Finally Walter and Sherman had pegged out and the match, as Jane had known it inevitably would, came down to her and Miriam. Jane’s wrists ached from holding the mallet and the back of her neck was sunburned. Miriam, by comparison, looked as fresh as she had on her first stroke. She moved around the pitch calmly and methodically, like a cat stalking a mouse that was becoming more and more desperate for escape.
Oh no you don’t, Jane thought. You’re not going to make me look foolish.
Jane’s ball had passed through the 3-back and was lying halfway between it and the next wicket. Miriam’s was through the 4-back and lined up to reach the penultimate wicket on her next stroke. It was Jane’s turn to hit. She could either take a simple hit through the 4-back, hope Miriam faltered on her turn, and then try to roquet Miriam’s ball, or she could attempt a much more difficult move and try to roquet Miriam’s ball on this turn and hope it gained her an advantage.
She looked at Miriam, who gazed implacably at the peg as if daring it to elude her grasp. This was the deciding moment. Jane could feel it. If she played it safe and waited for Miriam to make a mistake, she could win. Or she could go on the offensive and take the win from her by force. If successful, this would humiliate Miriam utterly. If it failed, however, Miriam would be victorious in more than one arena.
It’s time to show her who the stronger woman is, Jane told herself. If she wants a fight, that’s what she’s going to get.
Standing beside her ball, she acted as if she was going to take the easier road. At the last moment, however, she turned her mallet and sent her ball rolling to the left of the wicket. She saw a look of surprise on Miriam’s face as they both watched the ball’s progress. For a moment it looked as if Jane might miss the mark, but then her ball tapped ever so gently against Miriam’s.
Trembling with excitement, Jane positioned her ball behind Miriam’s and hit it from the side. Miriam’s ball rocketed toward the baulk line on her team’s end of the field, while Jane’s rolled toward the east side and came to rest only inches in front of the 4-back wicket. The Janeites went wild.
Now it was Miriam’s turn. There was no way she could roquet Jane’s ball, as the penultimate wicket was between them. However, she hit it neatly into the space between the 1-back and the 4-back, placing it in position near Jane’s ball.
Again Jane had a choice—roquet Miriam once more or pass through the 4-back and dare her to attempt her own roquet. She chose the latter option, using a quick, neat strike to pass through the wicket. She was now directly in line with Miriam’s ball, and it was Miriam’s turn to decide on a strategy.
When Miriam opted to hit her ball through the penultimate wicket Jane knew she was afraid. She was now simply trying to get to the peg before Jane. Sensing this, Jane felt a surge of excitement.
Because of the angle she could not pass through the penultimate wicket behind Miriam. It would take two shots. She knew that Miriam expected her to attempt a roquet. But she didn’t. Instead she merely tapped her own ball and lined it up to go through the next wicket.
Miriam, sensing that Jane was toying with her, hit her next ball to the left of the peg, going toward the final wicket. She hit it too hard, however. Jane could hear the collective gasp from the crowd as the ball stopped just shy of the 3-back wicket.
Jane saw her chance. If she could roquet Miriam’s ball now, she had a good chance of passing her in the race to the peg. But it was a tricky shot, with the peg in the way. Still, if she could bounce her ball off the peg at just the right angle, her ball might hit Miriam’s. It was a ridiculously stupid shot to attempt, and Miriam would never expect it. Which is precisely why Jane chose to attempt it.
She approached her ball and stopped. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. She felt her wrist muscles tense as she brought the mallet back. Then she struck the ball and prayed.
The ball rolled toward the peg, struck it, and changed course slightly. At first it appeared to be wide, but then Jane saw that it was heading for Miriam’s ball. She watched, her heart pounding, as it slowed down. Go, go, go, she willed the ball.
When the soft click of contact sounded you could hear a pin drop. Both teams knew what might come next, and no one made a sound as Jane walked to the two balls. Nor did they make a sound as she placed her ball against Miriam’s, struck it, and sent the blue ball back to the southwest corner. This lined her own ball up perfectly with the final wicket. A moment later it sailed through and connected with the peg.
