A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1)

by William Scott

Pierce followed the footman along the gallery of the west wing of the Manor in silence. The darkness of the moonless night had seeped into the Manor, save for the small islands of light emanating from the uniformly spaced lamps along the corridors.

  This sense of desertion was washed away as they walked under a large stone arch that opened on to an immense column lined hall. The white marble floor reflected the vibrant light and sounds emanating from a large salon to the right. The footman pointed towards this room as he led Pierce across the hall, pronouncing it to be the main salon. Pierce quickly glanced at the room from across the hall and was provided with a view of fashionably dressed revellers absorbed by the exertion of a talented pianist. The menace of the Manor seemed to slip away with this new scene of camaraderie and joy.

  The footman continued to a door across the hall, pronouncing it to be the billiard room. But before Pierce could walk in, the door swung open and Colonel Bufford appeared, hollering in the direction of the salon.

  “Harold, you darn well better cut off their liquor,” he admonished the footman pointing a pool cue towards him. “That off key piano wheedling is distracting my game and cost me another match!”

  The footman stood stonefaced and waited for the Colonel’s diatribe to conclude before bowing slightly and turning towards the salon.

  Pierce made his way inside, looking over another new room. Unlike the hall that led into it, there was not a speck of white marble inside. However, this did not make it any less welcoming. The cherry panelled walls and carved white ceiling created a warm and inviting space. There were two billiard tables in the center around which the Colonel’s adversary was counting his winnings. A bar stood past the tables, where a beautiful woman with light brown hair and a tight fitting crème gown leaned against it, casually smoking a cigarette. Beside her stood Wilhelm Schell, speaking to the bartender before noticing the new arrival.

  “Patrick, Good of you to join us,” he exclaimed coming over to shake Pierce’s hand. “You already know the Colonel, so let me introduce you to some of the other members.”

  He led him towards the pool player and Pierce was immediately glad he had followed Melrose’s advice and wore the penguin suit. Just like those in the salon, everyone in the billiard room was immaculately and elegantly dressed.

  “Patrick Pierce, allow me to introduce Herr Josef Zeidt,” Schell said good naturedly, then adding, “a prolific Swiss banker.”

  “Welcome to the Manor Herr Pierce,” he offered, taking Pierce’s outstretched hand. His chiselled angular face showed no emotion as they were introduced. Zeidt had the cold good looks often seen in male models advertising obnoxious cologne.

  Sensing the conversation over and not wanting to force a greater welcome, Schell manoeuvred Pierce away from Zeidt towards the bar. A barman wearing the livery of the Manor efficiently began making a pair of drinks when Schell motioned him as they approached.

  “And this beautiful woman is Mademoiselle Veronique Laflamme,” Schell said as he grabbed the drinks, giving one to Pierce.

  “Patrick Pierce, mademoiselle,” said Pierce introducing himself. He stood motionless, deciding if he should shake hands or try to kiss hers in the Parisian fashion. He really didn’t know what the protocol was and felt that he would end up picking the wrong one. However she didn’t offer either, but simply kept smoking with a bored look on her face.

  “Another ghastly American,” she muttered after taking another drag.

  “Ah, the accent,” rescued Schell looking over his shoulder from the Colonel to Pierce. “Mais non, I’ll est Canadien.”

  “Vraiement?” responded Laflamme with slightly more interest.

  “Oui vraiement,” answered Pierce for himself. “Puis je parle Français aussi.”

  With this discovery the three of them settled into a conversation in French. As an ice breaker they talked about how they had learnt the language. Veronique was born in France and had spoken French her entire life, however she provided a few amusing word plays she had learnt from her Father growing up. Schell explained that he had learned to speak in French in school, as his parents had insisted. In his time French had been a language of diplomacy and the aristocracy, and he had been a member of both. Luckily, he exclaimed, he had been good at languages and not math or science. Since neither of those had ever been needed for diplomats or aristocrats, he had been in luck. Pierce meanwhile echoed some of Schell’s story, telling them he had learned French at school as well. His parents hadn’t forced it upon him, since French was part of the school curriculum. His education had not been easy and he proclaimed that if he were required to compose a rescue letter in French he would never be saved.

  “Vous êtes drole,” gushed Veronique at the end of his story.

  “I guess…” replied Pierce confused by her sudden interest in him. He knew his joke was weak at best, so he figured that maybe she was the type who liked new things. But when she placed her hand on his shoulder, Pierce decided he could live with filling the role for as long as it lasted.

  Always suspicious of attractive women paying attention to him, Pierce continued to observe Veronique as they sipped at their drinks. She kept darting glances towards Schell. It was as if she was waiting for him to react or say something. Great, thought Pierce crestfallen, she’s just trying to make Wilhelm jealous. He had no wish to get involved in her little games, but then thought better of it. I wonder how far she’ll take this charade?

  The appearance of a new member entering the room broke his hopeful train of thought. He was by far the oldest looking member of the Hunt Pierce had seen so far. The black and grey hair surrounding his balding head was ruffled and wild. His creased mouth was drawn into a frown, which Pierce imagined never altered shape. A pair of dark squinty eyes glared at the group at the bar from across the room as he approached. “Who’s that? I wonder what happened to him, he looks pretty pissed off.”

