Sonnet to a Dead Contessa

by Gilbert, Morris

  Serafina felt a bright flicker of anger and could not explain it. “Something has already come of it, Meredith,” she said, deliberately using the woman’s first name.

  “I don’t understand you. That sounds almost—”

  “We’ve become very close friends. As I told you before, he was highly instrumental in saving my brother when he was falsely charged with a murder. We worked together to get him free, and since then we have worked on other things together. More than that, I depend on Dylan to help with David. Since David lost his father, Dylan has almost become a second father.”

  “Well, I know that’s been good for your son. I simply meant that you have a title, and Dylan is a commoner. That nothing could ever come of your relationship.”

  “You mean marriage?” Serafina asked directly.

  Meredith was taken off guard. “Yes, I was thinking that.”

  “This is the nineteenth century, not the sixteenth. People with titles do pretty much as they please, and I would pay no attention to a man’s social standing if I loved him.”

  Meredith stared at Serafina and quickly changed the subject. “I was very happy in my marriage. I was married by Rev. Clive Alridge. I suppose you’ve heard of him.”

  “Yes, I have. He became quite a famous man among Evangelicals.”

  “He married Lewis and me. Oh, it was a beautiful wedding. Not like any one you would enjoy.”

  “I don’t see why you would say that.”

  “I mean it wasn’t at Buckingham Palace or St. Paul’s. It was just in a very small church, very plain, but Rev. Alridge made it so real.”

  “I’m sure I would have appreciated that very much.”

  The two women sat there, but as they did, something was nagging at Serafina’s mind. It was something that Meredith had said, and she put it down for study later on.

  The two women had run out of small talk, and finally Serafina said, “I usually go up and sit in on the play times that Dylan and David have. It’s quite a lot of fun for me to watch. Shall we go up?”

  “Oh yes, that would be nice.”

  The two women ascended the stairs, and when they got to the large room that had once been a nursery, they heard Dylan’s voice, melodious and pleasant and filled with excitement. The two moved inside, and neither David nor Dylan paid the slightest attention. As they took their seats, Dylan flashed them a warm smile and then turned back. “Another story that I’ve always liked is about a wicked king called Sennacherib. He was king of Assyria. He was a powerful king with an enormous army, and he sent word to Israel that he was coming to destroy their country and make slaves of them all.”

  “Did he do it?” David asked.

  “You wait and listen, Master David Trent! A good storyteller never gives away the end.”

  “Is der a girl in de story?” Guinivere piped up in her two-year-old treble voice.

  “No, it’s not so much about little girls. That will come later.”

  “What happened, Mr. Dylan?”

  “Well, the king of Israel was a very good man named Hezekiah, and Hezekiah knew that his army was so small he had no chance at all against the king of Assyria. So what he did was decide that God would have to help him. When King Hezekiah heard this huge army was coming, the Bible says right here”—he pulled a Bible from a table and opened it up—“‘And it came to pass, when king Hezekiah heard it, that he rent his clothes, and covered himself with sackcloth, and went into the house of the LORD.’ And he began to pray that God would save Israel.”

  “Didn’t he get his men ready to fight?”

  “No, they were helpless, Master David, but he sent his servants to see one of God’s great heroes, a man named Isaiah. And when the answer came back, Hezekiah was very happy.”

  “What made him so happy?”

  “The prophet Isaiah said, ‘Thus saith the LORD, Be not afraid of the words that thou hast heard . . . Behold, I will send a blast upon him, and he shall hear a rumour, and return to his own land; and I will cause him to fall by the sword in his own land.’ You see, God has promised that he will take care of problems.”

  “Does God always take care of our problems?” David asked, curiously leaning forward, his eyes bright.

  “Sometimes he lets his people go through terrible times, but Hezekiah continued to pray. He prayed a beautiful prayer, and you’ll like the ending of this story.” Suddenly Dylan shifted his gaze, and his eyes met Serafina’s. He was smiling slightly, and Serafina knew what he was thinking. He knows that I was very unhappy when he told stories like this at one time, but David’s so excited. She smiled back at him suddenly.

  “The army of the king of Assyria came, and they literally surrounded the whole city of Jerusalem, and everyone said, ‘We’re all going to die,’ but Hezekiah knew better because he had the word of the Lord.”

  “And what happened then?” David demanded.

  “Well, let’s read it from the Bible. It says here in verse 36 of the thirty-seventh chapter of Isaiah, ‘Then the angel of the LORD went forth, and smote in the camp of the Assyrians a hundred and fourscore and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses.’”

  “Hurray!” David shouted.

  “Hurray, indeed, or amen, as we would say now.”

  “What did the king of Assyria do?”

  “Well, the next verse says, ‘Sennacherib king of Assyria departed, and went and returned, and dwelt at Nineveh. And it came to pass, as he was worshipping in the house of Nisroch his God, that Adrammelech and Sharezer his sons smote him with the sword.’”

  “I’m glad. He was a bad man.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Anutter one! Wif boys and girls,” Guinivere said.

  “All right,” Dylan laughed. “I’ll tell another story. Once there was a little girl who looked just like you do . . .”

