“And Thomas knew all this?” Jon asked, too shocked, [229] to immediately comprehend the enormity of Callie’s revelation. Later, he knew, it would keep him up for long hours into the night.
Callie closed her eyes, as if she could look at Jon no longer.
“Yes. He figured it after the Captain’s second attempt.”
“So, Thomas killed our father?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes still shut.
But Thomas had put his murderous plan into effect days before learning of their father’s plan.
Like Callie, Jon closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see anything. To hear. To feel. A family of patricides and filicides. Suddenly Jon had to get out of the house. He had to be anywhere but Noir Manor. He ran outside. The air was fresh and clean but he couldn’t stand the sight of the uraeus gleaming in the sun. He spotted the sun glinting on the windows of the Glass House and almost instinctively headed for it. It smelled like Death inside, but that smell no longer bothered him.
From where he stood by the door he could still see the Corpse Flower thrusting proudly into the air. Suddenly it seemed rather emblematic of his family. A sudden movement behind the Flower’s tub caught his eye, and automatically he put the doll back inside his shirt as Constable Pierce popped up from where he’d been on the floor, examining the base of the Flower’s container.
“Oh, hello, Jonathan,” he said in his mild voice. “I was just looking around and discovered something rather interesting.”
Jon realized that he could either turn around and walk out of the building, or respond to the Constable’s [230] comment. Somehow, just then, talking seemed the more effortless course.
“What’s that?” he asked without interest.
“Come here. Take a look.”
Jon approached the pot and looked to where Constable Pierce was pointing. There, hidden by the bell of the spathe was a disturbed patch of dirt. It was rather apparent when you noticed it, but Jon had not thought to look there. He’d not thought to examine the vicinity of the Corpse Flower for clues at all.
He gazed up at Constable Pierce, who had a thoughtful look on his face.
“What do you suppose we’ll find if we dig there?” he asked mildly.
Jon glanced at a neighboring bench and found a hand trowel.
“Let’s see,” he said.
“All right,” the constable said, watching Jon closely with his gentle blue eyes.
Jon carefully sunk the trowel into the earth. His movements were controlled, smooth, and calm. It didn’t take long to turn up a small leather bag. Somehow he knew what was inside it, but he looked anyway. He closed the mouth of the bag after a long moment and shut his eyes and grasped the edge of the basin. Pierce’s soft voice somehow penetrated his consciousness.
“I don’t think a supernatural avenger would bury his victim’s heart in the nearest flower pot, do you Jonathan?”
Jon opened his eyes and gazed at Pierce. The constable’s expression was as mild as ever. His voice was [231] soft and gentle. There was no accusation in his eyes as he looked at Jon, only questions.
“No,” Jon said. “I don’t think so.”
“So,” Pierce continued, “you’d agree that the murders were executed by a human agency?”
“Yes,” Jon said. “I do.”
Pierce nodded. “I do, too.” He sighed unhappily. “I’ve been investigating murders for, oh my goodness, twenty-six years now and I’ve yet to see one committed by a ghost.”
“You’ve never been to Geiststadt before,” Jon said in a low voice.
“True,” the constable said. “And I understand strange things happen here. Tell me something,” he said in the same mild tones that a man might use to a beloved but somewhat domineering wife, “you were here, present in Geiststadt, during the time all these murders were committed.”
“Yes.”
“But your brother Thomas wasn’t?”
Jon shook his head. “No. But his valet was.”
“Good lord,” Pierce said. “That’s interesting.” He looked at Jon silently for another moment. “There’s nothing else you’d like to tell me?”
Jon thought of the bloodstained trousers he’d already hidden in a secure place in the barn. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to mention them to the constable. If he told Pierce about them, he’d have evidence tying Thomas to the murders. Now the constable had nothing more then suspicions. Strong suspicions, but no proof. With proof would come an arrest, and then trial. Thomas [232] deserved to pay for his crimes, but Jon couldn’t stand the thought of the whole sordid affair becoming public knowledge. Patricide. Mass slayings. Mutilation. Magic and madness. No, it would be unbearable. Thomas would have to pay, but in a far less public court. Jon vowed silently that he would see to that.
