by Mae Ronan
“But Mother – just a little piece more! Oh, please, Mother! I’m so very hungry!”
“Quiet!” barked Mr Eaves. “You’ll have nothing more tonight, Christopher. You may drink only a cup of tea, if you would like it.”
Christopher made a face; and disappeared back down the hall.
“Well, Christopher?” said Korbes finally. He was growing impatient. “Where is the lovely Gwen this evening? I have neither seen nor heard her; and there is not much good comes of hiding in this house, no matter how you try.”
“She is visiting a friend, I think,” replied Mr Eaves, who had taken up his paper again.
“At this time? In the dark?”
“She is an able young woman,” said Eaves flatly. “I’ve never known her yet to lose her way – dark or no.”
“Oh – that’s not what I mean at all!” exclaimed Korbes. “But a pretty girl like her – walking the streets near to nine o’clock! Do you not worry what could happen, Christopher?’
“On Bering Street?” asked Eaves doubtfully.
“Of course, on Bering Street! One street is as bad as the next, Christopher.”
Mr Eaves made no response here. He had forgotten for the moment about Gwen; and was busy assuring himself that there was indeed a difference, between good old Bering Street, and the rather more fearsome Anders Street. Certainly, no one would think of going there in the dark. Or, if they did – they must surely have already shown some signs of being weary of this life.
Korbes saw that Eaves was not overly prone to communicative conversation this night; and so he only sighed, and laid his head back. He folded his hands over the cold buttons of his waistcoat, and looked for a little at the shadows on the ceiling, cast up from the licking flames of fire in the grate.
It was a quarter to ten, when the door finally opened. Mr Eaves had finished with his paper, and was dozing beside the fire. Mrs Eaves had completed her tidying of the kitchen, and put young Christopher to bed. She sat with a cup of tea at the table, and was beginning to nod off. Korbes was the only one full awake; and so nearly jumped up at the sound of the creaking door, to welcome Gwen home.
“Gwen!” he cried. “How lovely to see you. Out late tonight, I see!”
The young woman made no obvious attempt to suppress her frown. Instead she only turned away from Korbes. She went to the kitchen hearth, and reached back to pull a bowl of stew from the hob, which her mother had set aside for her supper.
Before we go any farther – perhaps it would be best to tell you a little more about Jonah Korbes. He was a dark-looking man, quite dark all over, and was sometimes mistaken for an Italian or a Spaniard. Yet he was wholly an Englishman, raised in the quiet country, and moved to London as his – profession, began to thrive.
Jonah Korbes was the quintessential con-artist. He was, if you would know, a truly despicable fellow (or so most of his acquaintance would swear). His meat and drink lay in efficient scamming; and his high featherbed was the result of years of shameful dishonesty. Nothing about him was as it seemed. Just as you thought you had your best sights upon him, and prepared yourself for the ultimate betrayal, so that you might better deflect the blow – still you were deceived.
Remember this.
But never in all their years of friendship had Korbes attempted to swindle Christopher Eaves. With him, there seemed always a sort of invisible line drawn, that kept out the very worst of Korbes’ criminality. Perhaps it was the soldier’s creed; perhaps it was the genuine affection they seemed to share for one another – but no matter, really, so long as we understand the nature of their relationship.
Presently Gwen sat down at the table, and began to eat her soup. Her mother sat asleep, with her chin falling down on her chest. Jane Olly lay silent on a little bed beside the hearth. Had anyone been asked, they would surely have answered that she slumbered; but actually she only lay still, and pretended to sleep. Really she was looking up at Gwen’s face, and feeling the familiar disdain which always started up at its loveliness. She scowled in the sputtering light that shone so softly upon Gwen’s cheek; and wished that she might stick her foot out when her cousin rose, so as to trip her up. But she did not dare. She had tried it before – and had only faced a painful reciprocation that made her transitory amusement seem not a sufficient exchange.
Korbes sat down beside Gwen while she ate. You could not, by the look upon her face, tell just how much she disliked his presence; for it seemed, indeed, that she did not even notice he was there. But he knew that she knew, and so simply waited quietly, till she had finished her soup.
