Tales of the Wold Newton Universe

by Philip José Farmer

  The men stood in silence for a moment, watching the swaying corpse hanging from a stout rope which in turn was fastened to the high ceiling by the chandelier.

  Sir Percy turned to Holmes. “Get a knife,” but before the latter could act Gribardsun, who was known to them as Sir John Gribson, had leapt like a jungle cat upon a side table and was already cutting down the unfortunate deceased. He passed the corpse down to the others and regained the floor with ease.

  Sir Percy turned the body over to get a good look at his face. “Iain Bond, aide-de-camp to de Winter, the King’s representative at our little congregation...”

  The men gathered around while Holmes made a quick examination. The hawk-nosed doctor, lean and wiry, looked up after a cursory survey. “Strangled, just as one would expect with hanging.”

  “The second murder in as many days,” Fogg said.

  “But each one different,” Bozzo-Corona noted.

  “Both heralded by that demmed bell ringing,” Sir Percy countered.

  “Indeed, but each carried out by different methods,” Drummond said. “Gerolstein was found with a knife in his heart.”

  “Perhaps no great loss,” Delagardie added.

  “Now, now, my boy,” Sir Percy said, “the last thing you want to do now is cast suspicion on yourself, eh?”

  “But Percy, he insulted Philippa with his base attentions!”

  “My sister as well as your wife,” Drummond reminded Delagardie, “but Gerolstein’s insults are not worth the gallows. And his brother may arrive at any moment; the last thing needed at the moment is a challenge to a duel.”

  “Right now suspicion is cast on everyone,” Colonel Bozzo-Corona said. He pointed to Gribardsun. “This one is clearly strong enough to have committed both murders.”

  Gribardsun shrugged. “Just about anyone is.”

  “I am not,” the Colonel said with a sardonic smile. “I am but a frail, old man.”

  “Demme me, sir! We’re not going to find the killer slinging accusations at each other,” Sir Percy said. “Call some footmen and we’ll store the body with Gerolstein’s. And someone fetch de Winter; as His Majesty’s representative, at least he can assist in dealing with the parish constabulary.”

  * * *

  Gribardsun padded around the estate, weaving through hidden garden paths and hedges. His passing was utterly silent, as befitted his jungle upbringing and years of experience as a woodsman, although of course he could do little to prevent his scent from being detected downwind.

  He thought about the terrible din that portended the two murders. He had heard a similar clangor several other times in the past one hundred and fifty years, and while he hadn’t discovered the source, it always seemed to accompany some misfortune or unfortunate occurrence.

  In his long life, Gribardsun had generally taken pains—with a few exceptions—to avoid involvement in key historical events, not always with success. Besides, as scientists he had worked with reasoned, who was to say that his involvement was not part of the natural flow of history? That the unnatural pealing of unseen bells had come to this place, at this time, reinforced his decision to attend Sir Percy’s conclave. If he didn’t solve the mystery of the clanging here and now, it seemed likely he’d have more opportunities in the years to come.

  He stopped.

  He scented a vaguely familiar smell, one that tickled the edges of his memory. He had an extraordinary sense of smell, almost equal to that of the higher primates among whom he had been raised. Some few who knew the particulars of Gribardsun’s background—the real story, not the fictionalized and romanticized tales written for popular magazines—speculated that these were an unknown line of australopithecines; others postulated they were Bili apes, a species of large chimpanzee first identified some one hundred years after his birth.

  He tracked the scent, circumnavigating the estate once on the ground, and again after taking to the trees.

  Gribardsun stopped, turned, scented the air once more, and gave up. The trail had gone cold. He dropped easily from the high branches of a large beech tree, retrieved his boots, and made for the house.

  As he passed through a small terraced garden, he heard the low strain of several voices in deep conversation. The exchange came from the drawing room, on the other side of high windows which had been closed against the December chill.

  He leapt to a balcony, from it caught a tangle of vinery, and stealthily scrambled to a short overhanging roof. He flipped over the roof ledge with ease and silently scuttled over to a window. He clung upside down and dipped his head just past the top of the window, and peered into the room.

