“Why on earth is it not right here on this wall? Seems very stupid to have placed it so far away!” she complained.
Reginald huffed in response. He was busily feeling his way along the wall. He’d only gone a few steps when Miranda was hit with a blast of light that more than adequately lit up the stairwell – and from what Miranda could see – the whole of the cellar. True they needed light, but Miranda had questioned the necessity for turning on every single one.
“You installed spotlights? Were you expecting a prison escape? Or do you just like to blind those that venture down to this godforsaken section of this condemned building?”
“Oh, you just think you know everything, don’t you? I don’t know who appointed you king of the world, but decisions other than the ones you come up with are valid. And yet, if it’s not done your way, you just complain, complain, complain!”
Miranda shivered and grabbed her sweater tightly around her. She didn’t like this part of the house. It was even more inhospitable than upstairs. There might as well have been a sign posted in the stone that said, “No trespassing,” since that was the sentiment conveyed.
Miranda took a look around at the space demanding to be left alone. With the addition of light, she finally could properly see the layout of the area. The cellar appeared to be one huge square, flanked on all sides with an endless number of doors. Which room housed the collectibles was anybody’s guess.
“Which door is it? There are so many?”
“The one to your right.”
“What are the rest?”
“Just other storage areas – not quite as large.”
“Is anything in them other than the bones of enemies? This was a dungeon, wasn’t it? I swear I can feel an enemy presence still here!”
“There you go, firing off your mouth and imagination. Yes, of course it was a dungeon. During that time, titled people were judge and jury. Luckily times have changed and we don’t keep enemies in our basement – nor mete out punishment with torture devices although I suspect you would love to bring that back in vogue.”
“Oh, you are rapacious at doling out that wit you think you possess! Too bad it doesn’t exist.”
“And neither does any telltale sign of prisoners that may or may not have been held here centuries ago. To answer your legitimate question, most of the rooms are empty, but I think some act as silent guardians for some other less successful portraits of the Weatherly clan.”
Miranda saw the opening and attacked. She wasn’t over Reggie scaring her.
“Oh, you mean, the Weatherly grandchildren that never existed because they all died in some blight? Weren’t they all savaged by a bad case of frostbite that attacked their noses? Didn’t it make their noses all fall off into the snow where they were left to be eaten by spring vultures?”
“I give up again, Miranda! I apologize once more for that ridiculous story I told you. I was just testing to see if it worked. You know, your father helped me concoct it.”
“It’s just like you to shift the blame on someone not here to defend himself. I doubt father had anything to do with it, but in any event, he didn’t tell you to use it to scare me did he?”
“No …” Reginald admitted rather begrudgingly. Miranda really did know the weak places to hit any argument. She would have made a damned fine attorney had she chosen to enter his noble profession.
As they walked towards the room where the collection was kept, Reginald stumbled on a loose bit of stone. She felt a pang of regret for her harsh cross-examination. He swiftly grabbed at the wall and swore at the crumbling mortar beneath his feet. She decided then and there to let up on the whip. She would never forgive herself if she distracted him to the point of falling due to being wrong-footed. She gave a roguish giggle.
“You know, that story does sound so like father!”
They seemed to have gotten past the rough patch – the rest of the stonework in the corridor seemed solid and even. She clutched at her clothing, protectively girding it around her.
“My God, I thought upstairs was bad! This place is like a meat locker! Are you sure you’re not keeping venison down here?”
“No. No game meat that I’m aware of.” He unlatched the door on the right and entered. “Just these.”
Miranda came in behind him, peering at the European treasures for only a short time before the lights in the basement flickered on and off. It was disquieting to be momentarily tossed into an abyss. Miranda collected herself – readying herself to launch into another string of complaints.
“What’s that? Don’t tell me the wiring’s faulty? It would be so unusual to find that sort of thing in England. Now in America we have real lights that you can keep going 24 hours a day!”
“Keep talking, young lady! You’re doing my work for me because that’s precisely how you Americans got into that energy crisis of yours. You Americans and your penchant for wasting electricity!”
Miranda smiled. He had her there. She walked into the room as the lights continued to blink their angry welcome. She recognized many of the articles, but some were a surprise. She spotted what looked like a Fabergé egg on the long wooden table. She walked over to it and picked it up for closer inspection. She had no idea where it came from.
“What’s this?” she queried while examining the tiny egg.
“And you purport to be an expert? Hmph!” Reginald snorted.
Miranda closed one eye and arched a brow.
“You know the temperature is just perfect for me leaving your body down here. It would never be found. There would never be a smell and this place is like a maze so you could just dwell down here in your little basement kingdom for all eternity! Undisturbed! How’s that for a ghost story?”
She more closely inspected the egg paying careful attention to the hallmark. Everything had a ring of authenticity and yet she’d never seen the red egg catalogued. She carefully pushed the miniature red egg open. Inside was a ruby heart. One tear-drop was beneath it. The way it was shaped and positioned, it appeared the heart had shed a bloody tear.
