Iron Chamber of Memory

by John C. Wright

  To the rear, he saw half a dozen men in work clothes hoeing and ditching in the barren brown square of what had once been the gardens. Two more lads, armed with ladders, were in the apple tree arbor. He wondered if these were the Levriers, whom he had heard called the worst gardeners on the island. He saw one of them digging with his hands rather than a shovel, and suspected it might be so.

  Something winking and shining in the grass at the foot of an apple tree caught his eye.

  Shells

  Hal came closer, and saw the sunlight reflected off a small metal object as big as a man’s finger. He stooped and plucked it from the grass. It was a spent shell from a heavy-caliber rifle.

  He looked, and saw this tree was marred and scraped with claw marks. The bark was peeled away in long parallels, and the living wood beneath was scarred. Hal stepped under the tree, knelt down. Here were dozens of spent shells where the grass was trampled, and a broken twigs overhead. The number of shells was frightening to him. He was not sure why, but his heart was pounding madly.

  Preoccupied, Hal jumped when a huge dog behind him spoke. “What’ve you got there, sir?”

  Hal found himself on his feet, back to the tree, walking stick raised high like a weapon. A stalwart and scruffy-looking freckle-faced red-haired man in a full beard and a brown smock was reeling back, saying, “Hold on, hold on, sir! I meant no harm!”

  Hal blinked, wondering what he had just seen. Was his mind playing tricks? The man was about his age, give or take a year, and burly like a linebacker. His hands were horny with hard work and looked like he could crack walnuts in his knuckles without resorting a nutcracker. “Sorry! I was just thinking you were a—that is, I am startled. Are you Levrier?”

  “Liam’s my name, sir.”

  Hal pointed at the ground, then at the tree. “What do you make of this?”

  “That’s not my fault, sir.”

  “No one is blaming anyone for anything, Liam. You asked me what I have. Here.” Hal tossed him the shell.

  Liam sniffed the shell. “Fired not today, but not long past. No rust. A week or two.”

  “Fired by whom?”

  “England has pretty strong laws about guns, but hunting is still allowed for some lords.”

  “Fired at what?”

  “Hm. I don’t know what you’d shoot with this. Maybe a yak. But ain’t no yaks in these parts. There is Red Deer in the woods yonder.” He gestured toward Wrongerwood. “But they belong to the Queen, and no one hunts them.”

  “Are there still Red Deer in England?” Hal asked, feeling a moment of delight. “But how could they be on this small island?”

  “That I could not say, sir. Island is bigger than it seems. And your eyes would be big as saucers, if you knew what can come out of them woods.”

  Hal said, “How do you read these marks and prints?”

  “Someone came from the house, seems like, with a long stride, wearing boots, firing every step he took at some beastie. Pretty large, seeing the size of those claws. Chased it into the tree, and then stood underneath, and fired rounds into the beast point blank.”

  “What happened to the body?”

  Liam shrugged. “Dragged away by the hunter, most like.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Now, if I were a wagering man, I would have said yourself, sir.”

  Hal tried to hide his expression, but he felt that same sensation he remembered when he was a young boy in school, the day he learned the world was spinning at unimaginable speeds while whirling about the sun which was orbiting the core of the Milky Way, that was, in turn, rushing through intergalactic space in toward the core Virgo Cluster. It was too much motion at once, too dizzying.

  “You’re the American,” said Liam. “You have the key to the house. You’ve gone sporting and hunting with Lord Manfred before, back when he was Mr. Hathaway.”

  “How the devil do you know that?”

  Liam grinned sheepishly. “I was his Lordship’s loader when you were shooting grouse in Scotland, sir. Dame Hathaway sent me to mind him, and I needed the work. I stood two feet from you, and heard all your talk with him about books and cars and some right scandalous talk about women, sir. You don’t remember me, do you, not a wee bit? Not to worry! Folk never look at those who wait on them in the face, not even Americans.”