He shook his head.
“Ah well,” Pierce said, unperturbed. “That’s too bad.”
“I do have a question, constable, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, son,” Pierce said. “Ask away.”
“You indicated earlier that you didn’t think Schmidt had killed himself. Could you tell me why?”
“Of course,” the pudgy little man said. “In my twenty-six years of investigations I’d encountered seventeen suicides by throat-cutting before this case. In all seventeen the suicides had brief, shallow cuts in the flesh antecedent to the killing cut. Even the strongest-willed man—and they were all men—hesitates as the knife starts to bite his flesh. Schmidt wasn’t a strong-willed man, was he?”
Jon shook his head. “And there were no hesitation marks on his throat?”
Pierce shook his head. “Good gracious, no. None at all.”
“I see,” Jon said, and he did. That cleared up the last shred of doubt in his mind. Schmidt’s name had to be added to the roll of murder victims. Thomas probably chose him to provide a stalking horse for the village, to confuse and misdirect any investigation. And to isolate Trudi as well. To make her even more susceptible to his charms. And spells.
[233] “One thing,” Jon said after a moment. “What do we do with my father’s heart?”
Pierce looked down at it, considering.
“You could take it the icehouse. Bury it with the rest of the body. But if word got out, how it was buried in the pot, how we found it, that might upset folks.”
“It would,” Jon said. “My father cared a lot about this plant in his own way. I don’t think he’d mind if we just reburied his heart here.”
“All right,” the constable said.
Jon nodded, and did that thing, gently and respectfully.
“Sorry,” he said when he was done and had put the trowel away, “that I wasn’t able to help you any more.”
“You’ve helped considerably, son,” Pierce said. He paused, as if uncertain, then decided to say more. “You take care of yourself. You look about done in. And—be careful. I’m not sure this awful sequence of events is over yet.”
“Yes,” Jon said, nodding. “I will.”
“Good lad.” For a moment the constable laid his hand amicably on Jon’s upper arm. His grip was rather stronger than Jon thought it would be. The pudgy little man cocked his head and looked at the Corpse Flower. “Gracious, but that’s an odd plant. We don’t have anything like it in Brooklyn.” His nose crinkled. “Just as well. It smells awful.”
“Tea, my dear Washington?” Thomas asked as the author sank into Thomas’s old chair in the study. Irving fixed him with a frosty glare. Thomas stared back with a glassy [234] smile. Thomas rarely backed down, but Irving’s practiced glare did the trick. “Er, Mr. Irving, that is?”
“Yes,” Irving said. “Thank you.” He glanced around the study. “What an extraordinary room.”
“I think so.” The old bastard probably remembers my comment about not reading popular authors, Thomas thought as he yanked on the bell pull to summon Callie. I should have kept my mouth shut. “I’ve spent many a long hour here in study with the Captain.”
“Stud
ying what?” Irving inquired.
“Oh, language. Philosophy. Other cultures. Things like that. The Captain was a learned man with a wide range of interests.”
“Did you inherit those interests?”
“Quite,” Thomas acknowledged, thinking, time to try flattery. On the whole authors were conceited buggers who liked nothing better than having their vanity stroked. “Perhaps there’s something here to interest you. Something you can turn into one of your fascinating tales.”
“Ummm.” Irving was noncommittal, but obviously interested. While they waited for Callie he asked permission to examine the sarcophagus. Thomas granted it graciously, and the writer moved around the room looking at various bric-a-brac, while Thomas chatted him up as genially as he could. If things worked out right, Thomas thought, Irving could be his entree into New York, and even Continental, society. He would have to cultivate him as assiduously as the Captain had babied that horrible plant in the Glass House.
[235] Callie arrived at the door laden with a silver tray piled high with tea and cakes.
“Ah, tea,” Thomas said brightly as she tottered into the room, barely managing to set the heavy tray down on the Captain’s—Rather, my, Thomas realized with smug delight-desk. “Thank you, Callie. I’ll pour.”
