by Sahara Kelly
Alwynne was paralyzed, fixated by his words—a mouse held by the power of a snake’s stare.
Randall ignored her. “Then I bit her. Right on her titssss. She sssscreamed a little and then moaned again. I suppossse it was the blood. I rather liked the taste of it.” He sighed. “She bit me back, you know. She was all fight and teeth. Trying to get at my cock, get it insssside her. Mad for it, she wasss. Really gave me one hell of a ride. But she was going too far. Anyway, when I ripped out her throat, she made this ssstrangely delightful gurgling noissse.” He looked at Alwynne, sharp and focused for a moment. “I fucked her as she died, you know. I filled her as the life faded from her eyessss.” He turned his head a little, making sure she saw his deformities. “I fucked her to death, Alwynne. I’d do it to you, but I don’t think it would be half ssso much fun.”
Alwynne spun on her heel and dashed from the bedroom. The vague hope that someone would catch her flickered through her mind as her vision filled with sparkling explosions, her limbs tingled to numbness and everything went dark.
*~~*~~*
Portia Fielding frowned as she shuffled a stack of old papers on the small side table. “I know it’s here.”
Inspector James Burke leaned back in his chair and grinned. He was only in his late forties and didn’t consider himself elderly, but he had developed a very strong fatherly kind of affection for this brave girl.
He’d seen her take on the role of Mary Jones, maid in the laboratories of Harbury Hall, and he’d watched her work her fingers to the bone. He’d been stunned when she’d killed a terrible villain by shooting the strange weapon she always wore around her forearm, even though she’d saved lives in the process.
And she had never relinquished the hope that she would someday discover the fate of her sister Miranda, whose disappearance had led to all these events in the first place.
Recently she’d shared an even more amazing discovery—that of Devon Harbury, the rightful heir to the Hall, who had been declared dead several years before.
According to Portia, his death was a figment of somebody’s overactive imagination, because Devon himself was alive and being held captive beneath the estate that should have been his.
Burke was inclined to believe her. She had met Devon, she told him, when she was younger. The Fieldings weren’t part of Court circles, by any means, but they were part of the respectable upper-class country aristocracy that formed much of the foundation of England. Honor and honesty still meant something to them as it did to Portia.
“Ah. This is it.”
The exclamation preceded her arrival beside his chair. She knelt and carefully spread a tattered document across his lap.
He blinked. “What on earth am I looking at?”
“Well the writing is a little faded, I’m afraid. But the best I could decipher was that this is part of a copy of some very much older drawings, originally done by someone who was involved in digging out the levels beneath Harbury.”
“Hmm.” He reached out to draw the lamp closer. “Bit blurred.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But you can make out the levels. And the drawing is not detailed, but does give the basic layout. Look here…”
She pointed out various features with which she was familiar. “Things have changed of course. I would guess this is probably close to a hundred years old, given the style of writing and the words I can make out.” She pursed her lips as she focused on the drawing. “Which would make the actual digging perhaps as much as two hundred years old.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment for that long ago.”
Portia nodded. “Indeed. But remember people have been building castles and massive abbeys for a thousand years. I suppose this was only a challenge because it was underground. Otherwise it would have been simple for the architects of the early seventeen hundreds…”
“Good point.” Burke agreed with her assessment. “What’s so interesting about this particular drawing?”
“Here. Look here.”
He registered the broken nail and the small blister on Portia’s knuckle as she pointed at a certain spot, but it was a passing observation as he realized what she was showing him.
“Good lord.”
“Yes.” She leaned back on her heels. “You see it.”
Turning the paper a little, he nodded. “It’s a small tunnel. Leads to the outside by the looks of it.” He turned to her. “An access tunnel?”
“Possibly. It’s small, so it might even have been a vent for the construction workers? I’m not sure.”
He turned the paper, made a few quick mental estimations, then turned it back again. “It should lead to the fourth level, I’d estimate.”
“That’s what I thought too.” She frowned. “I’ve been over and over that drawing and then I managed a quick surveillance of the area where it should be.” She sighed. “Nothing either underground or above ground that I could see. I suppose it must have been covered up years ago.”
“Is this end anywhere near where you said young Harbury is being imprisoned?”
“Yes.” Her eyes widened in excitement. “Yes, James, it is. Very close. His is the last room, or cell I should say, in the corridor. And I keep coming back to the same conclusion. That tunnel should arrive at the very end. Right next to where Devon is being held.”
Burke thought for a few moments, while Portia moved away and put another log on the fire. It was late autumn now—the nights were drawing in, and the steady rain had a sharp chill to it…a harbinger of the winter to come.
“Well, this is helpful, to be sure.” He rubbed his forehead absently. “But I cannot, for the life of me, think of a way to get at the tunnel without anyone noticing. That’s not exactly a tiny little out-of-the way cranny in the hillside, is it? Anyone walking past on the forest path would see it.”
She sighed and nodded her agreement. “I’ve been trying very hard to think of a solution. I wondered about planting a garden or something. Rose bushes. Apple trees. But I certainly couldn’t suggest such a thing. Maids simply don’t have that kind of influence. And the gardener would probably laugh me out of the greenhouse.”