“Why is this here? Did father have this authenticated?”
Reginald buttoned up his vest and placed his ledger down after first clearing a space on the wooden credenza.
“Evidently, babies were switched in the hospital since you have not inherited one iota of your father’s intelligence. Can’t you see that it’s a fake? A very good fake, but an imitation, nonetheless. I’m surprised at you, Miranda. Can’t even do one thing right.”
Miranda ignored the insults. She kept focused on the egg. It fascinated her and she’d never before been captured with an imitation anything. Her credit card statements proved that to be true.
“Are you sure?
“Quite. Asked him myself when I saw it here. Couldn’t have something that valuable in a place like this. It would belong in a vault.”
“But when did he purchase it? Was it represented as a Fabergé?”
“Have no idea. It appeared one day. I’ve suspected ever since that he bought it hoping for a monetary coup. Used to keep it in a cabinet down here. Hidden away. I saw him admiring it one day. Either that or ruing the day he threw good money out the window for it. After his death, I took it out of the cabinet because he did say it was part of this collection. I don’t know why he kept it locked up and never exhibited it. You can see that due to its precise workmanship, it still has a very modest value. Not valuable, in the way a real Fabergé would be, but then who am I telling that to? Even you know that. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about hiding my body down here!” he blasted, moving away and wagging his finger at her. Miranda lost interest in the beautiful forgery and confronted him. Her chin was up, daring him to take a poke. He took her gently by the shoulders instead giving her nose a slight tweak. “I could have you arrested for threatening an old barrister. Now do you want more charges levied against you or are you ready to work?”
“Work!” she answered enthusiastically. She was ready to begin, but he
r mind was tearing into what Reginald had said about the imitation priceless treasure. She suspected Reginald was right about her father having been taken in by it. Most likely, he’d bought the forgery thinking it was real. He’d probably thought he’d made a killing, but then he’d found out it wasn’t genuine. Miranda knew her father better than anyone. She knew that that alone would be a reason for omitting it from the collection – and for never telling her about it. She could well imagine he’d tucked it away – it was his secret shame that an old treasure hunter like her father had been taken to the cleaners. She smiled picturing her father caught with his pants down. It didn’t happen very often. She casually looked up at the overhead lighting. They seemed to be working steadily now. She hoped things stayed that way. They had a lot to get done, and the lights needed to cooperate for them to accomplish their goal.
She walked over to a pair of Victorian panels kneeling down to examine them.
“These are lovely! Let’s start here.”
“Fine,” Reginald replied opening the ledger. “Oh, drat!”
“What?”
“I completely forgot. Your contemptuous behavior towards me made me totally forget that there is another ledger that your father used for this part of the collection. You know there are just so many pages in one book.”
“Why you are a musty bingo brain, aren’t you?” Miranda glibly fired – getting up and smoothing her dress. “I suppose you left the book at home or in your office? How am I supposed to send this collection out on Monday – on schedule and as promised? I can’t and it’s all due to your mistake!”
“I have no idea why you think a little whippersnapper like yourself can tongue lash someone that’s at least three times your age, but then that’s the difference between English and American children. English children are taught manners – and that includes being respectful to their elders.”
He waited thoroughly relishing Miranda rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh. He had landed a good one.
“And as for your question, I have the book. I didn’t forget anything except to bring it inside and that was because of your rushing me. It’s still in my car. If you’re done with your tirade and bad humor, I shall just run up and get it. Are you? Or should I have you sit in the corner for a nice long time-out?”
The overhead lights flickered off and on again this time taking more than a few seconds to recover.
“Is this going to go on all afternoon?”
“I’ll bring some candles with me. I think I have a torch in the car. It’s one of those that are guaranteed to work – even in emergencies. If it doesn’t, I’ll sue and believe you me, I certainly know how!”
“I’ll say, you old scallywag! All you do is collect money from your baseless, nuisance lawsuits against reputable manufacturers! How many have been thrown out of court? 3, or is it 4,000?”
Reginald gave her a fatherly peck on her forehead. He didn’t feel good leaving her down here after what Figgs said, but what excuse could he give for her to accompany him? If he said anything, he could quite possibly open up that can of worms he’d started with that silly ghost story. Besides there were no such things as ghosts … only locals who probably had broken in. And who’s to say Figgs hadn’t had one too many that night? Everybody, even someone as sober as Figgs, had the right to indulge once in a while. Maybe he’d left the trip to the pub out of his story. That would certainly account for him seeing blurry images. It was a distinct possibility.
“Now you just wait right here. It’s not your fault that you’re the result of a pair of very indulgent parents. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
Miranda smiled warmly. She reached out and gave him a hug burying her head in Reginald’s big barrel chest. She felt his suspenders through his vest. She really did love the old coot despite her not wanting to be treated like a child.
