by Hall, Ian
“Ah, my boy,” I glanced back at Reggie, thinking he’d hidden himself. “He was nervous.”
“He has no cause to be.”
“We’re from London; he’s not used to the country quite yet.” I took my cap from my head. “Forgive me, the name’s Sandy MacNeill” I used mother’s abbreviation, thinking Alexander too posh-sounding for my present attire.
“Indeed.” The man said, looking at me intently. He seemed to come to a decision, and closed the gap to the gate, holding his hand out to the bars. I reached inside, shaking his thin bony grip. “My name is Francis Varanelli,” he stared into my eyes as he spoke. “My father was Hungarian, we came here from Moribor.”
“Ah,” I managed. My mind reeled; once more the character had jumped from the page into real life. I wondered when it would stop. “These places, so foreign, so strange to me,” I pulled my hand from his strong grip, and retreated it back through the bars.
“And yet your own tongue is also strange,” he touched the wall and the gate’s latch clicked open. “Will you take a glass of refreshment with me?”
And in minutes, the horse had been tied to the gate, and I sat on the lawn, a cool wineglass almost drained, my head giddy with the sun and the alcohol.
Count Francesco Varanelli
I looked around the well-groomed lawns around Ratford Abbey. “So your title, it comes from your father?” I asked, the second glass of wine loosening my lips.
Sat opposite me, in a wicker chair the Count grinned. “It is a family title, hereditary, yet holds little worth in your country. My father’s grandfather was appointed for services to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I do not announce it on first meeting with strangers.”
“And you simplify your first name, just as I do.”
“Indeed,” he sipped his wine slowly. “I find Alexander much more interesting.” A short silence began between us. “So, to your goal of Chessington.”
“Ah, yes.” I made to rise, but he pressed the wine bottle to my glass and I could not refuse the vintage. “I have friends who ride near here. I wish to join them for the weekend.”
“And they live in Chessington?” his question was delivered with much skepticism.
“We are to meet in the tavern this afternoon,” I mused for a moment, as if trying to recall the tavern’s name.
“The Admiral’s Arms,” he quickly interjected, “For there is but one.”
“The very same.”
“It is only a mile from here, you will make your rendezvous in plenty time.” He leaned back in his chair. “Who is it you seek?”
“James Rymer,” the name was out of my mouth before I could think, obviously lubricated by the third glass of wine. “He is out here for the weekend.” But there seemed to be little or no recognition in the name. He shook his head, his eyes closed, and seemed on the verge of falling asleep. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Count Varanelli,” I set the glass firmly on the small glass-topped table that separated the chairs, “but I must be off if I should reach the Admiral’s Arms.”
He shook himself awake, yet did not rise. “Of course, of course, young Alexander. You must come for dinner one evening, perhaps this evening?” When I began to protest, he held his hand firmly between us. “Bring your friend, I have plenty. We eat at seven? Most excellent.”
And as I walked across the lawn, I could not for the life of me believe I had agreed to such a proposition. As I was just six feet from the closed gate, I heard the mechanism click, and waved thanks to my new friend.
Meeting Reggie lying in the grass just beyond the rise, I beckoned him over.
“You took your time,” he said, a cheeky grin on his face.
“Three glasses of the finest wine with Count Francesco Varanelli.”
“I hate the country,” he said, falling in step beside the horse. “There’s too many creepy-crawlies everywhere.”
“It is the country.” Was all I could manage in my hardly-concealed amusement.
“An’ it’s so noisy, but quiet at the same time.”
We approached Bannerworth Hall once more, riding through the same thicket, but again found no movement outside the house. After an hour’s afternoon observation, feeling somewhat dejected, we made our way back to the Admiral’s Arms to find a crowd already gathering for their evening meal. Again I found a table in the corner, having no need to seek company. I sent Reggie to the stable, as the crowd seemed more ‘upper crust’ than the previous evening, perhaps travelers from London like me, seeking solace from the busy city.