Jane found herself caught up in a tangle of spongy tentacles as the Janeites’ mascot lifted her up and swung her around. Her teammates encircled them, yelling madly, and there was much backslapping and general carrying on. Finally the celebration quieted and Beverly appeared with a trophy, which she handed to Jane.
“Congratulations,” Beverly said. “It was a fine match, and either of our finalists could have won it.”
Jane looked at Miriam, who stood on Beverly’s other side, her mouth set in a rictus of a smile. Anyone could have, she thought. But only I did.
Beverly handed Jane the trophy. “Austen wins this time,” she said. “But Brontë will have her revenge next year.”
Again the Janeites cheered, while the Brontëites looked glumly at one another and shook their heads.
“I hope you’ll all join us for the picnic lunch,” Beverly called out. “Baskets can be picked up at the refreshment tent at the far end of the field.”
Byron approached Jane, who was sharing her victory moment with Sherman. “Shall we lunch?” he asked them.
“By all means,” Sherman said. “In fact, I’ve been looking forward to talking to you.”
“Really?” said Byron. “I can’t imagine why. I’m dreadfully boring.” He looked at Jane. “Are you coming?”
“In a moment,” Jane said. “I want to change out of these shorts. I have some jeans in the car.”
“Well, give us the trophy,” said Byron, taking it from her. “We can celebrate by drinking champagne out of it. It will make the Brontëites furious.”
Jane left the two men talking and walked back to where she’d parked her car. It was some distance from the playing field, and she had to walk through the corridor of now-shuttered game booths. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the row that she realized she was being followed.
She turned just in time to see the moorhen running at her. It held a croquet peg in one hand and a mallet in the other. Jane only had time to raise her hands in defense before the bird was upon her.
“Die!” the moorhen screamed as the two of them fell to the ground. Jane ended up on the bottom, the weight of the mascot knocking the breath from her. She stared in horror as the bird raised the peg and prepared to bring it down on her.
Jane twisted to the side, throwing the moorhen off balance. The bulky costume slipped sideways, and the bird dropped the mallet. It righted itself however, and once more the pointed end of the stake hovered over Jane’s chest.
Her fingers found the handle of the mallet and closed on it. With great effort she swung her arm up. The mallet connected with the moorhen’s head. It slid sideways, the long beak grazing Jane’s cheek. Then it fell off.
A sweaty, dirt-streaked face stared down at Jane with murder in its eyes.
“Charlotte?” Jane said.
“Yes,” Charlotte hissed. “And this time you won’t get away.” Her hands went around Jane’s throat, the wings attached to her arms flapping wildly as she began to shake Jane up and down, her head hitting the hard-packed dirt beneath her.
Jane again brought the mallet up, but this time it only glanced off Charlotte’s shoulder.
“You killed Jessica,” Charlotte said as Jane struggled to breathe.
Jane tried to deny this, but she couldn’t speak. Why was Charlotte accusing her of killing Jessica? It didn’t make any sense. At the moment, however, she was more concerned with getting Charlotte off her.
Wrapping her legs around Charlotte was difficult due to the shape of her cost
ume, but Jane managed to get a purchase on the tail. Twisting to the side, she threw Charlotte off and scrambled away from her. Charlotte lay on her back, her bird feet kicking in the air as she shrieked.
“You killed her!” she wailed. “You killed her!”
“I did no such thing,” Jane said. “And you know it.”
Charlotte’s arms flailed as she managed to right herself. As she pushed herself up Jane grabbed the dropped croquet peg. She held it out in front of her, the pointed end toward Charlotte. “I didn’t kill Jessica,” she said. “You did.”
“Lies!” Charlotte said.
“No,” said Jane. “They found the note.”
“What note?” said Charlotte. “I don’t know anything about a note.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. Charlotte seemed to believe that Jane had killed Jessica, and if she knew anything about a note, she was certainly hiding it well. She thinks she’s telling the truth, she realized.