  Serafina listened as Dylan told a fanciful story, knowing that he was making it up, and she marvelled again at his imagination. She glanced at Meredith, who was staring at Dylan with the most peculiar expression. Why, she’s in love with the man already! Maybe she was his childhood sweetheart, but it looks to me as if she is ready to take up where they left off. The thought disturbed her so much she could barely listen to the story as Dylan unfolded it.

  Meredith, Guin, and Dylan stayed for dinner. It was a simple enough meal, but the family were all there, including Septimus, Alberta, Dora, and Serafina’s brother, Clive. Everyone was fascinated by Meredith Brice. Clive whispered to Serafina, “She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dylan fell in love with her.”

  “Don’t be foolish! She’s just an old friend,” Serafina said crossly.

  “Wish I had old friends that looked like her.”

  “Be quiet, Clive. You’re so ridiculous.”

  Later on, when the men had gone into the smoking room, Meredith was left alone with Serafina once again. She said abruptly, “I’m going to have to find work soon.” She turned suddenly and said, “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Lady Trent?”

  “About what, Meredith?”

  “About needing to find work.”

  “I’ve always worked.”

  “But your family has always had money. My family didn’t always know where the next meal was coming from. Dylan’s was the same. I think that makes us close together. It must be wonderful to have everything you could possibly want.”

  Serafina stammered, “It—it’s not like that, Meredith.”

  “What do you mean? You could buy anything.”

  “You can’t buy peace of mind or peace of heart. You can’t buy love. There are things that are not available at a local shop.”

  Meredith shrugged. “Well, of course, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Believe it or not,” Serafina said, and her voice fell as she spoke, “life can be hard even for those who have place and money.”

  Meredith stared at her as if Serafina were speak
ing a foreign language. “That’s hard for me to understand . . . Anyway, I think I have a career. At least a job.”

  “Oh, in a shop?”

  “Dylan thinks he can get me a place with his company.”

  “You mean as an actress?”

  “Yes, isn’t that wonderful? He says I look better than most of the actresses and that he can teach me how to act. We’re going to spend a lot of time together working on this. I hope you don’t mind if I take him away from you.”

  There was a meaning in this sentence that lay below the words themselves, and Serafina saw that Meredith Brice was staring at her in almost a feline fashion. There was something under the softness of the woman that seemed predatory, and Serafina found that it made her nervous, even apprehensive—not for herself, but for Dylan Tremayne.

  “I think you’re jealous, Serafina.”

  “What are you talking about, Dora?” The two sisters were having breakfast the morning after Dylan had left with Meredith and Guinivere. “Jealous of whom?”

  “Of Meredith Brice.”

  “Why should I be jealous of her?”

  Dora took a spoonful of strawberries lathered with rich cream and ate them before she answered. “Why, you must see that the two are quite taken with each other.”

  “They’re old friends, Dora.”

  “I know. Childhood sweethearts. Meredith told me. She said Dylan gave her the first kiss she ever had.”

  Serafina picked up a strawberry and popped it into her mouth without answering. Dora studied her and asked, “Doesn’t that make you jealous?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Dora was an interested enough girl in the ways of the world, and she knew her sister very well. “I think,” she said, “you’ve fallen in love with Dylan.”

  “Don’t be foolish! We’re just good friends.”

  Dora turned to face Serafina. She reached out and put her hand on her arm. “I think it’s more than that, and listen. You know more than I do about things like this. But if you love Dylan, you’d better let him know it, or that woman will get him.”

  Dora’s words stayed with Serafina all day long. When she tried to put her mind to solving the identity of the Slasher, the thought would come back to her. She could almost hear Dora’s voice saying again, “If you love Dylan, you’d better let him know it, or thatwoman will get him.” She found this thought extremely disturbing, but also could not seem to drive it from her mind. She went about her work that day, and when night came she still, in her bed, could hear the sound of her sister’s voice.

  TWELVE

  Rachel, I wish you would clean this floor properly! Look at it! It’s a mess!”

  Rachel Fielding, the head housekeeper, looked up in surprise. She was a beautiful woman of fifty years who had lost her husband years ago but had never remarried.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I thought it was clean. I’ll assign one of the maids to clean it.”

  Serafina turned back from the window and waved her hand imperiously. “Look at it. Just look at it! It’s filthy!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll take care of it right away.”

  Septimus turned and looked at his daughter with surprise. He had been standing at a bookcase looking at the titles, but the out-burst of anger from Serafina drew his attention. He reached up with both hands and ran them through his silver hair until it was standing on end, as usual, and finally said, “You were rather hard on her, Serafina.”

  “She doesn’t manage the household very well!”

  “But, my dear, she’s been one of our most dependable servants—and the floor may be my fault. I scattered some of the paper on it.” Septimus moved over to stand beside his oldest daughter. He studied her face thoughtfully and then asked mildly, “Is there something troubling you, my dear?”

  “No!”

  “Such a big no! A simple, gentle, ‘No, Father,’ might have been sufficient.”

  “Don’t try to read into my feelings, Father. I can’t stand them myself,” she said bitterly.

