for him when she died.

  The punch in the gut took Arabel somewhat by surprise; the vehement hiss behind the dead cold calm of the blank grey eyes caused her to gasp in sudden fright. Arabel felt the blast of evil the same way she’d done before, she saw again the face of Indra Northrup and reluctantly revisited the sick knowing that he had indeed physically choked Alice-May Marpole to death.

  And then she heard the laugh. The harsh guttural laugh from the dream, the dream she’d been lucky enough not to have dreamt in the last night or so. Ira cawed loudly in response to Arabel’s sudden flow of fear and flew off of her shoulder in a vehement flap of protective indignation. Arabel’s eyes burst open, wild blue spheres, darting avidly everywhere, searching.

  The crow circled above them, cawing loudly. Calling to his mates or to the wind, Arabel was not certain. The laughter had abated and as Arabel carefully scanned the murder scene, she saw no one in the crowd resembling the men who’d tried to kill her in the recurring dream. Arabel didn’t know if the laugh had actually occurred out loud, or if had been an internal, psychic one, sent forth just for her to hear and be frightened by.

  “Did you hear that evil laughter?” Arabel asked Eli. He shook his head and took hold of Arabel’s hand, drawing her back to the present moment and the safety of his closeness.

  “We’re in this together,” Eli affirmed, leaning in closer to murmur against Arabel’s ear. “Tell me what troubles you.” His breath tickled her cheek and his hand squeezed hers tightly.

  Arabel adjusted to the colours she was now getting so used to seeing whenever they touched and she was at once reassured and the agitation within her lessened. Arabel squeezed Eli’s hand in response and they moved away from the jostling disaster seekers to their horses, a short distance away.

  “He murdered her. Choked her to death with his bare hands; I’ve seen it. He killed her, but not of his own volition; I’d wager everything on it,” Arabel reported fiercely.

  “That sounds about right,” Eli agreed unhappily. “You do mean possession, mass hypnosis, correct?”

  Arabel nodded grimly, her eyes drawn suddenly upward.

  The crows were back and some large ravens had joined them. Arabel and Eli watched in amazement as the mighty corvids taunted the vulture-ish crowd by swooping them, grabbing their hair, tossing it in their claws, and then joyously freedom-flying up so high in the sky as to become slight black dots, with only the echoing and nasally notes of their cries falling back down to the ground.

  “Danger!” the black birds seemed to be croaking. “Danger, danger!”

  Arabel shivered in the misty light. Death was all around her. It was closing in and she was no further in solving this crime than she had been before she’d felt its cold embrace. Arabel viewed Mr. Akings and Sully. They stood some distance away from the dead body of their loved one, leaning on one another, their sobs reduced to mere sniffles now as paralyzing shock set in and the auto matrons in their beings took over. The two men looked over the gathered crowd blankly, as if not understanding the reason for the commotion.

  Arabel turned away. “Let’s go home,” she said to Eli. Arabel knew they’d seen what they’d come to see. Now the interpretation of what it all meant lay ahead of them.

  Arabel wondered what had brought Mr. Akings and Sully to the Rosewood Inn to begin with. Were they with the other traveling salesmen she’d seen in the lobby, or had they come here specifically seeking Indra No
rthrup? Arabel wasn’t certain how long Indra had actually been missing.

  Did Mr. Akings and Sully know that Indra had killed Alice-May Marpole? Were they aware that their beloved friend and colleague was a killer?

  The grey energy descended unobtrusively and Arabel struggled internally as she fought the lingering sadness away from herself. It would incapacitate her, she knew, if she let it take hold of her emotions and penetrate her thought processes. Arabel was certain she would feel better once she was astride Whipsie, with the horse’s hooves flying underneath her and her dark haired love traveling beside her, deep within the green, lush privacy of the forest.

  Arabel fought the grey energy away; she swallowed the chalky bitterness within her mouth.

  “You will not win,” Arabel muttered under her breath once more, jumping onto Whipsie’s broad back, reflecting to herself that the words seemed to be fast becoming her mantra.

  Eli smiled at Arabel as Ira reappeared overtop their heads and let out a series of jubilant jeers that had them shaking their heads at the comically insolent bird. The mist cleared off in a faint burst of sunlight and Arabel felt lighter once again as they rode for home.