A stout man approached, an apron pulled tight across his midriff. “Beg pardon, sir, but would ye share your table?” I obviously gave him some look of confusion at his request. “We’re getting full, see? Dinner be served at five.”
Although I felt no desire for company, I felt obliged to agree to his request and immediately an elderly couple sat next to me.
“Alderman Beecham,” the man introduced himself. “This is my wife, Gertrude.”
I stopped my own name at my lips, then shot my hand forward. “Eh… Alex Harding.” I lied, hopefully with conviction.
It transpired from our opening conversation that the man was a half-retired doctor from Wellington’s Spanish campaigns, and despite my initial reservations at their arrival at my table, the pair did make quite a companionable couple. What did interest me was their twenty-year residence in the area.
“I passed a few larger houses on the way here.” I said, following their own admission. “Just to the north of the village, do you know their histories?”
“Which ones, there are quite a few?”
“Oh, a red-brick one, although not much else could be discerned over its tall garden wall.”
“Horton House!” Gertrude offered, “For there can be no other to fit the bill.”
“Ah yes,” Alderman confirmed. “The old Dalworth place.”
“Dalworth?” I asked.
“It got sold just a few years back, in the late thirties.” Alderman continued, “Just the damndest thing at the time. Old lady Dalworth had the most atrocious luck; lost her grown son and daughter in the same year, consumption it was. I treated them both, wasting away for almost a year.” I had inadvertently struck gold, and determined to press for more detail, but I need not have worried; Alderman Beecham was more than capable of continuing without encouragement. “Young Nora Dalworth was a beauty in her time too, turned many young heads in the area, especially young Olland.”
I could hardly believe my good fortune, these people knew the girl I had re-named Flora.
“Granville Olland,” Gertrude confirmed.
Now changed to Holland, I thought.
“Yes, that was his name.” Alderman nodded emphatically, his loose jowls flapping as he did so. “I never did find out what happened to him. But the Dalworths took to London, so I heard, made quite a name in the city.”
“Who has the property now?” I pressed onward.
“A self-made man from the city,” Alderman said, “Not that he uses it much; it sits empty most of the time. Shame really.”
I made to ask more, but found my sleeve being shaken by a somewhat agitated Reggie. “The horse, sir,” he pulled at my arm, trying to haul me to my feet. “He’s showin’ signs, sir, you better come see him!”
“Signs of what, Reggie?” I asked, irritated at his interruption.
But the boy refused to let go, almost pulling me out of my chair. “You have to see it, sir!” he snapped.
Making my apologies to the Beecham’s I allowed myself to be hauled towards the back entrance. “This better be important!”
“Oh, it is.” He stopped inside the darkness of the corridor and turned. “See?”
I looked back to see Uncle James and Thomas Prest enter the tavern. “Oh my God.”
“I seen ‘em comin’,” Reggie announced, his confident, assured grin was infectious. I watched from the shadows as they were led to a table and sat down, then afraid of discovery, I moved through the build
ing to the courtyard at the rear.
“That was a close thing,” I said once outside.
“What now?” Reggie asked.
I looked up into the dimming sky. “We go to Bannerworth Hall.” I said with confidence. “We walk, no sense in taking the horse, he might give us away.”
By the time we had arrived at the gates to the walled garden, the sky had darkened significantly, and with a catch in my breath, I slowly opened the gate. The metal structure swung silently inwards on well-oiled hinges, and I swear I could hear my heartbeat over the insect noises of evening.
Inside, the gravel path had been well worn for years, and gave little sound as we walked towards the house. “The balcony!” I hissed, pointing to the low arrangement of pillars and overhanging brickwork. As we neared the building, I became aware of the faint light from within, shining through curtained windows. Soon we stood under the veranda and it took little effort to climb between the balcony and the wall, the brickwork afforded much grip, and in seconds I was fifteen feet up, standing on the very balcony that Varney had stood on. I trembled with excitement.
