Chapter 8
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.”
-Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I
Marsden-Lacey, England
Present Day
“I DON’T CARRY MY OWN bags,” the petite dark-haired woman was saying. “That’s what I pay people like you to do.” She watched the young man struggle with her three suitcases and one corpulent makeup satchel, as they ascended the stairs of the hotel. It pleased her to point out that she was his better. Everyone had a place in life, and Saundra loved to remind others of theirs while pointing out the loftiness of her own.
“Yes, Madam,” he said compliantly. As they reached her room, he asked, “Is there anything else, Madam?”
She scrunched up her face at the hotel room’s decor. Being accustomed to her own excessive self-worth and the diligence required of her to keep up appearances, she wasn’t pleased about having to slum-it in such a shabby place. If other people were to see her staying here, they might not willingly believe she was as wonderful as she really was.
“I guess not,” she mumbled. “Oh, yes, where can I find a skinny latte in this backwater? You do know what that is, don’t you?”
“Try Harriet’s Tea Shoppe or The Traveller’s Inn.” The boy put out his hand for a tip, and the woman gave him coins amounting to about an English pound she’d found in her coat pocket.
The young steward turned his back to her and rolled his eyes. He let himself out of the room without a ‘thank you’, leaving the woman alone. She stood up and walked over to one of the windows overlooking High Street. Down below, people came and went along the sidewalk, but Saundra Johns wasn’t interested in their lives. In fact, she was rarely interested in other people at all unless they had something to offer her. She turned away from the spectacle of holiday cheerfulness. Her gaze fell upon her darling makeup satchel. This made her smile.
Unzipping the flap, the satchel rolled open displaying a plethora of small enclosures full of eye pencils, different colors of foundations, multiple shades of lipsticks, and every expensive beauty product offered by London’s many chic, upscale department stores.
Lovingly, Saundra pulled out different items that caught her eye. There were things to make her eyelashes longer, creams to remove the hair over her lip, and brushes to sculpt her makeup like a painter might use to paint a portrait.
With joy, she remembered the small case of jewelry she’d also packed. Quickly she went over to her bags and rifled through them until she found the jewelry. It always gave her such pleasure to arrange her beauty items, her jewelry and her clothes in any place she might be staying. The ritual made her feel like she had something solid, something to ground her. Though she couldn’t put her finger on what it was that made her life always seem to be missing something, she knew that the time she spent in front of the mirror made her happy. Her reflection was her favorite place. It was her home.
A knock on her room door startled her. “I wonder who it could be,” she mumbled as she went to the door and peeped through the tiny eyehole. A wintery smile played at the corners of her red-stained lips. Their blood color hinted at the owner’s predilection for fresh meat.
“Come in, Merriam,” Saundra said, opening the door. She made way for the Chief, letting him come fully into the room. He appeared uncomfortable and this pleased her.
“Saundra,” he said, “I thought I would come by and say hello. I heard last night you were to be one of the judges for our Bake-Off.”
“Have you been hanging around the hotel all day, Merriam, waiting for me to show? How sweet of you to rush up and welcome me,” she said in a simpering, singsong tone. “It’s been a while. What do you think of my new hairstyle?” She coyly maneuvered a pose she knew showed her body to its best advantage, while watching Johns’ expression the entire time.
Saundra Johns believed in her looks. They’d never let her down. When mixed with her own subtle allusions to her frailty and tininess, her beauty’s power was limitless. Men loved doing things for her. They lifted things, they fetched things, and they paid for things. She was their queen, and they paid homage to her. If they ever winced or struggled under her dominion, she tweaked them back into compliance by pouting or getting weaker.
The problem with Saundra was, she thought they did it because they adored her, or that they should do it to prove they adored her. The truth was, they did it because she appealed to their own vanity or to their desire to believe in her rhetoric. Most of the men learned the truth the hard way. After empty years of opening one vein after another to appease her bottomless self-obsession, they were cast aside, and most, like Merriam Johns, were left with an aching hole in their heart and lingering trust issues in future relationships.
It took ten years for Johns to realize, and accept, his marriage to Saundra was only ever going to be a one-way street. She was a narcissist. He’d loved her, but it was an empty, lonely existence, so he’d asked for a divorce. She’d never given it.
“I came by to talk with you,” Johns said. “Why did you come back to Marsden-Lacey, Saundra?”
She sensed something different in her husband’s tone and she didn’t like it. There wasn’t the tiniest hint of attraction or longing in his voice. This incensed her, so she played her hand. Like any good surgeon about to carve on a living body, she checked to see if the heart muscle was strong and resilient.
“I came back to see you. I love you, Merriam and I want to make our marriage work.”
His reaction wasn’t what she expected. He blanched and shifted his stance, indicating his discomfort. Ignoring her bland testament to their love, he paused before responding.
“Is that why you haven’t signed the divorce papers? I’ve been waiting for them for two years. You can’t keep putting this off, Saundra. My lawyer says you can’t contest it any longer.”
Anger and indignation vied for top position. She’d pulled out her best card. Tears streamed down her face, not at the loss of her husband, but at the need to make him pay, make him squirm.