  “And about the keys?”

  “You walked up here last week, in the night, and let yourself into the main house. You went up the only road, and you were not crawling in tall grass nor ducking your head, so everyone in the village saw you. You were alone with that Miss du Lac. On this island she has a name. We call her the Charming Girl.”

  Hal reached into his overcoat pocket, meaning to pull out his memorandum book and double check the date. Something about Liam’s story was not quite right. Manfred only knew of Dame Hathaway as a distant relative back two years ago. How could she have known he needed a servant for his sport shooting that weekend? But then he realized he had replaced the book into his other pocket after he had made a note earlier. What, then, was this? It was about the same size and shape as a small book, but much heavier.

  He drew it out of his pocket. It was a flat black case with a silver clasp shaped like an ermine spot. Inside were a row of cartridges in loops. The case was mostly empty.

  Liam silently held the spent cartridge up to the bullets in the case. The caliber and model was the same. “I say ‘twas you, sir, that shot whatever it was.”

  Hal turned, trying to see which garret window was the one which contained that barren upper room with the cot. There were four garret windows peering from the slope of the roof.

  “Why don’t I remember it, then?”

  “That I cannot say, sir.”

  Dining by Firelight

  Burdened by thoughts, he did not see at first that the main door was answered before he knocked by a freckle-cheeked redhead in a white cap and lacy apron. “Hello?” he said, surprised. “And who are you?”

  She curtseyed. “Brigit is my name, sir. You’re the American?”

  He put his hand out to shake, and she stared at it, and giggled, but before he could withdraw it, she seized it with both hands and shook it energetically. “How-dee!” she said, in an atrocious mimic of a Yank accent.

  “I’ve just been engaged,” she said. “I am Mrs. Columbine the Cook’s daughter.”

  For a moment he wondered whom she was marrying, or how she could marry twice, so it took him a moment to unmistake her meaning.

  She escorted him past empty rooms and unopened crates into the West Wing, and suddenly there was carpeting beneath, and wallpaper on the walls. The dining hall itself had tall and thin windows looking toward the west. The slender and level sunbeams passed overhead and struck the far wall, leaving the room below in shadow. There were candles in branched candlesticks on the white linen table cloth, but it served to emphasize rather than alleviate the thickness of the shadows lurking among the roof beams, or behind the pillars. The light came from a walk-in fireplace, large as a blacksmithy, roaring and whistling. On the chimney stones above was an image of the watchful lion of Sark wrought in pale metal.

  Laurel was there, wearing a blue silk strapless floor-length gown with a sweetheart neckline that seemed to cling to her form by magnetism. She wore opera gloves, and opals in her coronet. Her black hair fell down around her like the mantilla of a Spanish bride, or the hood of a Blackfriar, and spilled over the arms of her chair. At her breast, shining, flickering with light that breathed when she breathed, was the diamond pendant.

  The sight of her took away his power of speech.

  Manfred wore a jacket and a dark expression.

  The dinner seemed curiously formalized, a stageplay presented for no audience. Manfred and Laurel sat at opposite ends of a long table, and an old Welshman with a scarred and blackened face named Mr. Nodenson acted as butler and footman, and brought the dishes from the kitchen.

  “I am having more security installed,” said Manfred,
after they were done with the soup and had toasted each other’s health. He stood and ceremoniously carved the joint with a large knife. He pointed with his knife at the windows. “Some of the local boys came by last night for a bit of vandalism. I have a few smashed windows to replace, and some beer bottles tossed against the bricks to have picked up, but it is worrisome. I want grates on some of the windows and doors.”

  He sat and passed the plates to Mr. Nodenson, who carried them the long way down the absurdly long table to where Hal sat midmost, and, then, eventually, to Laurel at the far end.

  “What is stopping you?” asked Hal.

  He wanted to tell Manfred first thing about what he’d heard in the Pub, and seen in the back gardens, but he eyed the burned and blackened face of Mr. Nodenson warily, not knowing if he were a local, and decided to wait until he could speak to Manfred out of earshot.