I heard Reggie scramble behind me, and I took the two paces to the large door-sized windows, and pulled on the frame. Incredibly one moved under my touch, and I pulled outwards. I soon looked into the bedroom of Flora Bannerworth. There was a movement behind me, but I gave it little thought as I crossed the threshold, walking slowly into the dark room.
To my shock and surprise, I found Flora’s bed occupied, albeit by a figure laying upon it rather than tucked under covers. I gasped, my hand rising involuntarily to my mouth. I had come inside to find information, but found myself in the very first pages of the Varney book. My hand moved from my face, and even in the darkness I could see my fingers trembling, shaking with excitement.
I tried to make out details of the figure on the bed, but the room seemed unnaturally dark, no light seemingly coming from the window whatsoever. I stepped forward, now conscious of my footfalls on bare floorboard, and the creaking which accompanied them. Soon my knees touched the bed, and I leaned over the slumbering figure to find a young woman, perhaps in her twenties, but if so not by much. Her face was turned away from me, but in profile she was a slim, attractive creature, her lips slightly parted as she breathed slowly.
I had read the first Varney chapter so long ago, but now it came so strongly into my mind, Varney, now poised over her body, just as I was, I lifted my hand to her neck, running my fingers along her alabaster skin, feeling the blood surging through her arteries, so close to the surface. I opened my mouth and gasped at the cloud of milky white breath that coursed over her sleeping form; the room could not possibly be so cold. Slowly my mouth opened, and I felt an unholy compulsion to kiss her, to bite her neck, to ravage her. I could hear my breath become a rapid panting, almost animalistic in nature.
Then, just as soon as it had dawned on me, the feelings passed; I had never felt so base in my entire existence, and it did not sit well with me.
Suddenly I glanced upwards at the closed door to the room. A light began to appear near the floor, and rapid footsteps approaching. Instinctively I fell to the floor behind the bed, pushing myself against floorboards. I tried to push myself under the bed, my head near its foot, but the space below was not enough for me. My head was full of sounds, my heart beating, my lungs forcing my breath at an incredible rate.
I had fallen to the floor in the nick of time. Looking under the bed I could see the door opening, and the quick approach of a woman’s feet, shod in short boots.
I had seen the style before; Lady Clara!
“Kitty?” She neared the bed. “Kitty, dear, it is time you rose.”
I could hardly believe the form on the bed had been my Kitty, she had looked so different in the dim lighting. I could feel the shaking of the bed above me. “Time already?” Kitty asked, her voice still full of the deep sleep she had been awakened from.
“Yes, dear. Now come on, you know you must.” Another pair of feet landed on the floor beside the first, and I heard a kiss. “Good girl. The men will be back from the village soon. Go get ready for them.”
“Yes Aunt Clara.”
And one set of feet moved away and out of the room. I lay in silence, yet Clara’s feet remained in place. I heard the sound of sniffing.
“You can come out into the open now.”
I froze, my breath caught in my constricted throat, my fear raised beyond anything I had ever experienced before.
“Come on, why be so bashful?” Clara said, and moved slowly round the bed, her heels clipping loudly on the wooden floor. In two more footsteps, she would surely see me. “Why stay in hiding? I know you are here. I can smell you, I can hear you, and I can hear your heart beating.”
One more footstep.
I tensed for my discovery, poised to rise to my feet.
“I guard her.” I almost gasped at the new male voice.
“Count Varanelli.” Clara said, her progress halted. “You surprise me. It is unlike you to take such a keen interest.”
“These are new times, my dear, I merely guard her.” I now watched the man walk from the shadows of the dark curtains. I wondered if he had been there from the instant of my invasion. “We have a common cause here.”
“Indeed.” As the Count approached, she accepted him into her arms and they embraced with such passion as I had never seen before, hungrily devouring each other’s mouths, their faces pushed violently together. A moment later, he released her, pushing her reluctantly away. “We had good times, you and I.” He wiped his lips with a dark sleeve.