  Gribardsun’s hearing was almost as uncanny as his sense of smell, and he hung there, at ease, listening to the men inside. Sir Percy Blakeney. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Sir Hezekiah Fogg. George Edward Rutherford, the 11th Baron Tennington. Dr. Siger Holmes. William de Winter. John Clayton, the 3rd Duke of Greystoke.

  With the exception of Fogg and Holmes and de Winter, all the men in the room were his great-great-grandfathers. Siger Holmes’ granddaughter was, or would be, his great-aunt.

  Coming to Blakeney Hall was a great risk.

  But he couldn’t leave.

  He eavesdropped.

  “This was supposed to be a gathering of the best minds, the most politically astute. Men of power, those who could influence statesmen.” Sir Percy tossed his snuff box down in disgust. “Demme me! Things are going to hell on the Continent. The Revolution’s excesses in the Reign of Terror, the Thermidorian Reaction, and the White Terror in response. And the Red Reign of Terror. I brought the best and brightest here to strategize—how to end the violence, the endless cycles of revenge?

  “Instead,” Sir Percy concluded, “it’s a farce. More violence, more death.”

  “Someone seeks to sabotage your assembly before it starts,” Lord Tennington said.

  “And who would do that?” Lord Greystoke asked.

  “Who has the most to gain?” de Winter countered.

  “Colonel Bozzo-Corona, perhaps,” Holmes said.

  “With what motive?” Darcy asked.

  “Unknown,” Holmes said. “But I witnessed the Colonel’s man Lecoq meet with Countess Carody in Paris last month.”

  “Interesting, yes, my dear Holmes,” Sir Percy said. “But that doesn’t necessarily implicate the Colonel in any wrongdoing.”

  “Their meeting was illicit,” Holmes replied, “conducted at the Calyx Bar.”

  “Perhaps Lecoq and the Countess...” Sir Hezekiah said.

  “I’m afraid not, Fogg,” Sir Percy said. “I think the Countess does not prefer such company.”

  “Certainly she is a noble and he a commoner, and yet it is not unheard of—”

  “I mean, Fogg, that Countess Nadine Carody does not prefer any such company.”

  Darcy flushed with embarrassment at the turn the conversation had taken. “Surely such speculation...”

  “Marguerite and Alice have assured me that it is so,” Sir Percy said.

  “All the more reason to assume Lecoq met the Countess on behalf of the Colonel,” Holmes said. “No other conclusion fits the facts at hand.”

  “If you are correct,” de Winter said, “then, as Darcy pointed out, we still have no idea why.”

  “As I said,” Tennington interjected, “sabotage the meeting.”

  “But to what purpose?” Darcy asked.

  “Perhaps Colonel Bozzo-Corona doesn’t share Sir Percy’s vision of peace on the Continent,” Greystoke said.

  “And yet,” Sir Percy replied, “we seem to be aligned. The Colonel and his Brothers of Mercy gave Marguerite and Alice the Heart of Ahriman to help us defeat Baron de Musard.”

  “I still say that lot—the Colonel, Kramm, Carody, Gerolstein—bear further watching,” Tennington said.

  “But Gerolstein’s own brother was murdered!” Sir Hezekiah said.

  “What better way to cast suspicion away from themselves than to sacrifice one of their useless pawns?”
de Winter asked. “I agree with Tennington, beware of them.”

  Sir Percy nodded in reluctant agreement. “I’ll tell Sir Hugh and Delagardie and Gribson—he’s a distant relative of yours, eh what, Greystoke?—to keep their eyes open as well.”

  He took a pinch of snuff, and sneezed. “To think Marguerite gave up wintering at the Crescent for this...”

  * * *

  Gribardsun left his perch and crept along the rooftop to the other side of the estate. The tinkling of a piano drew him to the music room, where another gathering and opportunity to listen in seemed likely.

  He found a toehold, lowered his head to peer into the frosted windows, and saw a large group of the estate’s female guests—many of them his ancestresses, and many of them currently in the common state of pregnancy. Alice Clarke Raffles played the piano, while Lady Blakeney and Elizabeth Darcy watched her play.