“I won’t give it to you, Merriam,” she hissed.
“You will. You have to,” he said evenly.
Saundra’s tears dried up instantly. A new thought occurred to her. She walked over to him and looking him straight in the eyes, she asked with a lethal evenness to her voice, “Is there someone else?”
“Yes.”
Saundra recoiled from the simplicity of his answer like a vampire shown a crucifix. She waited for him to elaborate, but he offered nothing.
“Do you love her?” she asked in a demanding, mocking tone.
“I’m not going to discuss that,” he countered, “You walked out five years ago and have had multiple lovers. What do you want? It must be something or you wouldn’t be here.”
She didn’t want Merriam back. It only galled her that he might have a life outside of her. She considered the situation and decided the only pleasure left to her was making him see how he should have never mistreated her, never shifted his slavish adoration from her to someone else. That was an unfortunate, stupid mistake on his part, so he deserved what he was about to get.
She turned her back on him and flippantly said, “I’ve talked with my solicitor, and he advises me to try and work out a settlement. I want you to sell the farm. The money from the sale should be divided between us equally.”
“That is my home. It has been in our family for nearly two centuries. My mother has her business there. I won’t sell it.”
His tone was unemotional, but she saw she’d won the desired reaction. If you can’t have complete control over someone, having their hatred is second best. It meant you were able to incite their emotions, and that was power, too.
Saundra supped on his anger. She drank it in, but feigned indifference at his upset. This action was intended to belittle him further by showing how his feelings unaffected her, how negligible they were to her.
“Well, that’s too bad. I need the money. I
always need money, darling. I’m your wife and the house is by rights mine in equal share. If you want your divorce, be prepared to sell the dear old farm. Mother Johns can make her moonshine somewhere else.”
Though her back was turned to him, she smelled his hatred, his loathing and his rage. It was excruciatingly thrilling to her. She didn’t fear him because she was acutely aware of being the only predator in the room. Instead, she moved toward the door.
“I’m busy, Merriam. I have a little food contest to judge. Charity is so close to my heart. You’d better get back to your local lady love. Hope she’s not some toothless rube, but most likely she is, since she likes to live in such a dull, drab country place.”
Saundra opened her door. Merriam walked out. She didn’t bother with goodbyes or reflecting on the retreating figure of the only man who’d ever loved her. She simply shut the door and went back to setting up her beauty products, makeup and nail polishes along the fragile, hotel glass shelves and the cramped sink area of the bathroom.
It was time for a nice long soak, a hot cup of tea, a skin tightening facial and dreams about acquiring money, preferably other people’s.
Chapter 9
MARTHA AND HELEN WERE UP early that morning and their things were packed. Polly was going to stay at Martha’s cottage to watch the pets. She said it would be nice to have the place to herself to work on the team’s menus for the competition.
The trip to Lord Percy Farthingay’s estate, Greenwoods Abbey, would only take about two hours, and afterwards, they were to stay at a nice manor house hotel, The Brentmore. It had all the relaxing perks, like hot saunas, massage treatments, fluffy beds and pretty bedrooms. Piers was to meet them tonight at the hotel. Martha decided seeing a new client wasn’t a total waste, especially if it meant she might enjoy a spa experience as a follow-up treat.
They found Greenwoods. As they pulled in through the entrance gates, they became increasingly aware that the entire place was succumbing to neglect. Hedgerows were chocked full of weeds and invasive trees popped up through their tops. The very road, itself, looked as if few cars ever passed along its tracks.
“This is creepy,” Martha said, her eyes wide with delight. “I’ve lived in England a long time and this is the first time I can say I’ve ever seen a place so overgrown and deteriorated. You’d kind of expect a Lord to live in something like Piers’ Healy House.”
Helen sounding upbeat, said, “It’s so old, and maybe Lord Percy is strapped for money. That’s probably why we’re here, if you want to know the truth. We’ll soon find out, though.”
Martha’s mind was working its way down its favorite paths lined with hidden mysteries, gothic melodramas, and criminal underworlds. “I don’t know, Helen. This might be a trick by some lunatic to get two beautiful women out to this remote place and lock us up in one of his long-forgotten, dusty, decrepit wings of the house.”
“You sound like that docudrama you love to watch. What’s it called? Creepy Criminals?” Helen asked.
“It’s Crimes, Creeps and Cribs, Helen,” Martha said sounding put out by Helen’s lack of a grasp on current popular television shows. “Last week they did a story on this very thing. A woman was held captive in an insane asylum during the Victorian era. She went mad finally and her ghost haunts the abandoned building to this day.”
“We’re here,” Helen announced, pulling the car up to the front door of the Jacobean-style house. Red brick cladding and mullioned windows with three-dimensional elements like turrets, gables and window bays set the house well within the time of James I.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the library of Lord Percy did have works by Shakespeare. The period of the architecture is perfect,” Helen said.
Martha scanned the ruinous state of the house with its weed beds for gardens and crumbling turrets that looked ready to topple down on the first person to try the doorbell. “It’s perfect all right — perfect for being chased by some Victorian crazy lady with sharp nails and dark circles around her eyes.”