Thomas took the teapot and poured the dark brew into both cups.
“Milk?” he asked.
“Just black, thank you.”
Callie took cup and saucer and offered it to Irving, who hastily crossed the room and met her near his chair. He resumed his seat and took a sip.
“Hope you like it,” Thomas said. “It’s a special blend.”
Irving made an odd face and took another sip.
“It’s a bit bitter, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It might take some getting used to,” Thomas admitted.
“Ummm,” Irving said again, and his face suddenly went slack. Thomas bounced up to his feet, and caught the cup and saucer before it could slip from the writer’s fingers.
“Your potion acts that quickly?” he asked Callie.
“To those susceptible.”
Thomas hunkered down and looked into living’s eyes. They were open and staring into infinity. He waved his hand in front of them, but elicited no reaction from the author.
“How long will this last?”
“Not long,” Callie warned. “He couldn’t have partaken of much of the potion. Ask your questions quickly.”
[236] Thomas nodded, and turned his attention back to Irving.
“Listen to me, Irving,” he said intently. “Do you remember the color of the trousers I was wearing when you saw me on the porch yesterday afternoon?”
“Burgundy,” Irving said in a distinct, if flat-toned voice.
“Was there anything usual about them?”
There was a brief silence, as if Irving had to ponder the question before answering.
“No.”
“Any stains?”
“No.” This time the answer came much more quickly.
“All right,” Thomas said with a smile. He swapped his cup with Irving’s, and retreated to his chair. He glanced at Callie. “Wait here until he comes out of it. Otherwise he might get suspicious.”
She made no reply, not even a nod, but Thomas scarcely noticed. He was elated. He was in the clear. No evidence linked him to the killings. At least, none would once McCool discovered where Jon had hidden the trousers. Then, Jon dispensed with, he really would be totally free.
Two, maybe three minutes went by while Thomas contemplated the removal of his brother, and Irving sat upright, eyes staring but unfocused. Suddenly he started, as if he’d taken an abrupt but mild fright, and looked around.
“Did I—did I doze off?” Irving asked, confused.
“Not at all,” Thomas said. “I thought you were simply enjoying your tea.”
[237] “Was I?” He looked down at the teacup on the small table next to his chair.
“Have another sip.”
Irving did so. “Not bad,” he said. “Could be a little warmer.”
Thomas looked at Callie. “Freshen his cup, and then you may go. I have some questions for my friend Mr. Irving about the New York social season.”
“Jon!”
Jon turned and saw Isaac waving strenuously at him. He waited as his friend caught up.
“Where you going, Jon?” Isaac asked.
“I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Just ... walking ... I don’t know what to do.” His voice was plaintive, as was the expression in his eyes as he looked up at his friend.
Isaac was plainly concerned. “You got to take it easy, Jon. The last few days have been terrible. Just terrible. You look like the walking dead.”
Jon almost laughed, but it wasn’t that funny. Not really. There wasn’t anything funny about the dead walking, at all.
“Anyway, I hear Agatha Derlicht is wanting to see you.”
“About what?”
Isaac shook his head. “I don’t know. But talk to her, Jon. Talk to her then get some rest.”
Jon could hear the concern in Isaac’s voice. He didn’t want to worry him any more, so he lied to him.
“I will. But listen, Isaac, you have to do something for me.”
[238] “Anything, Jon.”
“This is important.” He reached into his shirt and took out the cloth-wrapped doll. He peeled back the wrapping for a second, showing Isaac what it concealed, and thrust the bundle into his hands. “Take this. Hide it. But for God’s sake, be careful with it.”
Isaac’s eyes were large with distress. “What is it?”
“It’s a love doll Thomas used to cast a spell on Trudi.”
Isaac nodded, believing him. “What’re we gone do with it?”
“I don’t know just yet. We can’t destroy it. That would harm Trudi, too. But there’s got to be some way we can neutralize it. Maybe I can get Callie to talk later. You hide the doll. I’ll go see Agatha Derlicht. Then Callie.”
