The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  “John thought it fitt’n.” Anselm’s stare was intent upon the casket at the far end of the room.

  Darling started to growl, “My son has not even been buried—”

  “And why would you object to your granddaughter being named his heir? With Michael gone, rest ‘is soul—”

  “The law does not see her as my granddaughter, as I am not the poor lad’s blood. But I raised these boys as if they were my own,” Darling cut.

  “Now, George, we have plenty.” Wendy reached up a calming hand, gripping her husband’s cuff. “If we lack for a thing, Peter will bring it to us.”

  Yanking his arm free, Darlings rage boiled over. With a finger like a rapier, he aimed it at Anselm as he stepped to the man. “So this guttersnipe is to inherit my money, is that it? Did you conspire with John for the will? Was this your doing! You knew she would be put in your charge, so as long as you’re around you are the king himself, eh? What are we to do? Live like paupers?”

  Anselm remained calm and spoke with an indifference that angered Darling all the more, saying, “The late miss Anna set the rules for the Peters’ fortune. It was never ta go ta Wendy, but ‘er heirs. There was no change ta the will as it were, as it was merely an extension of its intent. Now, as Wendy’s second ‘usband, you can ‘ardly insist upon more than the stipend that is indeed within the bounds of law as set forth by the will. It was never for yer benefit. Yer financial troubles are your own.”

  “What of my eldest, Michael?” Darling swallowed hard, grasping at straws. “The will just cuts him off. Lillian here gets the whole bag?”

  “You know as well as I that John went to great lengths to find ‘is brother, ultimately the King had ’im declared dead. Besides, that is little comfort to ye as he would receive the in’eritance of the previous will in force. You ‘ad yur day in court when Mistress Anna failed to return from her voyage. You can take a short walk and a long drop for all that it affects yer granddaughter,” Anselm rebuffed.

  Darling twisted at the insult, his finger trembling before him. “Every penny goes to the guttersnipe! This worthless… she is no granddaughter of mine! You are beyond the pale! If this was not… you…” Regaining his composure, Darling stood erect, “You are a cruel, spiteful man. So you would rather toss the money at gutter trash?”

  “I think you forget yourself, sir.” Anselm finally turned to face the man, showing the first physical signs of the contempt he held for Darling. He was at least Darling’s height, and with a reputation as a soldier, there was no doubt he could ably handle the man. “Yer opinion of the late Mrs. John Peters withstanding, there is no royal blood within this hoose. She was common, but so was John, as am I. Now I do believe there is an apology in order for the young Lillian here. Or would you rather be cut off without a penny?”

  At the suggestion, Lillian looked up at her caretaker and then back at her grandfather, albeit that title struck her as odd since Wendy’s husband only cared to accept her as a relation when it suited him.

  Darling blinked several times as the blotchy red blush bloomed over his stammering face. Leaning down to Lillian’s stature, he hissed, “If you were aflame, I wouldn’t spit to put you out!” Turning abruptly, he stormed away. There was no point in another appeal at the law. Anna was as devious as she was crafty. The will was foolproof, and he had found no other legal way to break it while an heir yet lived. If that old Scot wanted to do battle, he was more than willing to rise to the occasion. Without the hindrance of the brat in the way he knew exactly who was to receive the inheritance. There was just one more bit of information that was needed—he had a tall skinny lawyer to track down.

  Lillian’s sorrow battled with her hatred as the old blowhard stormed off. She looked to Anselm for some sort of explanation to his behavior. The old Scot shrugged his shoulders with a smile, giving nothing away. Allowing a faint simper, she blinked her red eyes and filed the whole exchange away in her mind to decipher later. She trusted Anselm implicitly. It was a trust her father had shown as well, but Anselm, like most everyone else, only saw her for the thirteen-year-old she was. Ignoring her blabbering grandmother, she sank back into mourning while her mind continued to become a beehive of worry; she had cried so much that it seemed now there were no more tears to be had. With stiff legs, Lillian stepped lightly across the room, her purple straight dress shuffling against her ankles as she moved. For a moment she paused before the fine walnut casket, the edges trimmed in brass and tortoiseshell whirls.

  “I hope you like it in heaven, Papa. I will miss your happy games.” Lillian sighed with an almost unheard melancholy. The ballroom was a fitting site for the casket of the hero she knew as father. John William Peters had been a good man. Always ready with a smile and a game. He was much more skillful than the aged dingbat in telling stories—after all he was sure to let you know it was just a story. Where John was playful, Grandmother Wendy was nearing insanity. True it had been fun in younger years, but now Lillian could do nothing but smile sadly at the memories.

  At least she had memories of her father. Her mother, on the other hand, had died in childbirth, and Papa refused to speak about her much; it was obvious the memories were too painful to relive. Rather than dwell upon his lost love, John had instead shared many a grand memory about her great-grandmother. Anna was a shrewd, confidant, and powerful woman; one that Papa had insisted that Lillian take after. At least, that is what her father used to say. Right now in her grief she didn’t feel like that description was obtainable.

  Abruptly, the low murmurs that coursed through the room quieted as the discordant thrum of metal sliding against the strings of Grandma Wendy’s pianoforte drew everyone’s attention. Lillian was no different, and she stretched to her toes to get a better look at the disruption. She had barely glimpsed the long black hair and ancient clothes of a man by the piano when Wendy was at her side, covering her mouth as she desperately pulled Lillian to the other side of the casket.

