Hearing the clatter of hooves and the squelching of wheels, he rose, bade his hostess good day, and helped Toby lift his trunk into the back of the cart to which he had hitched Madame Eglentine. Binderwood was soon out of sight behind them. Not long after that, they turned onto the hornbeam drive.
It was a strange, sullen morning at Pellapon Hall, the staff moving in an exhausted daze and the twins nowhere in evidence. Lord Pellapon strode up and down the corridor from the parlor to the foyer, irked as much by the private detective’s deterioration as by his defection. Nor did he appear overly grateful for Hewell’s offer to see Deakins safely back to London, and even into Bethlem Royal Hospital if need be.
“Nervous collapse is always a danger in one so entirely dependent on his imagination,” Hewell said discreetly, out of Deakins’ hearing.
“Then what about you? Do you not also rely on your wits?”
“Wits are not the same thing, Lord Pellapon. I am but a civil servant, dependent on my superiors. Thus I avoid the burdens of too much independence and leave the difficult decisions to others more visionary.”
Hewell led the docile, wide-eyed detective down to the cart and left him comfortably seated, humming to himself and counting his fingers until he proved he had hundreds of them. Hewell remounted the broad steps to take Lord Pellapon’s hand in farewell.
“I apologize for the twins,” said the elder man. “They both complain of exhaustion or they would be here to see you off. Deakins was a great favorite of theirs until… well, they cannot understand how such afflictions may affect a grown man. A shame about his investigation. You know, he claimed to be on the verge of some revelation. And now the matter of my wayward mail’s no closer to resolution. It’s all a muddle.”
“I don’t think the mail will trouble you any longer, Lord Pellapon. Upon thorough review of Merricott’s methods, I have suggested several procedural improvements—all minor, true, but cumulative in effect. Toby will see they are implemented immediately; you may rely on him to address your concerns. I believe you will note a distinct improvement from this moment forward.”
“Well, that’s fine news, then! Dull procedure triumphs where fancy makes no headway!”
“A sentiment worthy of enshrinement,” Hewell said, and stopped short, caught by a movement at an upper-story window. A face floated behind the glass. She was watching him, he realized with pride. His Queen!
As if sensing how his heart leapt out to her, she slowly opened the window so that he might see her without the distortion of glass or darkness. Her skin was paler than any ivory, her hair so white as to be almost blue, and her eyes glinted faintly like twin red stars. From either side of the window frame, two pairs of smaller hands reached in to settle a bright three-pointed crown upon her head.
“If I may,” said Hewell, “please tender my respects to the eldest Miss Pellapon.”
“The eldest?”
Hewell gave a slight wave to the Queen, but she responded not. He realized that her gaze, and her smile, were directed past him, to the cart, where Toby sat holding the reins. The lad grinned back, then noticed Hewell’s eyes upon him, whereupon he flushed and turned away, covering his sudden change of color by clucking imperiously at Madame Eglentine. When Hewell’s gaze returned to the upper window, he saw it had been shut and shuttered. The crowned white face was gone.
“Ah, so you have seen Eliza,” said Lord Pellapon. “She reveals herself to very few. She was always a fragile child, but by some miracle she survived the contagion that carried off her mother. I am fortunate to have the three of them as reminders of Lady Pellapon, God rest her.”
“Is it albinism that keeps her hid away?”
“The doctor assures me that her condition does not preclude fresh air and sunlight, but she would almost always rather stay indoors, composing these tales of hers, these… games. The servants and her sisters appear to find them engaging. I suppose she has a talent for it.”
Hewell received the impression that Lord Pellapon did not entirely disapprove.
With paternal pride he added, “I must admit, she is a help to me, especially when it comes to ordering about her diabolical siblings and keeping the staff in line when they have tired of my commands. Frail she may be, but not so frail she cannot rule the house.”
And more than that, thought Hewell, putting his hand to his heart, of which he silently acknowledged she was now the very queen.
“The Ghost Penny Post” copyright 2016 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Mar./Apr. 2016.
THE FINEST, FULLEST FLOWERING
A sour note shrieked from the limousine’s speakers, making Milston’s fingers curl in his lap. He took a moment to compose himself before rapping precisely, and with a now steady hand, on the glass separating him from the driver. The tone had droned into a hum that tunelessly dreamt of someday becoming hypnotic. “What is this we are listening to, and is there any way to turn it off?”
“Down, sir, but not off, I’m afraid.” The driver lowered the volume to a level barely audible; this was in some respects even more annoying. “Part of the colony’s ambiance, sir. Part of the design. Won’t be much longer though, sir. We’re almost there.”
“There” turned out to be a pale brown stucco bungalow, unremarkable except for the roof of green ceramic tile. From overhead, you might not see it among the trees. Everything here—from the hidden runway to the matte and muted colors of the limousine—bespoke discretion, if not outright camouflage. As he stepped from the car, and the driver came around to retrieve his single suitcase and worn black valise from the trunk, he heard the volume of the music increase again, and he realized it was everywhere, moaning from speakers in the trees. There was no turning it down. The sour notes, still plentiful, were also now unavoidable.
His luggage was placed on a cart. “Your bags will be waiting for you in your suite. But first, sir, your tour.” The driver bowed, ducked back into the limousine, and executed a turn that took the car back toward the airfield. Milston looked about, waiting for a word or direction from the plump older man who stood watchfully by the cart, presumably a concierge. “Am I to meet my patron here?” he asked finally.
“Mr. Milston, it is my great pleasure. Like you, I delight in anonymity. In fact, it has become essential to my survival. Without it, I could never travel—although at this point I rarely leave the island. All my needs are more than met here… as I hope they will be for you. Shall we begin?”
Milston took the proffered hand, found it dry, uncalloused, possessed of a faint tremor. “What am I to call you?” he asked.
“Patron would be perfect. I think you will find me worthy of the title. Nothing would please me more than to support your work. I understand you will need convincing, but surely you have already looked into my ability to fulfill my promises?”