But then someone screamed “They’re coming through the wall!” and she was running for the stairs with her sword in her hand.
It turned out to be a small hole—little more than a crack in the plaster just big enough for four broken, bloody fingers to wriggle into the drawing room. But it was going to get bigger.
“They’re scratching away the mortar between the building stones,” Mr. Bennet announced. “When they get enough of it out, they’ll be able to pull out the stones themselves.”
“And the walls with them,” Elizabeth said.
Her father nodded, then hacked off the wriggling fingers.
“Lizzy,” he said, “bring Lord Lumpley, Mr. Cummings, and Dr. Thorne to the front hall, if you would. Your sister Jane, as well, if she’s not with His Lordship. There’s a difficult decision before us, I’m afraid, and I’d prefer if it were made in council.”
Minutes later, there they all were, gathered before the main doors even as the dreadfuls outside kept knocking upon it in their clumsy, insistent way.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet said, “we are running out of time.”
He spoke loudly, obviously not just addressing the baron, the vicar, and the doctor but everyone scattered around the foyer and lining the halls nearby.
“Oh, my goodness! Running out of time, you say?” Lord Lumpley widened his eyes and slapped his hands to his round cheeks. “Whatever could make you jump to such a conclusion?”
“If it’s the food supply you’re thinking of, Mr. Bennet, I’ve an idea about that,” said Dr. Thorne. (It was fitting that he should bring up food, actually, as his blood-smeared surgeon’s apron made him look like a particularly sloppy butcher. Which, in a way, is what he was.) “We’ve actually got all the meat we could possibly need, if we just looked at it as the dreadfuls do. At least a dozen of my patients died of shock after I removed a tainted limb, and of course I immediately took the next step and removed their heads, as well. The plague won’t take hold in them—so why just toss the bodies out a window?”
“Wh-what? You can’t possibly m-m-mean—!” Mr. Cummings blubbered. He’d lost his Book of Common Prayer in a tussle with an unmentionable and had taken, for the sake of comfort, to clutching a book he’d picked at random from the baron’s library: Justine, or Good Conduct Well Chastised by the Marquis de Sade. “It’s unnnnnnnnthinkable!”
The doctor shrugged. “If it’ll keep me from starving to death, I’ll do more than think it.”
“It’s not actually starvation I was thinking of, Doctor,” Mr. Bennet said. “We have another, more immediate problem.”
A look of discomfited surprise came over Dr. Thorne of the type that’s common among people who find that the previous minute’s conversation should be, and would if it could be, unspoken.
“Oh?” he said limply. “Do tell.”
Mr. Bennet obliged, explaining that the dreadfuls were capable of taking the house apart stone by stone and had, in fact, begun to do so. Many gasped at the news, and Mr. Bennet paused a moment, waiting for their clamorings and murmurs to fade before carrying on again.
“They will get through. It is inevitable. So, as time is not on our side, nor are numbers, we must press the last advantage we have.”
Lord Lumpley scoffed. “I wasn’t aware we had any in the first place.”
“I believe the advantage my father alludes to doesn’t apply equally to all of us,” Elizabeth said, and she quoted an observation Dr. Keckilpenny had once made to her about the unmentionables: “They’re thick as bricks.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “We can safely assume they have no idea how many people are in this house. If we let them overrun it—or think they’ve overrun it—they might well wander off again never knowing they left survivors behind.”
“And where will these supposed survivors be?” Dr. Thorne asked. “Hiding in the cupboards?”
“Something like that.” Mr. Bennet turned to the baron. “Tell me—how extensive is your wine cellar?”
“Vast. I have the largest selection of clarets, ports, and brandies in the Home Counties.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” Mr. Bennet said.
Belgrave appeared at his master’s side as if stepping out from behind a mote of dust. “The cellar has been permanently sealed. Remember, My Lord?”
“What do you mean, it’s been sealed?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“It flooded,” said Belgrave.