“Jane?”
Jane looked over Charlotte’s shoulder and saw Byron running toward them. Charlotte too turned and saw him. Her head snapped back to Jane. “This isn’t over,” she said as she turned and ran. Before Byron could reach them she was gone. Only the head of her costume remained on the ground.
“What was that about?” Byron asked.
“Our Gloomy Friend is back,” said Jane. “And I don’t think she killed Jessica.”
Byron looked confused. “Then who did?” he asked.
“That,” said Jane, giving the moorhen head a good kick, “is the million-dollar question.”
BYRON WAS LATE. THIS WAS NOT AN UNUSUAL OCCURRENCE, AND SO Jane wasn’t yet worried, but she’d also had a peculiar feeling all afternoon that something was wrong. She’d attributed this to the fact that Charlotte was indeed in Brakeston, but now she wasn’t sure. The dread surrounding her seemed larger somehow, more all-encompassing.
As if there’s going to be a storm of some kind, she thought. A very large storm.
They didn’t really have a plan, which was part of the problem. Byron was going to come over and they were going to see if they could track Charlotte down and find out what exactly was going on. Byron had even gently hinted at the idea of a truce while they figured out who had killed Jessica Abernathy and why that person apparently was trying to lay the blame on Violet Grey. Jane thought this to be a terrible idea and had said so in no uncertain terms. That’s when Byron had told her to go home and calm down. And that was when Jane had said some regrettable things.
It was all very confusing, and that made her cross. She preferred it when there were defined issues to be dealt with. At the moment things were all jumbled together, and knowing where to start was near to impossible. She hoped Byron had thought of something.
A scratching at the front door caught her attention. At first she thought she had imagined it but a moment later she heard it again, a frantic skritch-skritch-skritch. Wondering what it could be, Jane went and opened the door.
Lilith ran inside. She was panting, and immediately sat down on the carpet and leaned against the sofa, her one front leg propping her up.
Jane looked at the clearly exhausted and frightened dog. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Is someone chasing you?”
Lilith shook her head. Then she barked. Jane stared at her and she barked again.
“Oh,” said Jane. “Right. You want me to read your thoughts. I can’t. You’ll have to wait for Byron. He’s the one who can do that.”
Lilith barked again, several yips in quick succession. Jane, leery of the dog’s teeth, backed away. Lilith continued to bark.
“I don’t know how,” Jane told her. “Really, I don’t.”
Lilith yipped frantically.
“All right,” said Jane. “I’ll try.” She closed her eyes and tried to focus her mind on the sounds Lilith was making. At first she could make no sense of the barking. Then, in the midst of it, she thought she heard a single word: captured. She opened her eyes. “Byron has captured Charlotte?” she asked.
Lilith barked some more, which Jane took to mean she had guessed incorrectly. Again she closed her eyes. This time the Chihuahua’s barks changed tone and Jane distinctly heard her say Walter.
“Byron has captured Walter?” Jane said. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do that?”
“No, you moron. Byron has been captured and is being held in Carlyle House.” The voice was crystal clear, and Jane knew she was hearing Lilith speak.
“I did it!” she said. Then the words sunk in. “Byron has been captured!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Lilith said. “Miriam and Beverly have taken him to Carlyle House.”
“All right,” said Jane. “We need to rescue him. Let’s go.”
Lilith yipped. “And how are you going to do that?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Jane answered, scooping the little dog up and carrying her. “We’ll figure that out when we get there.”
She drove quickly. Lilith, trying to sit still on the front seat, was toppled first one way and then the other. Each time she slipped she swore.
“Where did you learn such colorful language?” Jane asked her after one particularly foul outburst.
“You pick things up living on the streets,” said Lilith.
“Can Miriam understand what you’re saying?”
“No,” Lilith answered. “Only your kind can. And before you ask, no, I don’t know why. And I don’t care.”