Reginald got flustered with her show of affection. He took her arms off of him holding them in his hands. He playfully shook them smiling at the elegant, young woman before him. He tucked her under her chin and then turned to leave.
Miranda was alone – standing in the middle of the cluttered room. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them. She hadn’t forgotten the cold – and it hadn’t forgotten about her. It seemed to be on the attack. She sauntered back to the Victorian panels hearing Reginald’s footsteps echoing as he walked up the stairs. Miranda wondered if she should consider getting in a stonemason to fix the staircase – or at least level it out. She’d hate anyone getting hurt. Maybe she’d bring it up with Reginald when he got back.
The lights flickered again. A beam of light shot out from the glass of the red egg. The glimmer caught her attention. She knew what she’d been told, but she wanted to have a more thorough look. She always drew her own conclusions, and, right now, she didn’t have an answer as to why a fake seemed so perfectly crafted.
She pushed back on her knees, rising quickly. She briskly strode over to the table. As soon as she picked it up, the overhead lights began flickering. This time there was more frequency, and longer lapses in-between. The intermittent blackouts were causing her to remain in complete darkness for lengthier periods of time. It was something she didn’t relish. She began trying to time each and realized that the timing was identical to being stabbed with a knife. Light. The knife was drawn back. Darkness. The knife was swiftly brought forward penetrating the victim’s flesh. The blade twisted in the wound – settling in deeply – only to be withdrawn with the burst of the new dawn.
She shook her head trying to dispel the imagery. It wasn’t helping steady her nerves. When she finally looked around, she could well imagine a shackled prisoner, crying out in pain for water after being stretched on the rack. Even though it hadn’t happened in recent history, the residue of tortured souls remained. She could feel the agony in the walls … and in the air. With Reginald near, the knowledge hadn’t bothered her, but now … left alone … it became omnipresent. It was all she could think about. The prisoners, pain, knives, stabbings … death.
Miranda refused to go down that road she had traveled earlier. It was just old wiring. When she had the staircase looked at, she might have an electrician see what they could do to bring the wiring up to code. In fact, she might have it all replaced.
Her attention returned to the egg she held in the palm of her hand. She raised it above her, eagerly searching out the hallmark she’d seen earlier. The mark hadn’t appeared sloppy at first blush, but she couldn’t be sure with the bloody lights going off and on. She prayed for the light to hold steady and stop cutting in and out. It didn’t happen –the intervals only increased into what could be described as interminable slips into darkness. It was maddening to work under these conditions and certainly not ideal to prove authenticity – of anything. She persisted, to no avail. If turned out to be genuine, it wasn’t one of the 61 Fabergé eggs that were known to exist. She could recite from memory, complete descriptions of each of them, but this … this certainly had all the earmarks of being authentic. The craftsmanship, the proportion, the attention to detail, and the cypher were all apparent The lights came on again. They burned steadily for a few seconds, she rushed to take advantage. She craned her neck straining to see before …
“Mi-ran-da … ”
Miranda jumped. Although the voice had been no more than a whisper – someone had spoken her name. At least, she’d thought she heard her name. She looked around the entire perimeter of the room – through the flickering light –to make sure she was alone. She was. Just her and her father’s antiques. No one could hide here. It was impossible. The light illuminated the room and what were now her possessions. It blinked and went away as Miranda was treated to tiny slices of darkness no thicker than someone’s flayed skin.
She cocked her head to gain an advantage as the unwelcome light show continued. The pace became faster and steadier resembling a black light straight out of the 60s. She became slightly dizzy and unbalanced as the razor-sharp knife increased its stabbing frenzy.
She turned towards the back wall – where she thought the sound originated. She wasn’t sure – it had been so faint. One step above inaudible. Her back was to the door – her eye focused on the wall – watching the spectacle of man-made eclipses as light appeared and disappeared on its surface. The intermittent play of light and dark made it difficult for her eyes to adjust to the extreme contrasts. Her vision was affected – everything now tinged with surrealism as if not really there. Her heart beat increased in tempo as she strained to see the supporting wall. Her eyes found its secret – a series of small round holes in the mortar and plaster. Remnants of where the leg and arm irons had been attached. By the height, she wondered if the prisoners had been given enough slack to sit down and drop their arms. Probably not. The height was another way to heap more abuse on the captives. It made it impossible for their arms to be anything but held over their head.
Her eyes traveled the length of the wall. The stonework was old, but holding its own against Father Time. The way the large pieces of stone were stacked reminded Miranda of a stone age honeycomb. It was no more than a mutually beneficial network of solid bulging masses that had succumbed to a liquid permanently suffocating them into position, but the voice … where had it come from? Her eyes swept the wall one more time. She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she’d heard anything. The debilitating cold continued its punishing attack. It was causing her to tire. She yielded to a wide, uncharacteristically unattractive yawn.
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 7