  Two small groups held quiet conversations. In one corner Countess Carody, Miss Caroline Bingley, and Philippa Delagardie, née Drummond, were sitting with Lady Alicia Clayton. Lady Tennington, Violet Clarke Holmes, and Elizabeth de Winter formed another small group, while Lady Drummond sat by herself, reading.

  There was no one thread of conversation to follow, but he did pick up several interesting pieces of information.

  Several of the ladies were put out by the short notice of the invitation to Blakeney Hall; such affairs usually called for months of preparation.

  Caroline Bingley, in particular, seemed intent on complaining that the quickly arranged gathering was in poor taste, to which her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Darcy, replied with a rebuke, at once gentle and sharp, that it was a shame there weren’t nearly as many unattached nobles in attendance as Miss Bingley might have hoped.

  Lady Blakeney laughed it off, blaming Sir Percy for the timing. Alice supported her, and spoke of men’s affairs waiting for no one.

  Gribardsun supposed that not all the women had been brought into confidence regarding the true nature of the gathering, and Sir Percy’s plans to end the Continental strife once and for all.

  He also sensed a tension in the air, which was perfectly natural, given the two unexplained killings. Most of the ladies had no prior acquaintance with danger. And many of them were pregnant, and understandably apprehensive that something dreadful might happen to them and their unborn children.

  Some few of the women had encountered danger and adventure, however, and appeared more at ease, if not sanguine, in the wake of the terrible events. Gribardsun focused his attention on them.

  Two of these were Lady Marguerite Blakeney and Alice Clarke Raffles, whom Gribardsun gathered had shared an exploit last month in France, battling a baron called de Musard. Gribardsun had also confronted a Baron de Musard once, killed him in fact, in the late 1500s in France. He resolved to learn more about this if he could.

  Elizabeth de Winter also seemed less affected by the past days’ events, although this was perhaps natural given her husband’s high position in the government.

  Countess Nadine Carody appeared outright indifferent to the murders, and Gribardsun noted that she had also not been offended in the least by the expedient invitation to England. In fact, she had seemed glad to come on short notice.

  Many roads appeared to lead to the Countess. She had conducted a strange meeting with Lecoq in Paris last month, and apparently was in league with Colonel Bozzo-Corona in some way.

  Gribardsun focused on her. She watched Lady Blakeney the way a lioness regarded her next meal.

  He recalled that she smelled... strange. Almost like a corpse, but he could smell the lifeblood pumping through her veins.

  Countess Carody was mysterious. But was she the key to the mystery at hand?

  It warranted further investigation.

  * * *

  Nighttime, and a new moon.

  And what was the Continental contingent doing wandering the grounds, taking advantage of the pitch-black night?

  Nothing good, Gribardsun decided. He swung from his perch to a lower branch, still out of sight of those he spied upon, and settled in to listen.

  “I must have satisfaction!” Gerolstein cried.

  “Meaning what?” Gustavas Kramm asked.

  “Delagardie must pay.”

  “We have no proof Honoré Delagardie killed your brother,” Kramm replied. “And why would he also kill Bond?”

  “To cover his tracks, throw us off his scent,” Gerolstein said.

  “Nonsense. You give the boy too much credit,” the Colonel said. “Have a care. We must tread lightly here.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” the Colonel said. “Kramm, take him to his rooms and keep him there. We cannot afford a misstep now.”

  Gribardsun watched Kramm march off with the reluctant Gerolstein in tow. He elected to stay with Bozzo-Corona, Lecoq, and Countess Carody, and his decision was rewarded a moment later.

  “Do you suppose Sir Percy and the others suspect us of these murders, my father?” Lecoq asked.

  Gribardsun watched carefully as the supposedly feeble old man, the patriarch of the Brothers of Mercy, answered: “They’d be fools not to, my son.”

  “Perhaps,” Countess Carody said, “they are dimly beginning to realize that you were behind Baron de Musard all along.”

  “And that through setting Blakeney and de Musard against each other,” the Colonel said, “I manipulated Blakeney into convening this so-called ‘conclave’ of his? As I said, Sir Percy is no fool, but I doubt he is that perceptive.”