When they neared the house Jane parked the car a block away. She and Lilith walked the rest of the way, and Jane went around to the side of the house where she could look through the windows with less chance of being seen.
They were in the living room. Byron, tied to a chair, was in the center of the room. Beverly stood behind him, her hands on his shoulder, and Miriam was in front of him. She held something in her hand.
“What is that?” Jane asked.
“What’s what?” said Lilith. “I can’t see from down here.”
Jane picked the dog up and held her to the window.
“Fang extractor,” Lilith said. “She’s going to defang him.”
Jane gasped. She set the Chihuahua down. “Why?”
Lilith snorted. “Are you stupid?” she said. “Why do you think?”
Jane looked through the window again. Byron was shaking his head from side to side as Miriam tried to get the extractor into his mouth. For the first time Jane noticed a small pool of blood on the floor by Byron’s feet. Something white lay in the red puddle. It looked like a fang.
“That’s it,” Jane told Lilith. “I’m going in.”
Lilith trotted behind Jane as she went to the back door of the house. Lifting the mat, Jane took out a key and fitted it into the lock.
“Not the best place to hide a key,” Lilith remarked as Jane opened the door.
“Hush,” said Jane as they went into a small mudroom off the kitchen.
“Just what are we going to do?” asked Lilith.
“I don’t know,” Jane admitted. “I should probably think of something.”
A loud howl came from inside the house. It was followed by a thump, as though something—or someone—had fallen over.
“Or we can just make it up as we go along,” said Jane, running into the kitchen and down the hall.
Miriam whipped around when she heard Jane’s footsteps. Jane looked at the bloody extractor in her hand, then at Byron lying on the floor. He was still tied to the chair, and was trying to inch himself away from Miriam.
“She broke one of my fangs!” he yelled.
“What is she doing here?” another voice asked.
Jane looked to her right and saw two more chairs set against the wall. Tied to one of them was one of the twins. Tied to the other was Charlotte.
“What is she doing here?” Jane said.
“All of you shut up!” Miriam bellowed. She pointed the extractor at Jane. “Tie her up,” she ordered Beverly.
Beverly came at Jane so quickly that Jane had no time to respond. She felt herself being pushed to the floor. Then her wrists were pulled together and rope was wrapped around them. She was now lying on the floor facing Byron.
“That was very well done,” Byron said.
Jane ignored him, turning her head as well as she could to see what Miriam and Beverly were going to do next. Miriam was looking at all of the captives and smiling. “I think that’s all of them,” she said to Beverly. “I hadn’t anticipated taking care of this one so soon,” she added, nodding at Jane. “But we might as well stake them all at once.”
She came over to where Jane and Byron lay on the floor and bent down. “Are there any more of your kind polluting this town?” she asked, shaking the extractor in Jane’s face.
“I’m not telling you anything,” Jane said.
Miriam laughed. “I bet you’ll talk once I start pulling those fangs of yours,” she said. “I’ll be particularly happy to pull yours. You deserve it after trying to take my son.”
“For your information, he asked me out,” Jane said.
“Only because you glamored him,” said Miriam. “He would never fall in love with a creature like you. He might think he loves you, but once you’re dead and the spell is broken he’ll come to his senses.”
“And just what are you going to tell him about where I’ve gone?” Jane asked. “Or where any of us have gone?”
“That’s easy,” Miriam replied. “You and Mr. Fancypants here ran off together. The young man decided to move on. Young people do that. As for this other one, I don’t even know who she is.”
“I’m Charlotte Brontë, you dolt!” Charlotte screeched.
Miriam laughed. “She’s Charlotte Brontë,” she said, clearly not believing what she was hearing. “And I suppose you’re Jane Austen and Mr. Fancypants is Oscar Wilde.”
“Here now!” said Byron. “I most certainly am not. Do I look like a tired old washerwoman to you?”
“I’ve had enough out of you,” said Miriam. “Beverly, bring me the stakes.”
Jane Goes Batty Page 25