  Manfred said, “The National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty has a veto over everything I do. One the one side, they are against my marriage, since they hope Wrongerwood House will be donated to them in lieu of death duties when I die. On the other, the Director-General is Dame Helen-Gosh, who used to play cards with Dame Hathaway, so I may have some influence there. Now, if I could afford to hire more lawyers, there is certainly more work to be done! Mr. Twokes is going mad.”

  Laurel smiled sweetly, “He has not far to go. Really, darling, if you’d taken my advice and gotten rid of that creaky old curmudgeon, and hired someone younger, and, well, hungrier, you might have had the lights on by now.”

  Manfred ignored her and continued, “Twokes got a preliminary injunction quashed, and so the undisputed fraction of the money from the trust and the estate is in my hands now, and it was enough to hire the gardeners, and the woman who comes up from the village at mealtimes to cook for me. It is not permanent staff, mind you!”

  “If you had spent the money on a modern kitchen, you could do all the cooking yourself,” Laurel said. “I don’t know what you English have against comfort! If a microwave or electric stove is too continental and revolutionary for you, what about a gas stove?”

  Hal took a bite of the meat, and found it so delicious and savory, he had to smother a full-mouthed mumble of pleasure. He wondered if this were because it was cooked over naked flames on a spit, the old-fashioned way?

  Manfred said, “The power company man evidently hates me personally and is carrying out a weird vendetta by trying to annoy me to death rather than shoot me cleanly in the head. He says he cannot connect anyone with outstanding liens. And the man from the Television Licenses Authority is mad as a hatter, for he insists I pay the damned tax into the Government Consolidated Fund before the lien is released on the property! And when I tell him I don’t even own one of those damned idiot boxes, he insists that I give an inspector a tour of the house, unlocking every door and attic for him to confirm I don’t have one. Does he think Edward the Confessor hid his telly on the Island of Sark, and picked this pile as the place to squirrel it away? What utter rot! The man actually thinks I can take time off from writing my dissertation to come down here and prove I am free from television. I should take another IQ test, and if it has not dropped sharply, that should suffice to prove I don’t own one!” He stabbed his fork into the meat with a sharp motion, and grinned.

  Hal said, “That is a bit harsh on him, Manny. Why can’t you just take a few hours off from studying to come unlock the doors here?”

  The grin vanished. “Listen, old man, you might think you have time to spare working on your dissertation, taking off long and lazy afternoons to go golfing and all that, but some of us want the grand and glorious title of Doctor of Philosophy!” Manfred shook his head dubiously. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you of late, but fortunately I have the library stocked with copies of my books and materials from school. Let us hurry the dinner, because reading by gaslight is something awful. We have about two hours before sunset.”

  Laurel said, “But Henry must come with me to see the house!” She turned and smiled at him, and Hal ached at the sight. He almost did not hear what she said. Something about furniture and goods from old Dame Hathaway being returned from storage, now that the law recognized Manfred as the heir. “And some of the paintings are priceless! The conservator had already collected bids from museums and such before Manfred popped up. You must come and see! There is this one chamber—no one seems to know when it was added to the house, and it is not on the floorplans or described in the Historical Trust documents.”

  But Manfred was scowling. “We need the time to work, and Hal much more than I. Do you know how much is riding on getting this Fellowship? They are not going to give you an extension, you know. It is time to crack the whip! I thought that was the whole point of us getting together today?”

  Hal said, “No, not at all. You invited me here so that we could uncover the riddle of the house. We said. We were drinking at that place in Wareham or Worgret or wherever it was. The Grain-mill or something it was called. Don’t you remember?”

  Manfred said, “What riddle? I remember you said we would study and study hard. It was to be like a quest.”

  “No, that is not what we said at all! The quest was to discover what secret this old house is hiding, and why time and memory seem out of joint. Things not adding up, you said.”