When she pushed her bowl away, he considered himself cleared for speech. He reached over, and patted her hand; but she withdrew it speedily. Yet he only laughed at this, and began with his talk (after ensuring, without doubt, that good Mrs Eaves was truly asleep). But little did he know, however, of Jane Olly’s wakefulness.
“What would you say, Gwen,” said he, “if I told you I’d a kind of proposition for you?”
“Proposition?” said Gwen calmly, taking a sip of her tea. “Well, Jonah – I would say that I know very well what sort of proposition you have in mind, and that I’ve no interest in it at all.” She smirked, and tilted her head to one side. “Do you not know that I despise you?”
Here he only laughed again; though he could not have said honestly that her words did not sting. But he went on: “Oh, heavens! No – no, my little Gwen! That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it, Jonah?”
It sounded as if she were quickly losing whatever little investment she had taken in the conversation to begin with; and Korbes knew that he must hurry, or he would lose his only chance.
“I know how you hate this place,” he said smoothly, watching the young woman’s face carefully for signs of sway. “It constantly surprises me, you know, that such a beautiful, elegant young lady as yourself, was born into such a menial existence. I have even heard you say, on occasion, how you desire to be free of this life. Is it not the truth?”
Her frown grew deeper, and her right eye began to twitch. A half-bright shaft of light, part sun and part shadow, pierced down through Jonah Korbes’ heart. Yet it was enough for him, aware as he was – after all his long years of evildoing – that a full sunbeam could never light upon a heart such as his.
“What are you driving at, Jonah?”
“I will ask you again,” said Korbes. “If I were to tell you, this very instant, that I knew of a way in which to transpose your lovely spirit to a more fitting, more convenient environment – what would you say?”
“I suppose it would depend upon the method,” said Gwen icily. But she could not retract the effect that Korbes’ words had had upon her; the evil had been done.
“I will describe the method to you in full,” said Korbes, “tomorrow night. Meet me at the public house on Cobham Street. Eight o’clock.”
Gwen could not hide her unease. “Would it not be better,” she said shakily, “to choose another venue for such a discussion?”
“Ah, my little Gwen! Not afraid of Cobham Street – now, are you?”
While Gwen could have answered very differently (Cobham Street being situated, as it was, very near to Anders Street), she said only, “Of course not. I shall meet you there at eight.”
“Very well!” exclaimed Korbes. He rose from the table, and situated his beaten black hat upon his head. “Till tomorrow, dear Gwen.”
II.
Gwen came punctually, next evening, to Bluebeard’s Castle on Cobham Street. She entered the small, smoky public house, and looked all about through the hazy gloom, till she spotted Korbes at a little table in the far corner.
“Good evening,” said Korbes, when Gwen had come up to him. “I hope you’re well?”
Gwen said nothing, but took the seat across from him. Her eyes strayed, then, to something she had not seen till that very moment: and it was another person, a perfectly beautiful olive-skinned person, sitting there beside Korbes.
“And who is this?”
asked Gwen.
“This is Isabela DiBarconi,” said Korbes. “She is my mistress of sorts.”
He smiled strangely as he said this; and Gwen could not at all tell, from either his countenance or the woman’s, whether or not he spoke the truth.
“What is she doing here?” she asked.
“Her presence is warranted, I assure you.”
Isabela DiBarconi said nothing during this exchange, but looked instead across the room, and out the wide window into the poorly lit street. She seemed to take no interest in Gwen.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Korbes, gesturing to the shiny wooden bar in the centre of the room. “You seem a little tense. Perhaps it would do you some good.”
He signalled to an old man behind the bar, and held up his own glass, as a request of the same for his newly arrived companion. The old man fixed up a second glass, and walked it to the table. He set it down before Gwen without a word.
“Thanks very much, Mickey,” said Korbes. “That’s all for now.”
The old man grunted, and hobbled back to the bar.
Gwen emptied her glass in one long swallow. But she felt no less tense.
