Sonnet to a Dead Contessa

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’d like to see the play again.”

  “Why, Meredith, you’ve seen it half a dozen times.”

  “I know, but I’d like to go again. Would you leave word for them?”

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket, found a pencil, and wrote something on it. “Give this to the doorman. He’ll let you in.”

  “And can I go out to eat with the rest of you?”

  “It’ll be hard on Guin,” he said.

  “She’ll sleep through the whole thing. Please, Dylan, let me come.”

  “All right. We’ll go out with the crew, and you’ll see what a scurvy bunch we are.”

  “No, I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  She was excited now, he saw, and a thought came to him. Why, she could be an actress. She has a glow about her, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. He stood there holding Guin for a moment, looking at her and studying her fine skin and dark hair.

  “You love children, don’t you, Dylan?”

  “Very much. I’ve gotten very close to Lady Trent’s son, David.”

  “I wonder why Lady Trent never remarried.”

  The question troubled Dylan. “I think there was a problem with her first husband—though she never talks about her marriage.”

  “She’s in love with you, Dylan.”

  Dylan’s head went back, and he stared at her. “Why, don’t be foolish, Meredith! Of course she’s not.”

  “Do you think I don’t know? You’ve been blinded by so many women chasing after you. I don’t think that’s good for you.”

  “I don’t think so either, but I never seek such a thing.”

  She was watching him carefully now and said, “She’s just like the other women who pursue you. Have you ever thought what it would be like if you were to marry her?”

  “That could never happen.”

  “But if you did, what would it be like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would be terrible for you. She’d see you as one of the servants. Oh, perhaps above the butler, but still not the man of the house. She rules the house, I understand, and she’s nobility, Dylan, and you’re not.”

  “Well, I won’t worry about that because it will never happen. I’ll meet you backstage after the play. We’ll have a good time.”

  After he left the small house that he had rented for Meredith and Guin, he thought about what she had said. Marry Serafina? Could never happen! Fine ladies like her don’t marry actors. Her family would die of shame. He put the matter out of his mind and whistled as he headed toward the theatre.

  Serafina sat in Grant’s office at Scotland Yard. Both of them were discouraged, for they had made little progress in the case. Serafina studied the lists of clues, and Grant exhaled a deep breath. “I tell you, Serafina, it’s getting the best of me.”

  “You’re going to catch this monster,” Serafina said. “I came to tell you that I have an invitation tonight to a dinner given by Gerhard Von Ritter. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Without an invitation?”

  “He doesn’t care. He just likes an audience. He’ll be impressed that the superintendent of Scotland Yard would come.”

  “I’d like to learn more about him anyway. After all, one of the clues can be traced to him—that newspaper article about his recent play. What sort of a fellow is he?” Matthew asked curiously. “I’ve heard all sorts of stories.”

  “Well, as you know, he writes plays. He also writes poetry. Rather good, from what I hear. But he’s a violent radical. He’s German, you know, and he’s got that old dramatic idea that there’s a master race. He despises weak, dark-skinned people. Even the Russians he hates. I’ve heard him say they are inferior beings.”

  “What are his plays and poetry like?”

  Serafina tapped her chin with her forefinger, thought for a moment, and then said, “He stresses male dominance.”

  “He puts women down.”

  “Oh heavens, yes! To him a woman is to be used, and when their use is not to be desired, they will be thrown away. We are inferior beings. He feels that Islam has the right idea about heaven.”

  “What is their idea?”

  “The Muslims believe that if a man goes to heaven, he’ll have a whole group of beautiful, big-bosomed, dark-eyed virgins to wait on him.”

  Matthew suddenly grinned. “I believe I could make up a better heaven than that.”

  “Anyone could. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Why do the Muslim women stand for it?”

  “They’ve been dominated for hundreds of years. They’re slaves, Matthew. I feel sorry for them. But, of course, there are some slaves who have English names and walk the streets of London.”

  Matthew stared at her. “I suppose you’re right about that. Well, I’ll come. I’d like to hear Von Ritter.”