“We did,” Clara began to walk backwards towards the door, her body breathed heavily, her wonderful bosom rising and falling at a rapid rate. “And perhaps we can again.”
“You have your mission,” The count said. I could see no expression on his face, yet his tone held a certain sadness. “I have mine.”
Lady Clara gave no answer, and left the room, closing the door behind her. I lay, frozen in place, hiding in the darkness, waiting on the Count to leave.
“You can get up now, Mister MacNeill.” He said gently. “For it seems I have something to say to you.”
~ ~ ~
“Consider this a warning,” the Count began. We stood near the main Plymouth Road, on the outskirts of Chessington village. We had walked the distance in silence, my own questions stifled by the guilt of being found trespassing. I had not seen Reggie since I opened the bedroom window, and I assumed he had high-tailed it when I had gotten into my troubles. “The Willoughby family are an old and distinguished English line, but they hold secrets. I’m not talking of skeletons in cupboards, I’m talking deep, dark secrets that would spoil a young man like yourself. If I had not interjected myself tonight, you would have lost your very soul. Do you understand me?”
I shook my head, for indeed he had been so ambiguous, holding no details at all. “I know naught of what you speak.” I said, almost pleading him to tell me everything.
“Then I will make myself more clear.” I could hear his voice firm, could imagine the serious look on his face. “Lady Clara Willoughby is a murderer, she is a woman of little conscience, and if she had caught you in her ward’s bedroom, your cold body would have been under the sod of Horton House by sunrise. Now do you see the gravity of my words?”
“How can you know this?” I asked, scarcely able to let the significance of his words sink in.
“I have been a long friend of the family.” The Count’s tone had softened. “I have witnessed it myself. Her husband, Sir Arthur turns his head away, but he knows her ways and puts up with them; the Lady Clara has her attributes.”
“Yes,” I mused, rubbing my chin. “She is quite the character.”
“Goodbye, my friend,” he started to walk off.
“Wait!” I cried all too loudly, for my voice rang out in the silence.
“Go back to London, Alexander Mair MacNeill,” he said with a low bow, walking backwards as he did so. “Go back tomorrow
.”
I checked the stables when I returned to the Admiral’s Arms, thankfully finding Reggie fast asleep in his cot. I had a lot to think about on finding my own bed. The feelings of lust I had towards the woman on the bed, so convinced I was looking at Flora Bannerworth. The timely intervention of Count Varanelli, and my utmost terror at the approach of the beautiful Lady Clara. To my annoyance, I fell asleep almost immediately.
The courtyard on Sunday morning was busy, the tavern’s stable-hands pulling horses of every shape and colour into the earthen circle, being snapped up by both men and women alike. I found Reggie, and between the two of us, we got most of the gear onto my mount. One of the stable-boys insisted on checking it before we left, but pronounced our work good.
As we rode out onto the Plymouth Road, I heard horns being sounded, and the wailing of dogs. “A fox hunt.” I said turning my head back to Reggie who sat behind me. “That’s the cause of all the commotion in the stables this morning.”
We had hardly ridden half a mile when a fox darted out of the hedgerow at the side of the road. I pulled on the reins by instinct, and the horse stopped. To my surprise, the fox halted also, and stood for a second or two in the center of the road, looking up at me. I sat transfixed by its stare for a moment, then it was gone, darting through the hedge on the other side.
Looking to our right, I saw the pack of dogs approaching, and spurred my horse into motion, hoping to get out of the way of the chase. The look of the fox had brought back so many memories of the foxes in London that I rode for a while in silence.
We were well north before I broached the subject of the night before. “What happened to you, Reggie? One minute you were behind me, then you vanished.”
We rode for some significant time before he spoke. “I dunno, sir. It was the damndest thing. I watched you go inside, then I felt kinda dizzy, you know? Then I woke up in my cot. I kinda thought I’d fainted, and you’d carried me home. I felt embarrassed even mentioning it.”