“It caved in,” said Lord Lumpley.
One or the other might have been believed if they hadn’t spoken at the same time—and if someone else hadn’t spoken up, as well.
“It did nothing of the kind!” declared a woman guarding the front doors. She was a stout old cook from the baron’s own kitchens, and in one hand she held a frying pan splattered with brains and chips of bone. “The cellar was always kept under lock and key, but the other day someone broke down the door. That’s why his nibs there had it boarded up. Flood. Ha!”
“When was all this?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“Why, right after that Z-O-M-B-Y got into the house.”
“Belgrave, sack this woman at once,” Lord Lumpley said.
“You are dismissed, Mrs. Hutchinson.”
“Ho! Like I care now!” The cook looked over at Mr. Bennet while waggling her pan at Belgrave. “Always it was this one alone who was allowed down there, and then all of a sudden the cellar’s shut up altogether? And kept that way even with a swarm of bogies at the door and no better place to hide? If you ask me, there’s something tricksy about the whole thing.”
“She’s right!” one of the baron’s dressers called out.
“Ask them why the cellar’s sealed!” added another.
“Ask why the door was broken down!”
Other servants joined in with “Yes!” and “Ask them!”
“What is this, the damned French Revolution?” Lord Lumpley roared. “Mind your place!”
Belgrave looked like he wanted to slip behind another mote of dust.
“I’m with them,” a man said, and as he stepped into the entrance hall, a dozen hushed voices whispered his name.
Jonathan Ward.
Emily Ward’s father.
“What’s in the cellar . . . My Lord?
“Or is it more a question of who?” Elizabeth said. She wasn’t looking at Mr. Ward or Lord Lumpley or Belgrave. She was looking at Jane.
Her sister was standing just behind and to the right of the baron, still playing the faithful bodyguard, staying true to their father’s pact with the nobleman even after all they’d been through. On her face now, however, was a look of horror equal to the one she’d worn when she first saw Emily Ward dragging her rotting carcass from the water.
Another monster was being revealed to her: the one directly before her. And she wasn’t the only one seeing it for the first time. A wave of angry mutters and exclamations of dismay spread first through the foyer then down the halls along each wing, until it seemed the whole house was abuzz.
“This conversation has become highly insulting, not to mention utterly insane,” Lord Lumpley said.
Mr. Bennet shook his head sadly. “Once again, I find I am a fool. I ascribed to mere lechery what should have suggested a far deeper flaw. In your case, a deeper evil.” He turned to Mr. Ward. “I examined your daughter’s body the day she . . . returned. I would prefer to say this privately—or not at all, ever—but I think it should be known: Emily Ward was with child when she died. I didn’t get to see the girl dreadful who attacked my daughter here the other night—it was burned before I could do so. But I suspect I would have found her condition the same as poor Miss Ward’s.” He pointed an unblinking stare at Belgrave, and with his cocked head and cold eyes, he took on the look of a bird of prey watching something soft and furry scurrying through the grass. “And I presume there were others? Buried down in the cellar before you simply started throwing them in the lake?”
“This is madness!” Lord Lumpley bellowed.
Belg
rave edged away from him, mumbling under his breath.
“What was that?” Mr. Bennet demanded, taking a step toward him. “Pray, speak up!”
“He told me to do it,” Belgrave said, jerking his head at the baron. “Whenever another one popped up to make trouble.”
“What rot! I never told you to kill anyone!”
“You said to get rid of them. Permanently.”
“Yes! Exactly! That’s not kill, is it?”
“You knew.”
“I most certainly did not! I just knew they stopped pestering me.”
“Yes—until the next one came along. There was always a next one.” Belgrave glanced past the baron. At Jane. “There always would be. You couldn’t help yourself.”
Elizabeth could hear no more. She moved toward Lord Lumpley not knowing if she intended to simply strike him or break his neck, though either would be preceded by the Fulcrum of Doom.
Mr. Ward started stalking the baron’s way at the same moment.