  A Penance Party for Naughty Girls

  Arabel’s homecoming was not ideal despite the lingering kisses, the tight embrace and the farewell whispers of love she’d shared with Eli by the back gate, hidden there from inquisitive eyes by the deep autumn shrubbery. When Arabel hesitantly turned the brass doorknob at the back door, Morna descended upon her immediately. The normally bland face of the housemaid was unusually drawn and she grabbed hold of Arabel’s arm to drag her upstairs immediately.

  “Come quickly now, miss, she’s on the hunt for you, she is!” Morna exclaimed, and they darted hastily up the back stairs without being seen and then dashed hurriedly into the sanctity of Arabel’s bedroom.

  Morna plucked at Arabel’s black cape. “Let’s get you into bed now! I’ve told her you took sick over at Miss Shelaine’s and you’re just getting in now. So let’s into bed with you straight-a-ways!”

  Arabel quickly undressed and put on her undershirt and nightgown as Morna turned down the sheets and placed a fresh basin of water on the dresser next to the bed. The maid looked at Arabel slyly once she had crawled into the soft comfort of the bed. Morna made a big show out of fluffing up the pillows extra thoroughly and pulling firmly upon the already straight coverlets.

  “Anything else, missy?” Morna asked now and Arabel knew the woman was certain she’d spent the night lustily cavorting with her young Gypsy lover and that any detail shared would be relished to the utmost degree of womanly satisfaction.

  “Nothing further just now, thanks, Morna,” Arabel replied brightly, much to Morna’s dismay. As the housemaid walked somewhat dejectedly toward the door, it suddenly burst open and Amelia Bodean stood in the doorway.

  “You’ve returned! Excellent!” Amelia Bodean spoke crisply to Arabel, whilst simultaneously eyeing her granddaughter critically with a puckered brow, and entering the room with a decidedly unbalanced swagger.

  “You’ll be staying in, now too,” Amelia Bodean continued, equally crisply and critically, “and from this moment forward, you will report only to me when you are leaving this house. I am your legal guardian and I am in charge of your well-being. Care you to comprehend this, young lady? Once and for all, understand this: you don’t inform the maids where you’re going, you answer strictly to me!” Amelia Bodean barked out this last as Arabel’s face dropped in dismay.

  How would she ever escape now?

  “Yes Grandmother, I understand and will obey your directive,” Arabel replied meekly as Amelia Bodean continued to peer down at her unrelentingly. Arabel hoped Morna was not going to be dismissed or reprimanded too severely. Arabel cast her eyes downward, seeking to escape, wishing herself away from the unblinking gaze of her grandmother as Amelia Bodean continued to stand ominously overtop the bed, staring down at her young charge.

  “It’s time you learnt the duties of managing a household. Your lessons begin tomorrow at six am sharp. You will report to my secretary, Mrs. Peyton-Peggison. I suggest you rest well this evening. You will be working manually, and very laboriously. Perhaps you might want to genuflect how your selfish and untrustworthy behaviour can be lessened and atoned for through the rigour of manual labour.”

  And then the lady of the house imperiously swept out of Arabel’s room holding her rum toddy high and her rigid back as straight as a drunken arrow. At the door, Amelia Bodean motioned for Morna to follow her from the room and she then exited as unexpectedly as she had entered.

  Arabel sighed. Morna looked back at her young mistress somewhat glumly as she made her way toward the bedroom door.

  “I’ll keep my post, and she best won’t remember this on the morrow,” the maid said, mustering hopefulness.

  “Let’s hope so,”, Arabel concurred, already thinking ahead to her new and decidedly unpleasant sounding agenda for the morning, dwelling particularly upon her grandmother’s secretary, Mrs. Peyton-Peggison.

  Florence Peyton-Peggison was a somewhat plain, tidily dressed and conservatively coiffed woman with chin length light brown hair and a pre-possessing, mousy manner which Arabel knew served to quite effectively hide a sarcastic and judgemental attitude. Arabel and the secretary had endured more than a few, more than slight, altercations, in the recent past, and Arabel knew the woman would relish any opportunity to force her into both physical exhaustion and mental submission.