  Septimus suddenly reached out and put his hand on Serafina’s shoulder. He was not a man given to overt gestures of affection, but he did have a loving heart and showed it most often to Dora. Serafina had become almost like a colleague of his. He had drilled her in the elements and basics of scientific thought and practice since she was a child. They had worked together side by side, and he forgot, at times, that she was not his own age. Now he studied her and thought, I haven’t treated this daughter of mine in the right way. I made a drudge out of her, and I should have shown more love. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

  “Oh, I’m just not in a good mood today.”

  “You never used to have moody times, so what brought the bad mood on?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Very well. I wish I could help you.” He stood there for a moment and made an attempt to change the subject. “The Brice woman, she seems to be very attractive and reasonably intelligent, I suppose.”

  Serafina shot a look almost of malice at her father, and he was taken aback. “Why, have I said something to offend you, my dear?”

  “No!”

  “Once again, such a big no. I don’t understand people very well. Anything I can’t put on a dissecting table, I don’t do well with. I wish it were as easy to dissect a soul or a spirit as it is to dissect a body.”

  “Well, it’s not!” Serafina snapped.

  “I suppose not. Don’t you think that Dylan seems to be rather more interested in her than he usually is?”

  Serafina started to shout No! but knew that it would only bring her father’s sharp attention once again. “She’s an attractive woman, and they were friends in childhood.”

  “I haven’t been around them as much as you have, but it seems that Dylan is interested in the woman. He found her a place to live, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did, but he would help anybody.”

  “But he goes to see her and takes her food, and he pays a lot of attention to that adorable child of hers. I wouldn’t be surprised but what something might come of that.”

  Serafina looked at her father with utter disgust. “Nothing is going to come of it!” she snapped.

  “Why—how can you be so sure?”

  Serafina could not answer. As a matter of fact, she was not all that certain that Dylan Tremayne was not interested in Meredith in an intimate, romantic way. He had shown great concern in taking care of the woman, but it seemed to go further than that. And as for Meredith—well, the look she gave Dylan, the way she would touch him in a familiar fashion, putting her hand on his arm, reaching up and touching his hair occasionally—disgusting! There was a possessiveness about her that grated on Serafina’s nerves, and she turned abruptly, saying, “I have to work on these notes I have, Father.”

  “Very well. I’ll leave you to them. If you want to talk, I’ll be available.”

  “Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

  She waited until her father slammed the door behind him, knowing he would do so. Septimus never walked through a door and shut it gently, but for some reason gave it a backhanded push that made the rafters tremble. He had been cautioned often enough by his wife, also by Serafina and Dora, but he never seemed to realise what he was doing.

  She sat down and studied the notes she had made concerning the murders that the Slasher had committed. She peered at the poetry for a long time and was struck at what poor writing it was:

  Hath not a Jew eyes?

  If you prick us, do we not die?

  The world is full of traitors,

  And highborn women mere impersonators!

  Better if they were off the earth—

  Even those of noble birth!

  For over an hour she sat there peering at the poem and the other notes she had made. Once she looked up and said, “This is impossible! Somehow there’s got to be a clue in here that would tell us something about this madman—but what is it?”


  Doggedly she went over the poem line by line, and then for a time she simply closed her eyes and sat back in her chair. The thought came to her, If Dylan were doing this, he would ask God to help him. The thought disturbed her, for she had never asked God for anything, not since she was a child. Since she had met Dylan, however, the idea of God had become very real to her. She had seen him pray and had seen what appeared to be the answers. Now she came as close as she could. She spoke the words aloud: “God, you know what I am—that I have had no faith at all in you. You know I’m grieving over my friend Margaret, and you know that I’m afraid that this maniac will strike someone else. If you’re there at all, help me to . . . see something in this poem that will . . . give me something to work on.”

  She had to force each word out. It was the first prayer she had uttered in many years, since she was a child or a young woman, perhaps. She remembered praying that she would be a good wife to Charles, and that prayer had not been answered—although she had always felt it was not her fault.

  The room was silent. From the open window came the faint voice of a song sparrow making melody on the air. It was a pleasant, cheerful song that ordinarily she loved, but now she shut out the sound and concentrated on the poem.

  Afterward she would never remember the train of events that took place while she sat with her head bowed and her eyes fixed on the poem, seeking desperately to find something that would lead to the Slasher’s identity. At some point a thought began deep within her innermost consciousness. Down in her spirit, as Dylan would have put it. It was not a full-fledged thought, but a mere fragment of an idea so elusive that she could not lay hold on it. She remembered once grabbing at a lizard when she had been only twelve years old and wanting to keep it for a specimen. Every time she almost grabbed the tail of the lizard, he scooted away, and she had scurried after him.

  Now her mind was scurrying mentally, reaching out for the hidden clue that a vicious murderer had implanted, daring someone to find the answer.

  The thought was hidden deep, as if in the deep waters of an ocean cavern many miles below the surface, but as she sat there struggling, it began to rise until finally she had a glimmer that was in her mind. She could put no name to it—but then suddenly it came.