“What is it you’re wanting to tell me, Jonah?” she said after a little.
“There is a young fellow I know,” said Korbes, swilling his gin and water while he spoke. “A wealthy, vulnerable, gullible young fellow. I have been working to befriend him for some time – had, of course, to go first through his brute of a father, and gain the old badger’s trust – just so that I might one day have the chance to make a reality of this great plan of mine.”
“What plan is that, exactly?” asked Gwen.
Here, Korbes looked up from his drink, and flashed a devilish grin. “Why – that’s where you come in, my little Gwen! The whole thing, really, all comes down to you.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Gladly.” He turned to smile briefly at the woman beside him; but she acknowledged the gesture not at all. And so, with something of a sour expression, he went on: “It’s all very simple, you see. You, Gwen, are a ridiculously strong-willed young woman; quite like my Isabela. I think that you are just the one to gain young Toby’s trust.”
“I thought you said that you had already gained it?”
Korbes sighed. “Do use your head, dear Gwen! I need a woman – a fine woman like you, to complete this package of mine. I am your uncle, Mr Jonah Brago.” He waved to Isabela, and said, “This is my daughter, the lovely Isabela Brago. But you – you, Gwen, are my dearly departed half-brother’s own beloved daughter, the beautiful Gwendolyn Isles. It is you who will have the hardest work of it all, in making young Toby fall in love with you. He will love you so deeply, so wildly, that he will have no choice but to marry you.” Another sinister smile. “And that’s where all the fun begins.”
Aside from the fact that Gwen did not wholly understand the nature of Korbes’ plot, there was also the circumstance that she did not trust him, half as far as she could toss him. And so she asked the first question which came to mind; and it was, of course: “Why include me at all? Why not just use – your mistress there?”
It was then that the young Italian woman’s eyes settled for the first time upon Gwen’s face. It seemed she detected a shrewdness there, and a toughness of character, that she favoured.
“Old Markus has something of a prejudice against foreigners,” said Korbes. “There’s not an icicle’s chance in Hades that he would allow his son to marry one. And that’s where you come in.” He paused, and adopted rather a pensive expression. “The old man, however, seems to have no trouble conducting business with a foreigner – at least, not when he is led to believe that all the advantage lies with him. And that’s where I come in.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Never mind that, Gwen. That part of the affair does not concern you. Leave it with Isabela, and myself.”
Again, Gwen frowned. “Why not just wait till the old man dies?”
“I cannot wait that long. It could be months before he dies – it could be more than a year. For all I know, young Toby will take another bride by then. He’s rather a daft, stupid boy – but quite handsome, too, I must admit. And then, of course, there’s the money. Should I wait for his father to die, that money will be signed already to Toby, and whatever spoiled whore of a wife he so chooses – out of my reach, and out of yours.”
“You may not look it,” said Gwen, “but you are an Englishman. Why pretend you aren’t? And why draw your Italian into the mix? What purpose does she serve?”
Isabela continued to look at her; but rather than appear offended, her eyes only seemed to brighten.
“Well,” said Korbes serenely, “I said that old Markus has a prejudice against marrying foreigners. I did not say, however, that they do not strongly whet his – shall we say, gentleman’s appetite. And that, dear Gwen, is where Isabela’s part comes into play.” He paused a moment, and then added (quite as if it were the most obvious thing in the world), “My acting the part of Isabela’s father is the only thing that’s kept me near to the old man. He loves this brown woman you see beside me; and because of her he loves me also.”
Gwen appeared thoroughly disgusted. “I’m not so sure that I want a hand in this, after all,” she said.
“Well, perhaps not,” said Korbes, “if you’re developing a weak stomach already. For you’ve yet to even hear the worst of it!”
“Tell it to me.”
Korbes shook his head. “I’ll say not another word, without your pledge to play your hand.”
“Well,” said Gwen, “then you must tell me, at least, what my share in this venture will be. You cannot say that is unjust.”
“No, I cannot.” He drained his glass; then pressed his lips into a thin, tight line. “The overall purse is one-hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds. Fifty for you. Fifty for me. Fifty for Isabela.”