  In the morning, however, the state of Amelia Bodean’s memory was the last item of importance concerning Arabel and Arabel was saved from the torturous expectations of Mrs Peyton-Peggison due to an urgent matter of ill-health. To the imminent dismay of all parties, it appeared that at some point during the long, frosty autumn night, Arabel had contracted a chill, and then, more worrisome indeed, a severe and incapacitating fever.

  Arabel awakened a mere few hours after dozing initially commenced to find that her feet and hands were like frozen ice blocks and every part of her skin was aching and sensitive, even to the slight weight of the sheet upon it. Arabel’s symptoms ruled one another out and she knew she would favour and appease as best as she could the chill, and somehow deal with the pain of the blankets upon her icy skin as she struggled toward the relief of warmth. Arabel’s throat felt papered with grit and dust. Her hands felt clumsy and her fingers would not bend as she willed them to.

  After braving an increased momentary chill, in order to replenish the wood for the faltering fire in the stone grate, Arabel thankfully climbed back in bed. She did her utmost best to ignore the various assorted pains and aches throughout her body as she piled thick and heavy blanket after blanket on top of herself. She was weakened and thirsty and it appeared as though a momentous weight had descended upon her chest, rendering deep breathing impossible. Arabel even thought once she heard the ‘death rattle’ sounding ominously from deep within her chest cavity.

  When Arabel returned to a fitful and restless sleep, the chill had not yet lessened. Her feet and hands felt frozen and she ducked her head under the bedclothes to warm her head and face, trapping her released breaths and sucking what little warmth she could out of them. Arabel was so chilled and uncomfortable that it appeared falling asleep was to be an impossible task.

  After what seemed an eternity, however, she did just that, but when she next awoke, Arabel was dismayed to learn she was now at the other end of the heat spectrum. She was now consumed by an all-encompassing, hotly raging, all-over-body-fever.

  The moment she became conscious of the inferno within, Arabel threw the cumbersome blankets back from the bed in a sick haste and stripped down to her thin undershirt, mopping her forehead, neck, and chest with a cool cloth from the basin beside her bed. This took all of Arabel’s ebbing strength as the fiery heat depleted her internal energy and she sank back against the pillows in a fever-induced delirium.

  Morna came in a few hours later to awaken Arabel and bring her a morning cu
p of tea and the maid became fairly hysterical upon finding her young mistress lying across the bed in a dazed stupor, undressed, hot to the touch, and talking rabid-sounding nonsense.

  The doctor was immediately fetched and Arabel subjected to a variety of unappealing physical tests. The elderly gentleman (whom Arabel generally despised as incompetent) relayed to Amelia Bodean and Morna that Arabel was suffering from dehydration and what appeared to most likely be a good, solid dose of a particularly vicious strand of the common flu. The doctor prescribed liquids and rest and cold compresses for the fever. He also recommended an ice bath, if needed, depending upon how long the raging fever persisted.

  Amelia Bodean was paranoid of fever. She’d lost her daughter, Violetta, to fever, and had inherited the keeping of Arabel when Arabel’s father, Patrick Edward Spade, had also succumbed to the deadly fire within the body. The very word ‘fever’ was a whispered one in the Johnston household and Arabel was therefore put under close watch.

  As the second day wore on into a haze-filled inferno of heat for Arabel, her grandmother ordered constant surveillance. Amelia Bodean herself sat with Arabel and placed cold compresses and ice upon her body for two consecutive over-night shifts before relinquishing her granddaughter’s care to Morna’s supervision, and then disappearing completely for the next two nights in an extended version of prayer circle.

  For many long, sickly, sticky, and uncomfortable days, Arabel was oblivious to both visitors and reality, and often muttered unprompted, largely incomprehensible phrases and words out loud. These were unintelligible half-sentences, which sounded intriguing but were never completed, much to the chagrin of Morna, who was still trying to figure out what had gone on with Arabel and her young handsome Gypsy suitor and was heartily listening for any available clue.

  Shelaine came to visit and Morna let her into the sickroom for only a moment or two on the fifth day of Arabel’s illness. The fever had broken slightly and Arabel was no longer rambling about red sunflowers and luscious Gypsy kisses. Arabel was in and out of wakefulness and awareness. Her skin still burned but her breathing had evened out. She was still far too warm to the touch and she could only stand to wear a short, summer-like shift despite the faint chill in the room.