  “You’ll get a good meal out of it anyhow. His chef is famous.” She rose to her feet and said, “I’ll go over the list again, and I’ll study the poem. Maybe we can head this infamous Slasher off before he kills again.”

  “We’d better. The Home Office is practically camping on my desk. I think they may be looking for a new superintendent if I don’t get some action soon.”

  “You’ll find him,” she said and smiled and left his office.

  Serafina looked around the table. She was seated next to Matthew, and she saw that he was stricken silent by the ornate dinner that was being served. It had been almost overwhelming. The first course had been a bisque. This was followed by salmon or deviled whitebait. The fish was followed by entrées of curried eggs, sweet-breads, and mushrooms, and when the entrée plates were cleared away, they were served iced asparagus. There was other food that flowed steadily past them, including seven cheeses, Neapolitan cream, and raspberry water. There were pineapples, strawberries, apricots, cherries, and melons.

  By the time the meal was half-over, Serafina was tired of food. It was ostentatious and gaudy and showed poor taste. She studied Gerhard Von Ritter, who sat at the head of the table. He was a tall man, lean, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes—rather the ideal dramatic superhero. His eyes glittered at times, and while he was handsome, there was a chiselled hardness about his face that made Serafina realise she would never trust this man with anything important. Her eyes went around the table, and she was impressed with the audience. Marquis Jacob Reis was there with his wife, Marchioness Rachel Reis. Across from the marquis were Baron Jacques DeMain, the French ambassador, and his wife, Baroness Danielle DeMain.

  There were several other titled guests, but the surprise of the evening for Serafina was to discover that Martha Bingham was there. She knew that the philosophies of Von Ritter and Martha Bingham were light-years apart, and she suspected that he had invited her to have a target for his philosophy. Next to Martha was Jeanne St. Clair, the young woman who worked with Mr. Henley at the circus. Violet Bates, Martha Bingham’s secretary, was there also, looking very uncomfortable. She fluttered her hands and wore a timid expression on her face continually. From time to time Martha Bingham would put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders and whisper in her ear—which seemed to annoy Jeanne St. Clair a great deal, for she shot angry glances at Violet.

  “I think we’re going to see some fireworks pretty soon,” she whispered to Grant.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s invited the women that he probably despises most. Any man who holds his views on the inferiority of women would despise Martha Bingham and her group. Just wait. It’s going to be like a war. Explosions and death, at least the death that words bring.”

  “I think you’re right,” Matthew agreed.

  Her prophesy proved to be true. As soon as the table was cleared away, Von Ritter began to speak. “I am glad you are all here,” he said. “I wanted to share a few items of interest. One is the fact that interest in women’s rights is dying.”

  Instantly Martha Bingham spoke up. “That is not true, sir. It is going well.”

/>   “You would think so, of course, Miss Bingham. But then, you are a leader of that group, and you have given yourself to this lost cause. Do you not see, my dear Miss Bingham, that a woman is inferior in every respect? Do you know a woman who can run as fast as the fastest man? Or a woman who can lift the weight of a strong man? How many inventions have been thought up by women? All by men.”

  Martha Bingham’s face flamed, and her friend Miss St. Clair gave Von Ritter a look that would have killed, if looks could kill.

  Both Grant and Serafina sat there for the next forty-five minutes. Von Ritter never lost his calm demeanour. His words were cutting and sharp, and he, at times, would glance around the table to see the effect he was having.

  Martha Bingham and Jeanne St. Clair were no match for Von Ritter. At first they deteriorated to screaming rebuttals and then were silenced by his array of facts.

  Von Ritter turned and said, “Lady Reis, what is your opinion of my theories?”

  “I think you know,” she said. “I think there are superior women and inferior women, but to give women the vote would be futile and even stupid.”

  “You say that, a woman, and you deny your own sex!” Martha Bingham cried out.

  “Women are not constituted for such things—except for a few.”

  “Oh, women like yourself.”