Isaac nodded in agreement. “All right, Jon.” He hesitated. “You be careful.”
“I will.” He paused, then he embraced Isaac, hugging him like a brother. Jon didn’t know what made him do that, but he felt better once he had. He bobbed his head in a single, decisive nod, then headed off to Derlicht Haus.
His mind was filled with an unsettled haze. The sky had suddenly become grey and clouded. The breeze was distinctly chilly for the last day of spring, matching Jon’s grim mood. It was up to him, he knew, to avenge his father’s death. And Erich’s. Rolfs Derlicht’s. Even Johann Schmidt’s, a man he’d only known for a day and didn’t much care for. But he hadn’t deserved his horrible death. None of them had. Except ... maybe ... his father. That’s what hurt the most.
He looked up. He’d been walking north through [239] Geiststadt, and suddenly he found himself in the cooper’s yard where only four days ago he’d met the girl he loved and already lost. There she was, sitting at the table under the oak tree, alone and lonely, hunched down against the cool breeze that blew steadily off HangedMan’s Hill.
He shouldn’t talk to her, he told himself. He should stay clear until he learned how to deal with the spell Thomas had put on her. But it was useless. He couldn’t help himself. He had to see her. Speak to her. Hear her voice in return.
He found himself walking towards her. She heard him and looked up. There was no welcoming smile on her face, only dull acceptance of his presence.
“Hello, Trudi.”
“Hello.” It was difficult for her beauty to shine through her pain, but somehow it managed. He ached to reach out and hold her, but instead simply stood before her, feeling awkward and uneasy.
“Are you all right?” he finally managed.
“Yes. I guess so.”
“Have you seen Thomas? Lately?”
She glanced in the direction of Noir Manor.
“No. But I’m sure he’ll be by soon. He—he has problems, too.” It was as if she suddenly remembered something.
Her face became more animated and she blushed slightly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You, too. I mean, I know you’ve lost—I’m so sorry, Jon, so sorry for your loss.”
I know what’s wrong with you, Jon thought. And I’ll take care of it. Somehow. Soon. He nodded, feeling crushed by the awful responsibility to make everything [240] right. It felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now Agatha Derlicht. She, too, probably wanted something from him.
“I have to go see Frau Derlicht. But I’ll be back soon. Let me know if you need anything. Just let me know.”
“All right, Jon,” Trudi reached out her hand tentatively, then withdrew it before he could move closer and take it. It seemed to Jon that she was fighting Thomas’s insidious influence. Fighting it though she didn’t even realize it existed. That was a good sign, he told himself as he nodded and took his leave.
Or, he thought, was he reduced to grasping at straws?
Thomas was sitting at the Captain’s desk, enjoying himself and his new found mantle of authority when McCool barged into the study without knocking.
“Your Honor—” he began.
“What are you doing here?” Thomas barked at him before he could finish. “I told you to stick to Jon! To find out what he did—”
“I did, respecting Your Honor.” He was so excited that he forgot to be disrespectful. “I saw him give something to that big darkie he goes around with, didn’t I? A small bundle, like.”
“The trousers?” Thomas asked eagerly.
McCool shook his head. “The packet was too small. Probably the figure your honor told me to look out for.”
Thomas smiled. “Well, at least that’s something. What did my brother’s dark friend do with it?”
“He took it to the bunk house,” McCool said, “and hid [241] it there. At least, when he came out he didn’t have it no more, did he?”
“Good, very good,” Thomas said. “And Jonathan?”
“It was hard to keep track of both, but last I seen your brother he was headed for the Derlicht’s.”
“Damn the Derlichts,” Thomas said in sudden anger. “He’s joining with them, sure as a serpent crawls on its belly. The traitor. He’s leaguing with my enemies.” He fell silent, thinking for a moment. “All right,” he finally said to his henchman. “You make a diversion to attract everyone’s attention. I’ll go the bunkhouse. When I’m sure it’s empty I’ll go in and recover the, uh, figure.”
THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Book 1: Shades of Night, Falling Page 19