“Agreed.”
“So what on earth is a good excuse to dig out a large bit of ground in the side of a private hill? What wouldn’t attract too much attention?”
“Let me think.” Burke cleared his thoughts and stared into the fire, focusing inward, rather than on the cheerful blaze that warmed the room.
Then it hit him and he snapped his fingers. “Got it.”
Portia straightened rapidly and stared across the table. “What? Tell me.”
“We need an archaeologist.”
She subsided. “Oh yes, right. I’ll just pop round the corner and get one, then, shall I?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Just think about it. It would work.”
“I suppose it would. But they’re not exactly thick on the ground, you know.”
“It needn’t be anyone out of the ordinary.” He followed his idea through. “Just someone with sufficient credentials to get a hole dug and then putter around for a week or so, not drawing any attention, and certainly not with any indications that the dig has actually gone a bit deeper.”
“Hmm.” Portia sounded thoughtful.
“Because when you think about it…” he warmed even further to the notion, “we wouldn’t need to dig up that much earth. If we could, in fact, find the tunnel quickly and it’s not too deep, then it’ll be clear sailing until the end where we’d have to break through somehow without causing a stir. The tunnel itself has already been dug.”
“It’s a bit of a long shot.” Portia glanced at him. “We’ve had a couple of explosions, as you well know. It’s highly possible some, if not all, of the darned thing has collapsed.”
“Well, we won’t find out until we try, now, will we?” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “From what you’ve told me, Portia, I think it’s worth it, don’t you?”
Portia
smiled and jumped up, crossing to his side and putting her hands over his. “Yes, James. To rescue Devon? Anything is worth a try. Thank you.”
Her face was alight with excitement. No doubt about it, she fancied herself in love with the chap. So they’d better free him in order that he, James, could assess this Devon’s worthiness of someone as special as Portia.
Her fingers tightened on his wrists. “Oh.”
“What?”
She released him and walked to the fire. “I think…” She whipped around on her heel. “Yes. James. I know exactly who we need.” Then she frowned. “If she’s still around.”
“You know an archaeologist?”
She shook her head. “Not really. She’s an antiquarian, I believe, and I know she has a couple of scholarly works to her credit. Some time ago, Papa invited her to the Chase. He’d just purchased some items that he’d been told were early Celtic artifacts and he wanted an expert opinion.”
“Aha. It’s a ‘her’?”
“Mrs. Charlotte Howell. A widow, I think. Older, certainly. If memory serves me, she specializes in excavations in England, although she’s traveled extensively. I do remember her showing me a very unusual necklace she wore. Said it was Egyptian, or Babylonian. It was very pretty.”
“And she lives hereabouts? In Little Harbury?”
“Well she did, as of a few years ago. Haven’t heard about her since then, so she must be living a quiet retired life. She had moved into Applewood Cottage and I don’t recall hearing anything about her moving out. You can bet quite a few guineas that if she had, it would have been all over the village and up to the Chase in less than twenty minutes. Nice little country house, about a mile on the other side of Little Harbury.”
“Would she do it, do you think? Help us?”
“I don’t know. I also don’t know if she could be trusted with our entire plan. But then again, I can’t very well go and ask her, given my current situation and role here as a maid. So, my dear clever Inspector, assessing her reliability and suitability will be your job. After all, that’s a lot of what you do, isn’t it? Character evaluation? That sort of thing?”
“Too smart for your own good, Missy.” He grinned at her. “Very well. Mrs. Howell will receive a visit from the inquiring Inspector Burke, who will then decide if the old lady is up to the challenge of sharing an adventure with you.”
“With us, James. There are two of us now. We’re invincible.” She danced to the fireplace once more and smiled.
“You’re invincible. I’m mature, and thus mortal.” He snorted.
He didn’t add that the entire suggestion seemed more than a little harebrained, and when it came to Harbury Hall…well, there was probably an element of danger to them all.
It was a sobering thought, but he knew he’d have to go visit the old antiquarian on the morrow, or Portia would never give him a moment’s peace.
He rose and walked to his sideboard, reaching for his decanter. A nice drop of single malt Scotch was definitely in order.
Chapter 2
“Damned sod.”
Eldon Granville paced the small parlor he shared with his cousin, St. John Somerly, correctly nicknamed Sinjun, and addressed him across the room. “If he hadn’t come in when he did…”
“And done what he did.”
“Yes, and done what he did, God help us all, we could have had so much more information about the vapor.” He snapped out the words as he thumped his fist onto a large pile of papers. “We need data, Sinjun. Lady Alwynne is sucking this stuff down like a piglet at the teat. We don’t know…”
“Easy old chap.” Somerly relaxed in his chair, feet stretched toward the small fire. They were on the first level beneath Harbury Hall and because of the terrain they were enable to enjoy the luxury of a fire and even a window high on the wall. At present it was covered with curtains, since night had fallen.
The two men were still dissecting the horror of the previous evening. Somerly counseled patience. “Look, we’re familiar with the constituents of the vapor. We know they’re pretty harmless when taken one by one.”
“I know.” Granville frowned.