  Manfred shook his head. “I said I was confused and saddened over the sudden death of my relations. That is what I said did not add up. But all that talk of reality out of joint—I thought you just meant you are muddled and confused. Which you are! I also wanted to get you out of that smoke-filled hole where you lodge. All that stench of tobacco from the shop below! Terrible for the concentration.”

  “But the house is more important!”

  Manfred now scowled darkly. “Do you know how much tuition, how many hours, what sacrifices I have made? To fall short now—my career would be over! No, Henry, no! The mystery is merely that the both of us have not been getting enough sleep. I have been staying up late with this paper, and these legal matters. I have been working so hard and you—well, what in damnation have you been doing? You never seem to actually do any work on this paper of yours! Have you even started writing it?”

  Hal took another sip from his wineglass. “Manny, I don’t know what’s come over you. I mean, I suppose it is like you to worry, but why are you so worried? There is plenty of time!”

  Manfred stared at him in wordless astonishment. “Have you gone mad? Easter break is nearly upon us. After that it is but mere weeks until the end of the term. The paper was assigned last year. Have you forgotten the deadline?”

  Laurel laughed, and her bright, silvery notes of mirth banished the sudden tension that had filled the air. “Oh, darling, don’t fret so! Henry is a genius; you have always said so. He can pull off writing a paper without all this fuss. And besides, why do you need an academic career now? You are the Lord of the Manor and the Master of the Island! The last living feudal lord in all of Europe, in all the world, and the families owe you rents and duties and oaths of undying loyalty. Very romantic, don’t you think so, Henry? Just like your King Arthur you are writing about, isn’t it? But you must come with me and see what we’ve done to move the treasures of Wrongerwood back to their proper places. You must come with me, Henry. You must come, or I shall be very cross with you.”

  Hal stared at the diamond rising and falling. The hardness of the stone and the softness of the breasts between which it nestled fascinated him.

  A silent inner voice told him not to go with this frivolous girl, and to stick to his books—it had been a while since he had done serious work on his paper, hadn’t it been? But there was the necklace he had given her. He did not remember giving it to her, and yet, he must have done, mustn’t he? He had certainly been the one who bought it for her.

  Hal said, “Well, Manfred must come with us.”

  Manfred stood up, the anger like sparks in his eyes, despite his iron face showing no expression. “I am
going to the library to study before I lose the light. Henry, do as you like!”

  And, although Hal had not finished his plate, when the master of the house stood, the scar-faced old Welshman stepped forward diffidently to take his plate away.

  The green-eyed girl skipped forward lightly and seized on Hal’s arm. Her white and slender hands, of course, could not budge his arm an inch, but she tugged and smiled. “First we must see the Rose Crystal Chamber! The keyring Manfred gave me, I left it in there, and we need it to open some of the doors. He only gave me a few, not all. I wonder why? He is so strange at times…”

  Hal was staring at her, realizing he could not refuse her anything. Even though it was wrong, even though he should study, even though the girl knew nothing of Hal’s passion for her, and even though Manfred was having doubts—despite all, he had no strength to resist, because he wished to have none. What had Liam said the islanders called her? The charming girl. Of course, her name in their patois must have been like the French: Le fille charmant.

  Of course, the word charming in French also meant cunning.

  7. Dreams in the Chamber

  The Torn Dress

  Memory struck. They were in each other’s arms, kissing with mad ardor. But her eyes blazed; there was anger mingled with her passion.

  Suddenly she twisted out of his embrace. Laureline fended Henry off, one slim arm against his broad chest. Her eyes were narrowed and gleamed with green fire. “You don’t want me!”

  “I don’t?” Henry wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Why would you say that?”

  He started to undo the back of her dress, but he moved his hand carefully, not wanting to tear the fragile silk loops holding the pearl buttons. She learned forward and bit his earlobe hard enough to make him yelp.