“They’ve lost their minds!” Lord Lumpley cried. “Jane—protect me!”
He took a step back, starting to put himself behind his guardian angel. He was stopped by something long and straight and slick red that shot from his body just above the pelvis.
It was a katana, coated with blood. The blade jerked upward, into the baron’s belly, then zigzagged down again.
Lord Lumpley blinked.
“Jane . . .?”
Then he slid forward off the sword and was dead before he hit the floor.
Though the zombies kept moaning and banging away outside, every living thing was hushed and still. Only Jane made any noise, first with her heavy breathing, then the moist shhhhhhhhhhh as she slid her katana back into its scabbard.
The silence was finally broken by a smattering of uncertain applause.
“I don’t th-think that waaaaas c-called for,” Mr. Cummings said, but the clapping just grew a little louder.
The only other dissenting voice belonged to Jane’s own mother, who’d let loose with a disappointed “Ohhh!” as the favorite of all her daughters’ suitors was carved up like a roast duck.
Belgrave, of course, had a less than enthusiastic reaction, as well: He simply started running. He seemed to have lost his senses, for he dashed toward what looked like solid wall—part of the paneling that ran along the underside of the staircase. When he reached it, however, a section of it slid back at his touch, revealing a black passageway into which he started to disappear.
There was a series of raps in quick succession—thup-thup-thup — and the tails of Belgrave’s topcoat were pinned to the wall by three throwing stars.
“La!” Lydia snorted from across the hall. “I knew these silly things would come in handy sooner or later!”
Mr. Bennet grabbed Belgrave by the shirt collar before he could shrug free of his sleeves and escape.
“A secret passage, eh? Would there be more of these?”
“Oh, yes, Sir!” Mrs. Hutchinson said. “All through the house. We weren’t supposed to know about them, but we used to hear Belgrave and His Lordship slinking around in the walls like rats.”
“Capital, capital,” Mr. Bennet said. “Belgrave, you have just won yourself a temporary reprieve. Mary, Kitty, Lydia—if you would be so good as to find the cellar and tidy it up in whatever way you find necessary. Elizabeth—you might want to attend to your elder sister. She’s looking a touch peaked.”
Indeed, Jane was staring at her handiwork—filet de noble—looking pale. Elizabeth hurried to her side expecting to arrive the same moment as the inevitable tears. Yet Jane’s eyes, though wide and full of confusion, remained dry.
“I was beginning to believe he actually cared for me . . . that perhaps he wasn’t the scoundrel you made him out to be. How could I have been so very, very wrong?”
“He thought he could take advantage because you have a good heart.”
“Had a good heart, perhaps.” Jane nodded at the baron’s crumpled, bloody form. “People with good hearts don’t do things like that.”
“Oh, Jane—your heart is still good. It’s just that it’s strong now, too. Hardened. Armored.” Elizabeth took her sister by the hand. “The heart of a warrior.”
Jane looked into Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Yes,” she said, speaking in the firm, unwavering way of someone making a vow. “And nothing shall ever pierce it again.”
“Ummm . . . should I have that beheaded and taken up to one of the windows?” a maid asked meekly, pointing at her former employer. “It might keep some of the unmentionables happy for a moment or two.”
“Breach! Breach!” someone shouted from the south wing.
Jane and Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet all started toward the sound of the call, but they weren’t needed: A cluster of men and women jumped in together to hack and slash at the zombie soldier trying to wiggle its way through a fresh gap in the plaster. Within a few seconds, the dreadful was in pieces and the hole in the wall blocked off with an upended chest of drawers.
“You were right, Father,” Elizabeth said. “We can’t keep them out forever.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “The time has come, I think, to stop trying.”
CHAPTER 37
FIRST, THE THREE YOUNGEST Bennet girls had to clear the wine cellar of its dreadfuls. (There were two still squirming like worms from the packed-dirt floor, their progress slowed by the quicklime that had apparently eaten away most of their connective tissue.) Then it was time to clear the wine cellar of both its wines and its many rows of wine racks—all of which proved excellent fodder for zombie bombardment once it was hauled up to the second floor. After that, the packing began.