“And we’ve learned that it’s only when we process the bloody stuff here, at Harbury, do we get the enhanced effects that keep Lady Alwynne looking like a lamb instead of mutton.”
“We’re really in the farmyard this evening, aren’t we? Piglets and mutton?”
“Don’t joke, Eldon. I’m serious.” Somerly leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “There’s something here, something in what we use for the process, that’s transmuting the vapors into that special blend. But we don’t know what, therefore we can’t control the effects.”
“Except to increase them. We can’t regulate them.”
“Exactly.”
Silence fell as they both digested the facts before them and tried to analyze what they knew.
“She was crazed, you know. Mad for fucking.” Somerly stared into the fire. “It was quite astounding.”
“She did get a solid couple of lungsful of the vapors. At least a quarter of the beaker, I’d guess.”
“Hmm. And it was undiluted. It certainly worked on one level. Anyone who would crave getting fucked by Randall Harbury has to be at an extremely elevated level of arousal. Or desperate need. Or complete insanity.”
“That’s an understatement.” Granville shuddered. “For a few moments I wasn’t sure who was the monster. The deformed man or the ravenous whore.”
“I just don’t understand why it should work so intensely here.” Somerly frowned. “Why all the effects are magnified by factors of hundreds, if not thousands.”
“Maybe it’s in the water,” offered Granville.
“We tried that when we started. Pure as the snow.”
“Shit.”
“Not that either.”
“Oh how funny.” The snarl that accompanied the comment belied the words. “I’m not joking, Sinjun.”
“You’re worried about Lady Alwynne?”
“Her? Hell no. I’m worried about us. I should utterly deplore being asked to leave. And,” he looked self-conscious, “my funds ain’t exactly thriving at the moment.”
“I wonder who would do that.”
“What?”
“Who would ask us to leave? Think about it,” said Somerly. “Who set you up here, and said it was all right for you to invite me as well?”
Granville let his mind wander around the question. Then blinked. “Well, actually, I’m not quite sure. It was a friend of a friend? Bunker Charleston passed the word to me that he’d heard there was laboratory space available at Harbury Hall and I should write to Lord Randall Harbury. I did, and here we are.”
“Yes, but did the invitation come from Harbury himself, or did he just approve it?”
“I have no idea. To be honest, I didn’t look too closely. It was a miraculous gift at a time when I wasn’t sure where I was going next. Honoring in the chemistry of gases at Oxford isn’t a guarantee of a well-paid position, you know.”
“That’s why I never finished,” grinned his cousin. “Although it helps to have a title. Even if there’s barely enough groats to feed the servants and keep the rain out of the old home.”
“Somerly Hall isn’t exactly a cottage, old chap. But that’s neither here nor there.” Granville resumed his pacing. “We’re not building ourselves a tidy fortune here, even though we’re making breakthroughs with our vapors every damned day. Shouldn’t we be selling it, or something?”
There was silence for a while after this question, as both men pondered the matter. A log cracked and spat sparks, making Granville jump.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” Somerly stroked his chin.
Granville stared, wondering what was going on in that rather devious and brilliant mind. He might have finished his Oxford degree, but it was a given that his cousin possessed more natural intelligence than any one man had a right to. His grasp of the most complex con
cepts was instantaneous and his memory prodigious.
There were no scholarly letters after his name, only a title before it, but Sinjun was responsible for some of the obscure intuitive leaps that had taken Granville’s sketchy formula for a mood-enhancing vapor and turned it into a magic inhalable elixir that created a sensual aura guaranteed to work on the opposite sex.
It shouldn’t have worked so well, but it did. Granville had spent long hours trying to uncover the reason why; thus far he’d failed. But since Lady Alwynne adored the vapor and blessed them both with gifts on occasion, he wasn’t going to complain about any irritating questions.
“So what’s your good idea?”
“We, old chum, need a couple of willing girls.”
“Again?” Granville swallowed. “After what happened last night, I confess my cock is a bit shriveled. It’s going to take at least a fortnight before I can forget those terrible things.”
Sinjun shuddered. “Agreed. But I’m not talking about for us. I have another idea. One that will, with luck, help us feather a rather nice and fancy nest, and then fill it with nest eggs. Enough to see us back in London in style.”
Granville glanced at Somerly’s face and realized in that moment how much his cousin yearned to regain his position in society. These days, one needed a sizeable pot of currency or some amazingly impressive invention to ensure one’s status.
Sinjun had a title, but as he’d joked, barely sixpence to scratch with. He’d had to withdraw from Oxford when his father had backed a misguided attempt to create a vehicle powered by cow manure. They’d lost almost everything and were still struggling to make those recalcitrant ends meet.
“If it’ll make us some of the ready, I’m all for it.” What else could he say? He was permanently out of guineas, so any scheme that would improve that situation had his full and enthusiastic support. His goals lay more toward the new world across the Atlantic, but he was certainly open to whatever ideas his cousin might put forth.
“Good chap.” Sinjun unfurled his lean body and stood. “Tomorrow I’m going to work on the details, and all you have to do is toddle down to Little Harbury and find us two nice girls.”