“Fifty – fifty thousand pounds?” gasped Gwen, tightening her hand round her empty glass.
“Exactly,” said Korbes. His eyes flashed dangerously.
“And what – what do you want me to do?”
“I’ve already told you. I want you to marry him.”
“What else?” asked Gwen exasperatedly.
“Nothing else,” he said. “You’ll marry him; and then you’ll be stuck with him, till his father dies. After that, all the money will go to him. And to you.”
“And then?” she persisted; though of course she already knew the answer.
“And then we kill him,” Korbes said brightly. He raised his glass again into the air. “Mickey!” he hollered. “How about another?”
III.
Two weeks later, Gwendolyn Eaves arrived in a post-chaise at Hanover House, with Jonah Korbes and Isabela DiBarconi on either side of her. They filed gracefully out of the carriage, and were met at the head of the drive by a young servant. He made a low bow, and then gestured for them to follow, as he led them up to the house.
And it was so very exquisite – so very divine! It was grander, even, than Gwen herself had imagined it to be; and this fact did much in alleviating the mild misgivings which had begun to start up in her breast.
The house was exceedingly tall, with the vast, smooth stone front of a fine villa. The roof was a light, rose-coloured slate, waving down gently more than a foot past the topmost row of shining windows, much like a beautiful awning. It cast a pleasant shadow down on the wide front porch, where Gwen and the others collected as the servant pushed on through the door, and held it aside to let them pass.
The interior of the house was no disappointment. The servant had gone to fetch his master; and Gwen filled the time sweeping round the entrance hall, feeling already like a princess.
“It’s unbelievable!” she said. She did not look at Korbes; but rather at Isabela. The woman’s stolid countenance broke for what seemed the first time into a genuine smile.
“Hush!” whispered Korbes. “He’s coming.”
/>
Indeed, there was presently a young man descending the wide mahogany staircase. He came with a sprightly step, and a bright smile.
“Hello!” he said, upon seeing his guests. He reached to shake Korbes’ hand; and then leaned unreservedly down, to kiss the cheeks of both the ladies. “How lovely to see you!”
“Toby,” said Korbes, laying his hands on either woman’s shoulder, “you see before you the two very brightest lights of my life. Of course you are acquainted with my little Isabela – but this is my niece, Gwendolyn.”
Toby Markus only nodded politely. Gwen saw now that Korbes had plotted wisely. What with his dark eyes and swarthy skin, it was much more plausible that the olive-skinned Isabela would be his own daughter; and that he would share something of a more distant connection with the cornflower-eyed, powder-faced Gwen.
“I am so glad you all could come,” said Toby, spreading his hands in welcome. “Any relations of Jonah Brago’s, my father says, are friends of his. I hope you’ll be able to stay a while.”
Gwen studied for a moment his pale and lovely face; stared for a second into his clear blue eyes. His thick, fair hair was cut short and neat atop his head, and his cheeks were smooth and clean-shaven. She wondered whether she could really play a hand in killing him. Would it not be wiser, perhaps, only to marry him – and to live all the rest of her days as the mistress of Hanover House?
She might have said yes, if she had not been mortally afraid of the repercussions of crossing Jonah Korbes.
***
The next several weeks passed in just the way Korbes had predicted they would. His “family” was invited, after a mere three hours spent at Hanover House, to prolong their stay indefinitely. The elder Mr Markus confirmed the invitation from his sickbed; and, simply as that, Korbes and the two “lights of his life” moved themselves into three guest bedrooms on the second storey.
The night before their coming, they had spent several hours together at Bluebeard’s Castle, recounting the details of their plan to the last. Gwen asked how she should behave at Hanover; and Korbes told her, just the way she always did. She asked what sort of things she should say to Toby Markus; and Korbes told her, the very same things she said to everyone else. She did not understand him, at first. He explained to her that young Toby must be dominated; overpowered; overthrown. That, he said (with not a little bitterness) should not be at all hard for Gwen.
