Fortress of Ephemera: A Gothic Thriller (13 page)

“Not to mention the ruination of my fox fur.”

“Ha! Yes! But I did warn you about that outside on the curb.”

“So you did.” She sighed. “How long ago it seems now, being outside.”

“In all seriousness, most women would've succumbed to hysteria upon being held captive at gunpoint.”

“Don't be so sure, Mister Trenowyth. To be confined and powerless is the traditional state of the female, after all.”

“Another joke, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“But . . . but you can't equate a loving father or husband with such villains!”

“Oppression is oppression, Sir, however gilded the cage.”

“Dash it all, Miss Buxton! I'm a man of precarious health! The last thing I need right now is a case of apoplexy!”

“My, but you do grow testy without your flask of laudanum.”

“Would that I had it now. For I'd guzzle it all down at once to escape your mad pronouncements!”

“ 'Would that I': Your manner of speech is every bit as antiquated as your worldview. Stop referring to me as 'Miss Buxton,' you Victorian stuffed shirt, and call me 'Cora.' I'll sock you in the eye if you don't.”

I harrumphed at the coarse effrontery—as any self-respecting stuffed shirt would. “I shall put your indecorous outburst down to fatigue and frayed nerves.”

“And your own?”

“To vile provocation. And these irritating clocks.”

“Why you insufferable—”

“Caution. Let us not descend to full-blown verbal squalor, Miss . . . er, I meant to say,
Cora.
You may call me 'Miles.' ”

“ 'Prig' I was going to say. You're an insufferable prig, Miles.”

I sighed. “Point stipulated. Now let's contemplate our next move.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That depends. What do you make of those flying carcasses?”

Miss Buxton's angry tone fled, replaced by one almost conspiratorial. “Do you suspect a supernatural origin?”

I wasn't sure whether it was the mansion playing upon her psyche—as it played upon my own—or a genuine belief in spiritualism. I said: “Perhaps we should hold our own little séance to find out.”

“Are you being wry or superstitious?”

“Both.”

Through a gap in the grandfathers a light flickered through to my retinas. I was sure it had to be Noah—until a second light source appeared, ten or twelve yards distant from the first.

“Impossible,” I whispered.

“What is it?”

“Ssh! They're near.” I switched off my flashlight. Scanning in all directions, I soon located a third source of light, approaching rapidly along a path. We were damn near surrounded.

“It can't be,” Miss Buxton said.

“It gets worse,” I said. “Those aren't flashlights or lanterns. Smell that smoke? Like a campfire? See the way the lights flicker wildly? They've fashioned torches.”

“You fools!” she shouted to the robbers. “We'll all go up in flames!”

“Thank you, Miss!” Howard called. “Now we know precisely where you're at!”

“Who's the fool again?” Willie shouted.

“C'mere, Lass!” Brady cried as the lights of the three robbers closed in on us. “And give us a kiss!”

Noah's Return

Miss Buxton and I sprang to our feet. Whether to fight or flee the robbers I hadn't yet decided when I heard a “Psst!” in close neighborhood to my ear. I nearly jumped out of my skin, as they say.

“Follow me,” Noah Langley said. He'd materialized by my side without making a sound, or at least one that I'd noted, and without a light source to guide his approach through the dark.

I switched on the flashlight. Two steps to my right, Noah dropped to his knees at the mouth of a small tunnel. Yes, he'd built himself a secret passageway through a mound of junk. (One of many, as it turned out.) There was an old humpbacked chest beside him. He gave it a pat. “Once you're inside, conceal the opening with this.”

“Understood,” I said. He disappeared into the tunnel, crawling away like a babe. The robbers were nearly upon us now. “Cora, if you please.” She gripped the unlit lantern to take it with her. “No,” I said, “leave it behind.”

“Whatever for?”

“It's the only way they'll put out their torches. They're desperate men.”

She let go of the lantern.

Noah's tunnel was about the height of that deceased Saint Bernard and barely wide enough for my shoulders. We crawled through the blinding blackness guided by a strip of pale green phosphorescent paint on the floor.

I lagged behind the others, having only one arm by which to crawl, and overheard the robbers react to our sudden disappearance in revolving stages of confusion, amazement, and fury. Eventually, the incessant clocks and the growing gap between us smothered their voices entirely.

The tunnel cornered sharply then zigzagged. Yet it took less than a pair of minutes in total to reach the end (a journey that would've taken half an hour through the clutter, I'd wager). We were spat out in familiar surroundings: on the same path where Miss Buxton and I had escaped the robbers. Noah led us along the path using a small kerosene lamp that he'd kept stashed inside a massive Oriental vase by the tunnel's exit for emergencies.

“They had matches,” he said of the robbers. “They broke off three of the legs from my ebonized Louis the Sixteenth commode, wrapped them in strips of linen, which they'd obtained by shredding one of my sofa covers with their knives—the cover draping my Chesterfield, to be precise—and set their crude torches ablaze. I'll have to be reimbursed for the damage, of course.”

“Of course,” I said reflexively. Then: “You don't mean me, do you?”

“Who else would I hold responsible for the gangsters in my home?”

“Is that why you came back for us? So I could pay you later for . . . No, don't answer that. It was uncalled for, and I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

We passed the first of the dead dogs hosting live maggots. “Your handiwork, Noah?”

“Why? Who else's might it have been?”

“Quite right. Thank you for creating a diversion.”

“And for saving our skins just now,” Miss Buxton added.

“You're welcome,” he said.

“Those dogs,” I said. “An unusual diversion, to say the least.”

Noah glanced back over his shoulder. “One must improvise in a situation such as this one. Use whatever materials available.”