  “It seems we’ve interrupted a wake?” the man’s voice called. It was smooth like honey, but with an edge that could only be gained from a life spent at sea.

  “You have indeed.” Darling did little to hide his incredulity at the garb of the two men. “Tell us, did you just come from the stage?” The man at the piano wore a waistcoat with large brass buttons and garish lace about his wrists and neck which were only as equally ridiculous as his trousers that sat above the knee with silk stockings that trailed down to buckled shoes. Comical to all was the long hair pulled back in a ponytail and the tricorne hat on that rested on the music desk. The man’s entire ensemble seemed to come from an era that was decades out of fashion. Encouraged by the appreciative laughter from his first jab, Darling continued to his guests, “Or perhaps the scoundrels robbed a costume house.”

  Swiftly a broad-shouldered man dressed in equally garish clothes stepped forward, grabbed Darling by the lapel, and struck him a violent blow to the side of his head. The laughter that had broken out at the newcomers’ expense hushed as Darling crashed into the onlookers. “The Cap’n will be takn’ no ch-ch-cheek from the l-likes of you in ‘is own ‘ouse!”

  Righting himself, Darling stood his full height. The red mark on his jaw blended in with the blush of anger and embarrassment that was creeping up his neck. “How dare you. I am the lord of this house, and I demand that you leave at once!”

  The broad man advanced to deliver another bout of justice when the Captain called from behind, “Avast, Smee.” Walking slowly and deliberately, the Captain’s footsteps clipped against the hardwood floor as he angled around the front of the instrument, his hand slowly picking the bass strings as he passed.

  “What…” Darling’s voice faltered. “What is it you want?”

  With an echoing twang, the last string snapped as the Captain jerked his arm from the innards of the instrument, a glistening hooked blade attached to his wrist. The Captain was at Darling’s throat before the sound could fade, the cold steel worrying the man’s skin. “Where is the
mistress of the house? Where is my Anna?”

  “Ann… Anna?” Darling backed away slightly. “Mistress Anna?”

  “Anna Hemsworth Peters!” Hook became vehement.

  “Mistress Anna hasn’t been in this home for at least thirty years.”

  “Thirty years?” Hook’s anger instantly deflated as he turned to his companion. “No… thirty years?”

  A coarser gent pulled his master, Darling, out of the way as he stepped up to the gleaming hook, unafraid of the obvious youth of the strange figure. “If you would be want’n Ol’ Anna you had best be check’n Bunhill Field.”

  “Bunhill, the c-c-cemetery?” Smee was incredulous.

  The Captain’s blue eyes darkened in a rage. Without warning, he spun to a small carved table next to the pianoforte, sweeping a large green vase and flowers from the top with a crash. Leaning upon the marble top like a lectern, he shook his head, his lips becoming wet with fury. “Pan, you… I wasn’t on the Island for… No, it can’t be.” Catching his hook under the edge of the table, he toppled it sideways with a heave. “LIES!”

  “Wellington!” Darling barked like a general as he and the guests scuttled back from the Captains tirade. “Help Simmons subdue our guests. Then escort these blaggards to the cellar. Someone send for the constable! I will not stand idly by as they destroy my property.”

  With a moan, Wendy shuddered at the loud crash. “Mama always loved that table. She spent ages hunting for it. She said it was a prominent fixture in my father’s home when he was a child.”

  Lillian had never seen Wendy so lucid.

  “GET BACK!” The words snapped over everyone’s heads like a whip. “BACK!” The pop of the flint against the mizzen was quickly followed by the thunderous clap of a pistol. The crash of plaster was nearly drowned out by the reverberation of shrieking women.

  “Get after them!” Darling’s voice broke over the wails. “Don’t let them escape!”

  “Thank... you.” Lillian faltered as Wendy pulled her to the floor and finally released her.

  Wendy smiled lightly as she patted Lillian’s shoulder. “This reminds me of the time Peter held the funeral for First Twin, or was it Second Twin… I could never tell those two apart. It was a sad day indeed when Hook got the better of one of Peter’s lost boys. That was the last time Peter took me to his Neverland.”

  Lillian sighed. It seemed the batty woman was back.

  “Michael, now he was the lucky one. He insisted on going back to avenge his best friend, First Twin! Ha! I knew it would come to me! Where was I? Oh yes, we never knew what happened to poor Michael, but I am one to believe he is living happily with Peter and his boys. I had wondered if he ever got revenge on that codfish.”

  “Who?” Lillian asked, confused.

  “That’s quite enough.” Darling appeared, pulling Wendy to her feet while shooting a disappointed look at Lillian as if it was all her fault. Addressing those gathered, he spoke loudly and continued, “I am afraid we must bid you all a good night. What just transpired has seemed to have overwhelmed my dear frail wife on top of an already tragic day.”

  “We should be going,” Anselm spoke from close behind Lillian, making her heart leap.

  “Yes.” Lillian nodded as she stood. Leaning in to give her grandmother a kiss goodnight, Lillian flinched as Wendy grasped her arm in a painful grip and pulled Lillian’s head to her lips. In an urgent whisper filled with fear, the air from Wendy’s lips tickled the girl’s ear as she spoke.

  “It was him!”

  Shocked, Lillian pulled back to see the fear dancing in her crazy grandmother’s eyes. Shaking her head, she asked, “Who?”

  “Hook!”