  “He’s always like that,” said Veronique, discounting the new arrival with a wave of her hand. “Pay no attention to him,”

  This was meant as a hint to her two male companions to return their attention to her, as she corralled an invisible hair back into place.

  “I shall introduce you,” offered Schell, too well bred to ignore Pierce’s question.

  Pierce nodded in agreement, needing a brief escape from the growing awkwardness he felt at the bar.

  “Signor Diego De la Gena, may I present the newest member of our fraternity, Mr. Patrick Pierce.”

  “Please to meet you,” said Pierce with an outstretched hand.

  “Hmmph,” replied De La Gena turning towards the bar, deliberately ignoring the newcomer. “They have certainly started scraping the bottom of the barrel. Vino tinto, Serge”.

  “Diego, a little civility,” admonished Veronique half-heartedly. She pushed her glass towards the bartender and lit another cigarette, trying to regain her previous air of studied boredom. Her boredom was matched by De La Gena’s disregard for the others.

  Ever the diplomat, Schell moved to intercede when an argument broke out between the billiards players. So Pierce found himself standing in awkward silence between the two of them, wondering who would break first and speak. The Spaniard seemed content alone with his wine and Veronique probably wouldn’t talk to him until Schell returned.

  “I suppose I could offer something close to acceptance,” broke De La Gena first, turning from the bar to face Pierce and Veronique. When neither seemed to comprehend, he sighed heavily and said, “sharing gossip of course.”

  “I find gossip to be tiresome,” countered Veronique unconvincingly.

  “And you …?” He asked turning to Pierce, pretending to have forgotten his name.

  “Pierce,” he said, filling the blank. “Well… I…” he replied haltingly, not really knowing where he stood on gossip.

  “Very well I shall not…”

  “Well if you must tell us,” objected Veronique before De La Gena could continue. De La Gena smiled, feeling he had jus
t won an argument.

  “Prior to joining you here, I had an interesting conversation with Mr. Drummond.”

  “And pray what did the weasel have to say?”

  “We had a very thorough discussion on the current situation of the Hunt,” he continued, ignoring Veronique. “He told me, or rather showed me, about our newest recruit.”

  After taking a sip he ever so subtly touched his eye with the index finger of the hand holding the glass. Pierce looked down in embarrassment, as they had clearly discussed Pierce’s right hook.

  “But more importantly, he told me something of Lord Lodge.”

  “I assume he had nothing good to say about the Master of the Manor,” assumed Veronique.

  “Not at all. He’s very concerned for him in fact. Apparently Lord Lodge is very ill, perhaps terminally. Dr. Cleaver is attending to him as we speak.”

  “Dreadful. But what is to happen if he dies?” she asked, without very much sympathy. Pierce could tell she actually wanted to know how his death might affect her.

  “Drummond assumes that Dr. Cleaver will take control of the Manor. Whether someone takes his place as Master of the Hunt remains to be seen. The situation is unprecedented.”

  “Really? I assume people have died here before,” questioned Pierce.

  “My dear boy, Lord Lodge is the founder of the Hunt and the first of us.” Seemingly exhausted from his conversation with Pierce, De La Gena moved over to one of the lounge chairs grouped in the corner around the room’s sole fireplace.

  His departure was quickly replaced by Schell, returning from his diplomatic interlude between Bufford and Zeidt. He showed significantly more emotion than the others when finding out about Lodge’s condition.

  “That’s terrible, though not surprising. I can’t even begin to figure out how old the man must be. Plus he hasn’t been seen around the Manor for some time, it must be really serious.”

  Pierce was initially confused by the news, knowing it to be false. But then he quickly began thinking of the consequences of such a lie and realized that any potential outcome would be bad. He didn’t know what kind of power struggle he had wandered into at the Manor, but he did know that Lodge presented the best way for him to find out why he was here. Despite this fact, Pierce found his quick decision to act surprising. Usually he took ages to decide on a course of action.

  “Sorry, you were saying?” Pierce asked after hearing distantly hearing his name. He was so engrossed in thought that he didn’t register Schell’s question.

  “I asked if you had ever met Lord Lodge?” repeated Schell. “But of course you didn’t, seeing as you just arrived.”

  “You’re right, I’ve never met him,” covered Pierce as casually as he could. He finished his drink with a final gulp and placed the empty glass on the bar, while motioning the bartender to him.

  “Another drink sir?”

  “Please. And could you direct me to the… uh…,” asked Pierce sheepishly.

  “Of course sir. Out through the hall, the corridor on your right and it is the second door on the left.”

  Pierce nodded his thanks and excused himself from the others, walking past the billiard players and out the door. In the hall he noticed that the music had stopped from the salon, however the murmur of multiple conversations echoed in the large space. Pierce looked around and found the real reason for his departure, a footman standing at attention beneath the large arch.

  “Can you fetch my valet,” requested Pierce as he approached the man. “I’ll be in the billiard room when he arrives.”

  The footman nodded and left, walking with the same methodical pace he had witnessed all the servants of the Manor use. Turning to the right he saw the door the bartender had directed him to and decided to use the facilities, unsure when he’d get another chance.