“Would you stop it!” Helen hissed. “You’re giving me the shivers with all your talk. What is it with you lately? You’ve got to stop watching all those horror films and crime shows. That’s probably where the nightmares are coming from.”
Helen took a calming, deep breath and finished in a more gentle tone. “No more wacky, weird tales of floating fiends. We’ve got to be prepared for some eccentricity, by the looks of things, and some need for antihistamine tablets. The place is probably rife with mold. Are we ready?”
They made it to the top of the front steps of Greenwoods. Helen reached for the doorbell but gave Martha one more minute to pull her brain back from the abyss of the gothic.
“I’m ready, but if the person who answers the door looks even remotely like Lon Chaney, I’m out of here. Got it?” Martha said, holding her pinky up for Helen to seal the deal by locking theirs together.
Helen rolled her eyes and linked her pinky with Martha’s giving it a half-hearted shake. “It’s like I’m working with Gidget.”
“Helen, do you know what I like best about you?” Martha asked.
“What?” Helen’s hand poised to pull the bell rope.
“You’ve been chased by mobsters, shot at by a lunatic, and locked in a freezer, but you always bounce back…to your pragmatic, professional self. You’re solid, Helen, completely, one hundred percent solid.”
Helen gave the bell rope a hard tug. She considered Martha through half-slit eyes and pursed her lips into a pucker. “I’m going to hurt you, if you attempt to start a conversation regarding locked up Victorians, criminal masterminds, or evil fiends lurking behind the wainscoting.”
Martha shot dirty looks at the back of Helen’s perfectly coiffed head. The door opened and a meek girl dressed in a simple black skirt and white blouse stood blinking at them.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “but I’m having a difficult time with my eyes. The light outside is so bright.”
The girls gave her a moment to adjust and as they announced who they were, she asked them to follow her inside. As soon as the door shut behind them, they understood the girl’s earlier difficulty. The entire house was completely dark. No natural light filtered into the rooms, halls, or landings as they followed their guide deeper into the interior of the house.
“One moment, please,” the girl said, as they reached a stopping point. “I’ll let Lord Percy’s nephew, Mr. Brickstone, know you are here.” She indicated a seating area a few feet away. Martha and Helen smiled and walked the short distance to a settee Queen Elizabeth I might have sat on as a child. The place was oppressively musty, and, though it was impressive in size, it resembled something in which Miss Havisham would be comfortable.
“Helen,” Martha whispered, her tone confident. “If we need it, I brought my mace.”
Helen’s eyes shifted carefully from the long gallery to look Martha square in the face.
“Good. Something about this place has the hair on the back of my neck prickling.”
The sound of a door opening brought the girls to their feet. A tall man walked toward them out of the gloom. As his features became more distinct, they saw he was attractive, polished-looking and in his late forties.
“Mrs. Ryes, so nice to finally meet you. Thank you for coming all this way.” Mr. Brickstone took Helen’s offered hand, holding it a bit too long while he checked her out overtly from head to toe. Extricating her hand after a few awkward seconds, Helen turned to introduce Martha.
“This is my colleague, Mrs. Littleword.”
Addressing his attention only to Martha’s breasts, he said, “It is a pleasure.”
Martha took his offered hand and shook it saying, “Yes, the other white meat.”
His gaze snapped up to her eyes, and looking at her a bit befuddled as if not sure of what she’d said, he quickly righted himself and asked the two women to follow him back down the corridor.
They walked along a number of hallways and descended a stairwell w
here the plaster was chipping from the walls. He chatted along the way about the many unusual architectural novelties the house held.
“This wing was added about one hundred years after the original building was built. The Lord at the time wanted to create a suitable library and the main house was lacking the proper space. As generations came and went, they added their own mark to the structure. That’s why it’s a bit rambling. Here we are.”
Martha poked Helen in the arm and mouthed the words, “Weirdo. We should leave.”
Helen returned the silent statement with a terse headshake and wide round eyes, indicating Martha should desist with any further antics. They continued following him until he finally stopped at an intricately carved entryway.
He pushed on a heavy door with a lovely brass knob. Standing aside, Mr. Brickstone made way for Helen and Martha to pass by him. The room they walked into was magnificent. Early Jacobean, its proportions were rectangular, with three walls housing beautiful built-in bookcases made out of mahogany. Above the cases rose a surface of plaster about six feet tall where a variety of armorial items hung. The ceiling was exquisite in its carved wooden moldings and plasterwork culminating in an imposing family crest in the center. No matter where the eye rested, one was reminded of a timeless beauty an earlier age of wealthy aristocrats sought to achieve in the decorative lavishness of their homes.
“What a treat to visit and see this library. Will we have the pleasure to meet Lord Percy?” Martha asked, turning to address their host.
This particular room boasted tall windows along one side, broken only by a massive fireplace centered between them. Light from their uncovered transoms poured gently down from above. Martha saw Brickstone’s features much clearer now, and she noticed, for the first time, a palm-sized birthmark on his neck. Something about it plucked at a corner of her memory.
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 5