  “Exactly, and like Lady Trent there. She is a scientific person. Not at all like the women you find on the streets or washing dishes in a brothel. No, Miss Bingham, I’m sorry, but few women are the equal of men.”

  Lady DeMain said, more or less, the same. Her husband, Jacques DeMain, said almost nothing, and in the end Martha Bingham got up and left the room, followed by her two disciples.

  “I apologise for my guests’ sudden departure,” Von Ritter said. “But, after all, what can you expect?”

  After the meal Matthew and Serafina got into their carriage, and Matthew said, “He’s a snake, Lady Trent.”

  “Yes, he is. I’ve never seen such cold eyes.”

  ELEVEN

  One room of the Trent mansion had become a longtime favourite of Serafina’s. It was more or less concealed behind several other rooms as if it had been added as a hiding place for someone seeking quietness and seclusion. Perhaps it had been originally a bedroom, and as Serafina sat in a horsehide chair, she let her eyes run around it, thinking of the many hours she had spent in this place.

  The room was an interesting mixture of styles. On one side stood an old Chinese silk screen that had once been a great beauty but was now faded, and its wooden frame was scratched in places. She let her eyes rest on it, finding in its aged beauty an elegance that gave it a charm and comfortable grace. Across from the screen against the wall was a Russian samovar on a side table. A collection of Venetian glass gleamed in a cabinet, and a French clock ticked on the mantel shelf above the fireplace. In all of the furniture there was a suggestion of great age and yet of beauty that, for some reason, Serafina treasured.

  With a sigh she looked down at the papers she had scattered on the mahogany desk, and for a moment a wave of sadness came to her. “I miss Margaret,” she whispered aloud, and the sound of her own voice increased her sadness. Serafina did not have many close friends, and Margaret Acton had played a larger role in her life than she had realised. Now memories came trooping through Serafina’s mind of Margaret in her lively, vivacious way, and her love of humour, her kindness, her generosity—all the things Serafina had treasured in this woman, this friend she had lost in such a horrible fashion.

  A cuckoo clock against the wall announced the passing of the hour. “Ten o’clock,” Serafina murmured and forced herself to look down at the papers. They were the history she had collected from Matthew of the known facts of the Slasher’s trail of blood. She had read them over and over, and with her phenomenal memory she had no need to see the facts on paper, but still, trying to organise them into some meaningful solution had proven impossible. Maybe I’m too close to the thing. I loved Margaret so much, and perhaps my logic has given way to sentiment. The thought passed through Serafina’s mind, but she shook her head, and stubbornness appeared in her broad mouth as she straightened up and said, “There’s got to be an answer here, and we’ll find it somehow.”

  A tap at the door caught Serafina’s attention, and she called out at once, “Come in.” Louisa Toft opened the door and stepped inside. She had been Serafina’s maid for a short period of time but had proven herself invaluable. She was a beautiful young woman of twenty-three with red hair and green eyes and a rather spectacular figure. Her eyes sparkled now as she said, “Lady Trent, Mr. Tremayne is here.”

  “Oh, thank you, Louisa. I’ll be right down. Show him to the small parlour, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Serafina got up, arranged the papers, and slipped them into a folder. She was encouraged by Dylan’s arrival, and she knew that David would be ecstatic. Dylan had a day off, and there was no performance on this particular Saturday, it being a national holiday. She found herself hurrying along and wondered as she moved toward the stairs why she was acting so. It’s like I am a teenage girl with some sort of a wild attraction for a man, she scolded herself.

  Descending the stairway, she met Ellie coming out, and Ellie said, “I’ll fix tea if you like, Lady Trent.”

  “Yes, and bring some of those fairy cakes that Cook made earlier today.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.” She sighed, her bosom rising and falling with some sort of passion. “Mr. Dylan, he don’t look half fine! You’ll see,” she said. “Them britches he’s got on is a dream!”

  Serafina could not help being irritated but, at the same time, amused. “Never mind Mr. Tremayne’s britches. Go get the tea and fairy cakes.”