“Strange materials to
have
available.”

“And if you don't mind,” Miss Buxton said, “how did you cause those dead dogs to fly?”

“A small catapult.”

“Of course!” I said. “How else!”

“I'm something of a medievalist, you see. To the extent that I've created a modest medieval armory in what used to be the billiards parlor. Although in recent years I've stationed some of the weapons around the house for defensive purposes. One of the catapults overlooks the great hall from a balcony.”

“One?” I said. “There's more than one catapult?”

“Two, to be precise. A Springald and an Onager. I've had them a long time. My father wasn't too keen on my catapults until I reminded him of something he'd often said to me—that if the Communists or the Socialists ever took over America then they would come for the necks of the Langleys—and our ilk—first. In which case, I told him, we could move the catapults to the rooftop and beat back the rabble at our door.”

“What impressive foresight,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“And the dogs?” Miss Buxton inquired.

“Gisele and Clara,” he said. “Gisele is the Saint Bernard and Clara the German Shepard. Both are strays we took in for household protection. Clara died first, of hookworm, and I found I just couldn't bear to remove her from the spot where she died. I'm the sentimental sort, you see. I considered taxidermy, but couldn't make up my mind about that. I procrastinated over what to do with the body—I'm the procrastinating type too, I'll confess—until, one day, I noticed a large colony of maggots in Clara's mouth. Maggots, in case you're unaware, have been used to treat wounds since the days of antiquity.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Buxton muttered.

“I learned this from my reading. I've an outstanding collection of medical books in the library. Bought them at an estate sale, back in Ninety-Four, I think it was. A general practitioner in the neighborhood had passed away. I had to haggle some, but ended up with a fine bargain.”

“So you kept the dogs for the maggots?” I said. “For medical use?”

“It would have been a waste to have done otherwise, and it just so happened that when Clara died, my sister, Elizabeth, had an infection on her leg. The whole matter seemed ordained.”

“That poor woman,” Miss Buxton said.

“Yes,” Noah said, “but the maggots healed her in full. They only eat necrotic tissue, by the way, while disinfecting the healthy tissue. Best of all, they don't charge any physician's fees.” He halted abruptly and then plucked from atop an overflowing storage box at the edge of the trail an old black shoe, one that had been out of style since at least the Gay Nineties. “I'd forgotten all about this congress gaiter. Found it in a dumpster on Madison Avenue. Must be twenty years ago now. It's still in perfect condition, see for yourself.” He held it up to the light for us.

“How fascinating,” I said. “But shouldn't we—”

“Never did find the left shoe. I suppose it'd been the one damaged, and the foolish owner had seen fit to throw this one out too. That's calfskin leather, by the way. I could make use of it in so many different fashions.”

I'd come to assume that Noah's collections were, at heart, a compulsive form of safeguarding, protection against an unpredictable universe, but now I sensed something else entirely behind the gleam in his eyes. Perhaps it was the enchantment of untapped potential, the contemplation of myriad possibilities. He dropped the shoe back in its place and moved on.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked.

“To our living quarters on the top floor. We must hide Elizabeth before fetching the police. I won't take any chances with her life. She's”—he choked up—“she's irreplaceable.”

“Why don't I go straight for the police,” I suggested, “whilst you secure your sister?”

“No, that won't work,” he said. “She's too difficult to carry on my own. Besides, you wouldn't have time to clear the front door by yourself. Those ruffians know the way by now.”

“True,” I said. “But I recall your mentioning a secret exit to the street?”

“Did I?”

“Secret exit?” Miss Buxton said.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Trenowyth. My apologies if I've somehow inadvertently misled—”

“Out with it, Noah. We won't share the location with anyone, if that's what concerns you. We promise. Don't we, Cora?”

“Yes,” she said. “Promise.”

Noah halted, turned to face us. “I really do need your help upstairs, Trenowyth.”

“Then I'll go with you. But in the meantime, we'll send Miss Buxton to fetch the police. Tell her where the secret exit is.”

He sighed. “It's also on the top floor.”

“The top floor? But that doesn't make any sense.”

“Which is in large part why its location is still a secret.”

He led us onto an intersecting path. We followed in silence. I wasn't entirely sure he was telling the truth about his secret exit, or whether he was sane enough to be leading us anywhere.

Miss Buxton broke the spell of silence. “Perhaps we could bribe the robbers to leave peaceably. Offer them something. A consolation prize, if you will. One of those ancient gold coins they're after, let's say, or something else of appreciable value from here in the house.”

Noah gave a dismissive harrumph. “Never.” But I thought the notion worth exploring.

“One coin would be worth what?” I said. “Half a million dollars? Not a bad night's work. Do you really think they'd go for it?”

“They'd be fools not to,” she said, “as so little has gone to plan for them this evening. They never could have anticipated the escape of their hostages, nor killing a child and a police officer. Their necks are at risk now. Which must give them—”

She never finished her words. For a loud, shrill ululation—a Zulu-like war cry, it seemed to me—penetrated the darkness. A moment later a second voice identical to the first joined in.

Miss Buxton turned back and flung her arms around my neck. The full length of her shuddered. I daresay I might've shuddered too. But not Noah. He and his lantern rushed ahead along the path in pursuit of the awful cries.

“We'd best hasten after him,” I said as we rapidly slipped into lightlessness.

We followed Noah into the antechamber. Somewhere in the darkness well beyond his lantern light came rooting sounds—or so I took them to be—and low, guttural mutterings from more than one voice.

“Who are they?” Miss Buxton whispered.

“What are they might be the better question.”