Finagled (17 page)

He did not see her, or his brother, as much as you might suppose, living together as they did, because the house was so large, and Regina and Malcolm had the whole wing to themselves, set up as a sort of apartment, and a fine and spacious one, at that. They shared a kitchen with George, and not much else. Often George dined alone in his room out of choice, he liked to work while he was eating, in those days, and this was a habit, as his mother had told him shortly before her death, inhospitable.

Returned to the present, he looked at Regina, and truly felt that she was ugly, standing there, with that arch smile and flared nostrils.

George turned. The key was on the inside lock. He removed it. Regina was wiry and fast, but she could not reach the door, her skirts inhibiting her, before George got it closed, the key turned in the exterior lock.

"I can't trust you, Regina, not to run away again. We will find Andrew, and he will talk," he said.

Regina laughed somewhat maniacally. "Oh no you won't," she said. "no, no, no!"

Ramona was terrified to sleep. Tirinia stayed with her,  she promised she would not leave her alone, and so, Ramona tried to sleep. She could not lie in any way but her back. This had been a problem for her in the weeks since her injury. She was not quite used to it, but it was impossible for her to shift without hurting, so even unconsciously she did not move much in her sleep. She was sleeping now with a thin sheet over her legs and a thick quilt across her torso. It was kind of cold, but almost anything else was too uncomfortable. The windows were frosting. Tirinia continued to watch the snow fall.

Ramona woke, and stared at the ceiling. The fireplace was kept stoked, as hot as possible. She imagined it must be cloying for Tirinia.

"Are you uncomfortable?" she asked her great aunt.

"Uncomfortable, my dear, what a question! You are the one laid up on her back with little red legs, and... oh my poor darling, you are asking
me
if I am uncomfortable. In comparison I feel like a queen on a padded throne"

Ramona smiled in the darkness. "Oh fine." she said. "I guess I really just... I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Mmm. Well. Maybe I can tell you a story. Would you like that?"

"Yes, like you used to when I was little and I would come visit. Maybe I can forget... I can be back there again, in that big white bed and you can tell me about your youthful, romantic entanglements."

"Ah, yes, those were pleasant days"  she said.

"Mmm. And swoony," Ramona sighed.

"Did it give you wrong ideas? I hope you haven't been disappointed in love. When I finagled you into this union, I admit I did not foresee the nephew as a problem."

"No... of course not, you couldn't know..."

"Is there something you aren't telling me, my dear?"

"Well.  I made a promise, and... while I may not be quite keen on promises at the moment, I feel that it is one to keep."

"Very well. I will tell you a story, then, and we will forget about the present for a while.”

“Which story should I tell? The one about the French General who tried to kidnap me in my 17th year? The young buck from India who saved me from a wayward carriage? Or perhaps it’s time you heard how I met my husband?”

“I think I’d like that. Of all your romances, you’ve never shared the one that ended in marriage.”

“Well of course, it’s the most romantic, my dear, though it lacks the excitement of an unrequited love, and you know how it ends, so sometimes… sometimes it is painful for me to think about, just how happy we were.”

“I don’t want to upset you, you can tell me about the handsome Indian again.”

“No, no. I should tell you about Mr. Shoobukkle, my Granger, once and all.”

Ramona settled back onto her pillows.

“I was not so young as I had once been when I first met Granger. I had been swept off my feet many times, and by men from a variety of walks, you understand. I did not imagine that this banker of middling age could offer me much in the way of excitement. Fortunately I was quite wrong, you know.

“I guess it began with my missing hat pin. A diamond affair, it had been giving to me by an African prince. A gorgeous man I must tell you about some other time. It had been insured, of course, and I accompanied my father to the bank to report the disappearance, which I now know was a theft.

“Granger was handsome, of course, rather more distinguished than I expected a banker to be, and I suppose there was some appeal to the fact that he was completely unsuitable. I believe he was immediately besotted with me, though for my part, I was a bit distracted by my missing bauble. That’s the best way to fall in love, while you’re distracted by something else, you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s thoroughly done with, your heart is no longer your own. I have fallen in love in every conceivable way, so believe me when I tell you this, when you fall in love without realizing, it is the most delicious.

“I considered myself something of an amateur detective in my youth, I had solved a slew of petty thefts and a couple of murders by this time and I didn’t trust the man from the bank to handle everything himself. It didn’t matter to me that he was a professional. I insisted on accompanying him, by train, as his investigations led us around the countryside. I think, most probably, the moment I realized I loved him completely, he was bleeding out on my lap, having been stabbed by the sword of an American who had stolen my hat pin to help fund an expedition into some remote region of the Americas. For a moment I had fancied I cared for this American, but as Granger looked up at me, my petticoats pressed to his gushing wound, I realized he was the one I loved, loved more than I had ever loved, and I had loved so prodigiously, my dear, that I proposed to him, on the spot. Though the American escaped with my hat pin, I considered it to be the most successful case of my detective career, for I had found the one who had stolen my heart.”

“That’s so lovely, Aunt Tirinia.”

"It was, dear, and I do you hope you will be able to rest now."

"I think I can now. Thank you, Aunt Tirinia."

"You are welcome, poppet. Sweet dreams. Don't worry about anything. I am here, Henry is outside the door, and everyone knows that Andrew and his mother are dangerous, so no one will let them harm you again."

"Thank you. Good night."

It was dark and the snow was falling heavily. George and many of the male staff, bundled up, and carrying weapons of various makes and models, were combing the house and outlying estate. George had taken his favorite hunting hound, and given him a handkerchief of Andrew's to scent and follow. He did not know what he would do when he found the boy, but he had given orders to the others that he was not to be harmed. He was just a child, in spite of what he had done, and he was his son, though none knew it.