They started with the walls. The house, it was quickly discovered, was a Swiss cheese of secret passages and hidden vaults. With Belgrave’s reluctant help—which turned quite a bit less reluctant whenever Jane was in the vicinity—dozens of people were soon tucked away out of sight.
Which meant there were that many fewer to fight back the unmentionables breaking through. And there were steadily fewer still as more and more people were sent into the cellar to join the children and the elderly and the wounded already there. Eventually, there was no one left guarding the windows and doors at all, and the cellar was stuffed wall to wall.
“Time for you to go in, too,” Mr. Bennet said to his daughters. “Seal the door from the inside, as we discussed, and I’ll put the false wall in place out here. It won’t be pleasant down there in the dark, I’m sure, but the air holes should—where do you think you’re going?”
Lydia and Kitty were hurrying off down the hall, toward the sound of splintering wood and phlegmy moans.
“Our friends from outside are letting themselves in a trifle early!” Lydia called over her shoulder.
“We’ll just go and ask them to wait!” Kitty added.
They were drawing their swords as they darted around a corner.
“There’s no time for that now!” Mr. Bennet called after them.
“Well, there’s a little more time than you might have thought,” Elizabeth said.
“We’re not going down there, you know,” said Jane.
Mary hefted one side of the wood panel that had been hastily fitted to hide the landing before the cellar door. “This is really quite heavy, Papa. Together on the count of three . . .?”
Mr. Bennet looked at her, then Jane, then Elizabeth, and despite the bags under his eyes and the deep sadness within them, he seemed to be on the verge of cracking a smile. And perhaps he would have, if a familiar voice hadn’t called out from the darkness below.
“Mr. Bennet! You march those girls in here this instant!” Mrs. Bennet demanded. “You’re not going to leave me down in this filthy hole all alone!”
“Did you hear that?” one of the maids grumbled from under the stairs, where she stood stuffed in with the rest of the household staff. “The silly cow thinks she’s all alone.”
“Farewell, Mrs. Bennet. I . . .”
Whatev
er Mr. Bennet had been about to say went unsaid, and he instead stomped down the steps, met his wife at the bottom, and kissed her. Then he turned and marched back out of the attic, leaving Mrs. Bennet sobbing in the arms of her sister Philips.
When he reached the landing again, he couldn’t meet his daughters’ gazes: For once, he was the one blushing and looking away.
“Come now, all together,” he said, grabbing one side of the false wall. “One . . . two . . . lift!”
There was a distant clatter of boards falling to the floor just as he and the girls got the panel in place, and an otherworldly yowl echoed through the halls.
“That would be in the north wing, by the sound of it,” said Mr. Bennet. “Jane, run along and greet the new arrivals, hmm? I’ll join you shortly. Mary, go see what’s keeping Lydia and Kitty. And you—”
He turned toward Elizabeth and took in a deep breath as her sisters darted away. It almost seemed as if he was waiting for them to get out of earshot.
“We will be retreating to the attic at the first opportunity,” he said. “It is essential no unmentionables see us go up there, so it’s difficult to say when that opportunity might arrive. Hopefully, it will be a matter of minutes. When we get there, we will lock the door behind us and hope for the best. There can be nothing in that attic that might give us away, however. Even the slightest disturbance would spell our doom.”
“So Dr. Keckilpenny’s captives—”
“Must be dealt with. And I thought it best that you do the dealing.”
“Of course, Father. It will be done.”
Mr. Bennet nodded just once, wordless, and headed for the north wing. Elizabeth went to the stairs.
She was barely aware of the steps under her feet, and the grunts and thumps and hammering from the halls below went unheard. All she could think of was Dr. Keckilpenny and what she could—and couldn’t—say to him.
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