  “Perhaps not, my father, but if you’ll forgive me, his friend Holmes may be,” Lecoq said. “And Blakeney’s friend. Fogg. There is something... something not quite right about him. I beg you leave to spy upon them further.”

  The sinister old man regarded his lieutenant, then said: “Very well, my son, you may go. But remember your longer-term mission. Ingratiate yourself with Delagardie. He will need another coachman once Lupin moves on. You will be our man inside once Sir Percy’s conclave disbands—if we can manage this unforeseen situation of murder and death, and can all part as trusted allies.”

  “Or at least part leaving them thinking we are all trusted allies,” Countess Carody amended.

  Lecoq nodded his thanks to the Colonel and returned to the house, followed by the silent Gribardsun, who took a circuitous route through the shadows and yet kept his quarry in sight.

  Lecoq soon discovered, however, that his targets had retired for the evening, and took himself to his own quarters.

  And Gribardsun... John Gribardsun kept the silent night watch over Blakeney Hall.

  BLAKENEY HALL, EAST RIDING OF YORKSHIRE, NEAR THE VILLAGE OF WOLD NEWTON 12 DECEMBER 1795

  The dreadful clangings, and death, summoned them the next morning. Sir Percy, Siger Holmes, and Gribardsun arrived first.

  Miss Caroline Bingley lay in her bed, blue of face, limbs bloated and distended. The body had been discovered by her chambermaid.

  Holmes examined her fingernails, peeled back her eyelids, and sniffed at the corpse’s face. He pulled a sheet up over the gruesome discovery. “A fast-acting poison. Body’s still warm. I’d say she’s been dead ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”

  “Which coincides with those demmed bells,” Sir Percy said. He turned to the others. “Did anyone see anything? You, Sir John—” he gestured to Gribardsun “—you were up, prowling these halls early this morning. Did you notice anything?”

  Gribardsun shook his head, expressionless. Inside, he burned. Another killing, and he had failed to prevent it. Each slaying heralded by the ominous tolling, as of funeral bells, but funeral bells which pierced the brain as if one were standing directly under them.

  And that maddeningly familiar scent...

  “Miss Caroline Bingley,” Sir Percy said, bringing Gribardsun’s attention back to the cadaver. “Demmed wretched woman. Darcy will have a deuced time composing a letter of condolence to her brother.”

  “And I’m having a deuced time explaining all this
and keeping the local constabulary at bay,” William de Winter declared as he entered the death chamber. “I saw the value of this assembly of yours when you first described it to me, Sir Percy, but I declare that any benefit which may result from this meeting is being quickly diminished by these abominable murders.”

  “I agree, de Winter—”

  “I’ve already lost my best man, Iain Bond,” de Winter continued, “and His Majesty is rapidly losing patience with this conclave. We must have results, and soon, or I’ll order this assembly adjourned.” He turned to the two footmen who stood quietly in the hallway. “Meantime, store this body with the others. I’ll be in my rooms, concocting some story or other about Miss Bingley’s untimely demise. Apoplexy, or some such, I suppose.” He stalked out.

  * * *

  The sun sank toward the horizon, washing Blakeney Hall in a blazing orange-red burn, as Gribardsun stalked the grounds searching for a clue, for the slightest scrap or hint of information. It could not be said that he stalked his prey, for he couldn’t even scent his target.

  That morning, in Miss Bingley’s chambers, he had caught that scent again. He sifted through millennia of memories both ancient and recent, and still could not place it.

  He had left the estate and spent the day patrolling the outskirts, haunting the surrounding woods and gardens, hoping to pick up the spoor again.

  It was all to no avail, but his head was clear and he felt energized by the outdoor air. He thought of ages past and the unspoiled, savage world he had sought out, found, and which he was slowly losing once again. Civilization was slowly, but inexorably, closing in upon him as the centuries passed.

  The day had seen the denizens of Blakeney Hall keep to their rooms, a growing sense of dread and anxiety hanging over the entire estate. Very few felt safe enough to venture out, and the pregnant women—a few of them, at least—fretted over themselves and their unborn. Some of the others, Gribardsun knew, such as Lady Blakeney and her friend Alice, were not given to fretting under any circumstances.