The house was large and full of nooks and crannies, the estate even larger, and the buildings strewn across it were numerous. The search could take weeks, and then, of course, the boy could be miles away. It did not seem that he had packed anything, as his room was orderly. George was counting on the fact that Regina knew where the boy was hiding and had planned to bring provisions to him secretly. All of this made George suspect that Andrew was somewhere in the house, so while many of his men looked about the exterior, George and his hound searched the halls. The scent of Andrew was, understandably, quite present in the house. He had lived there all of his life, the dog stopped with interest in many rooms, digging his finely honed nostrils into the upholstery of Andrew's favorite chairs, the spot in the carpet where Andrew had bled from his nose one day almost a year previously made the clever animal bark excitedly. George had him stand down, and decided to force the dog to look in areas of the house where Andrew was unlikely to visit regularly, in the hopes of finding some unusual occurrence of his smell.

George began at Regina's door. Andrew had spent a lot of time in this room recently, it was true, but a left turn out of the room took him to the rest of the house. George pointed the animal to the right, down the hallway. Andrew had spent much of the first year of his life here, but he had been moved closer to George after Malcolm's death. George felt an increase of adrenaline as the dog perked up to something down this more desolate path. There was no reason for Andrew to ever visit here. Perhaps to see his old nursery, but George did not think the boy was the sentimental type. Yes, the nursery! The dog led him right to it. Was this where Andrew was hiding? It did not seem like a place to hide, there were no corners, no nooks. Though George knew of a few secret passages and panels in Loathewood, none connected to this room.

He considered that, though he had never discussed the secret panels with Andrew, it was likely that the young boy had found them in much the same way that George had found them in his youth. Yes. He would explore some of the easier ones after the nursery. With his next plan of action in mind, George tried the handle on the nursery door. It turned with ease.

The door swung inward. He surveyed the dark room, an oil lamp burning in one hand, the dog's lead in the other. George had not brought a weapon, sure that he could overwhelm the boy with speech or brute strength if need be. It would be easier to gain the boy's trust unarmed.

The room appeared empty. It was a dusty, though the crib and toys had been moved with Andrew at the time of Malcolm's death, they had been returned here for storage. It was built to be a nursery. A long room with two tall windows. They were black, inky blots against the wall, now, though a strange light reflected off of the snow and onto the ceiling in the room.

The hound, Huestis, went wild as the door opened, straining his leather lead with such force that the metal hook on his collar was snapt. Just before he went tearing into the room, George saw that the dusty floor had been disturbed, and recently. It did not look like a steady path, not footprints at all, a zig-zag, and, to George's growing horror, something dark was smeared as it zagged and zigged across the floor.

The dog was frantic, scratching and barking at a chest in the far corner. George approached with trepidation. Then, thinking that the boy might be injured inside the chest, he sped up, throwing the lid up with a passion, he sank to his knees on the floor when he saw the staring eyes of his misguided son, blank, his chest full of wet, sticky wounds.

The dog was well trained. He stood down, having led his master to the body of Andrew.

George let the lid drop. He did not know, in his heart, what he had planned on saying to Andrew when he found him. The boy had done something monstrous, he had maimed Ramona, he had tried to kill her, and in the heat of it, George had felt that this was irredeemable, but Andrew was a child, his child, hadn’t the boy ended his life with those actions, effectively? George would have been forced to turn him over to the authorities, it would have been grueling and painful and he would always have to question whether or not he could have somehow avoided sending his son into that.

Now it was too late. The decision had been made for him. Though the boy's life may have been ended figuratively with the attacks on Ramona, it had literally been taken out of George's hands. He could not ask Andrew why he did what he did. He could not find out what he had done wrong in raising him. George found the tears welling up, running down his face, tears for the boy who had so often rode out with him, learning the estate and meeting the tenants as his heir, the future master of Loathewood. The times when they had spent companionable holidays enjoying each others company. There had been no hint of this, the boy had so rarely gotten into  trouble, Mrs. Lopple herself found him a totally charming individual and she was hard to win over, even when he tracked in mud or left out books in the library, she had not scolded him, but laughed. He was just a child. He was endearing, handsome, occasionally witty and now, quite dead.

George sobbed audibly. Huestis nuzzled him worriedly. He tried to regain his composure. God. Regina had done this. She must have done this, and to her own son. What lies had she fed that boy, what had she said to make him follow her so blindly into his own ruin? George stood up, steadying his ragged breath, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. He walked from the room. Huestis followed dutifully.

It was not far to Regina's room. His hand shook as he inserted the key. He turned the lock, opened the latch, turned the handle, opened the door. The room was dark. Lit by candlelight when he had left, the candle had blown out, the cold and sharp wind that came through the open window was the culprit, snow blew in on this wind, already it had begun to pile up on the sill, lightly dusting the floor in front of the window.

Regina was gone.

George walked to the window. He looked first to the ground below, expecting to see her broken body in the snow. It was far and dark, but the snow showed no outline of a body. Had it been covered already, or had she not leapt to her death? George might have understood that, if she had suddenly realized that she had murdered her son, in cold blood. Felt the terror of guilt and ended her own life to escape it. But no, God, he thought, she did not seem to know remorse. It was a quality he feared she had somehow passed on to Andrew. He could not think of Andrew though, he had to find Regina, make sure that she, at least, would see justice, the legal kind, though his heart twisted with a yearning for revenge.

He brushed the snow off of the sill. Felt the cold, hard stone under his fingertips, so cold it burned. He leaned out the window. A sharp pain, hot and white on his skull, then blackness overtook him.