  “I’ll be right back with all the fixin’s, ma’am.”

  Serafina entered the parlour, which was often used to entertain a small number of guests. It was decorated discreetly with green velvet and rosewood furniture. There was a comfort in the space, and sunlight streamed in through the windows, lending a cheerful air to the room.

  “Good morning, Dylan—,” Serafina said and then broke off, for there beside Dylan was Meredith Brice, and in Dylan’s arms was the two-year-old Guinivere, who turned to stare at Serafina with wide blue eyes.

  “Good morning, Lady Trent,” Dylan said cheerfully. He was a sight to behold. He always looked well in his clothing, and this morning he seemed to be dressed in an extra fine fashion. He wore a soft silk shirt with a meticulous, widely flowing cravat and a lightweight, casual jacket. The britches were a light fawn colour, and indeed, Dylan Tremayne was the man to wear the trousers of the period, which fit him like a second set of skin.

  “I brought Meredith and Guinivere along with me this morning. I thought you two could get to know each other.”

  “I told Dylan it was not proper to come uninvited,” Meredith said at once. “But he insisted.”

  “I’m happy to have you, Mrs. Brice.”

  “Oh, please call me Meredith.” She was wearing, Serafina noticed, an outfit that looked familiar, and she suspected it was one of her own.

  “I’m glad to have you,” Serafina said. “Won’t you sit down? My maid is bringing tea and some excellent fairy cakes.”

  Dylan sat down, still holding Guinivere in his lap. “I’m teaching Guinivere some nursery rhymes,” he said. “She’s a bright girl.”

  “I’m sure she is, and very attractive too, Mrs. Brice.”

  “Please just call me Meredith. Oh yes, these two are inseparable. I never saw a man so able to gain the confidence of a child.”

  Serafina looked at Guinivere and saw that she had dark hair and large brown eyes, well shaped, and very intelligent. “She must take after her father.”

  “Why, yes, she does.”

  “I must admit I can’t see much of old Lewis in her, but sometimes genes jump back,” Dylan said cheerfully. “Probably takes after her grandmother.”

  “Yes, Lewis’s mother did have da
rk hair and brown eyes.”

  The door suddenly burst open and David came flying in. “Hello, Mr. Dylan.”

  “Well, hello, David. Look who I’ve got—Miss Guinivere here. Do you suppose we could take her with us while we play soldiers?”

  “Yes, let her come,” David said. “Guinivere? That’s the name of King Arthur’s wife.”

  “That’s right. So she’s actually a princess. Come along. If you ladies will excuse us.”

  “What about your tea and fairy cakes?” Serafina said.

  “Have Ellie bring them up to the playroom, if you will, and lots of them. We’re going to be hungry with all the battles we’re going to have with those men of yours, David.”

  Dylan left, holding Guinivere in the crook of one arm and towing David along by his free hand.

  Meredith Brice sat down and smiled, saying, “He’s wonderful with children.”

  “Yes, he certainly is. I’ve noticed that before.”

  The two women sat there speaking mostly of the raising of children until finally Ellie brought the tea and the fairy cakes. “Take tea and cakes up to Mr. Dylan and the children, please, Ellie.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

  Meredith smiled and said, “Your maid is very attractive. She’s quite taken with Dylan, isn’t she?”

  “Why, I think she is attracted to him.”

  “Most women are. I’ve seen them at the theatre. I’m not surprised that you would be drawn to him.”

  Serafina was taken off guard by this remark. “We’ve become very good friends.”

  “I suppose he feels safe around you.”

  Serafina blinked with surprise. “What do you mean, ‘feels safe’? Why wouldn’t he feel safe around me?”

  “Well, the women that crowd around Dylan at the theatre and even follow him on the street, there’s always a danger he could become—well . . . involved with one and then have to marry her. But that could never be a problem with you.” She laughed suddenly and said, “I can understand your being attracted to him, but then, of course, nothing could ever come of it.”