“When was all this?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“Why, right after that Z-O-M-B-Y got into the house.”
“Belgrave, sack this woman at once,” Lord Lumpley said.
“You are dismissed, Mrs. Hutchinson.”
“Ho! Like I care now!” The cook looked over at Mr. Bennet while waggling her pan at Belgrave. “Always it was this one alone who was allowed down there, and then all of a sudden the cellar’s shut up altogether? And kept that way even with a swarm of bogies at the door and no better place to hide? If you ask me, there’s something tricksy about the whole thing.”
“She’s right!” one of the baron’s dressers called out.
“Ask them why the cellar’s sealed!” added another.
“Ask why the door was broken down!”
Other servants joined in with “Yes!” and “Ask them!”
“What is this, the damned French Revolution?” Lord Lumpley roared. “Mind your place!”
Belgrave looked like he wanted to slip behind another mote of dust.
“I’m with them,” a man said, and as he stepped into the entrance hall, a dozen hushed voices whispered his name.
Jonathan Ward.
Emily Ward’s father.
“What’s in the cellar . . . My Lord?
“Or is it more a question of who?” Elizabeth said. She wasn’t looking at Mr. Ward or Lord Lumpley or Belgrave. She was looking at Jane.
Her sister was standing just behind and to the right of the baron, still playing the faithful bodyguard, staying true to their father’s pact with the nobleman even after all they’d been through. On her face now, however, was a look of horror equal to the one she’d worn when she first saw Emily Ward dragging her rotting carcass from the water.
Another monster was being revealed to her: the one directly before her. And she wasn’t the only one seeing it for the first time. A wave of angry mutters and exclamations of dismay spread first through the foyer then down the halls along each wing, until it seemed the whole house was abuzz.
“This conversation has become highly insulting, not to mention utterly insane,” Lord Lumpley said.
Mr. Bennet shook his head sadly. “Once again, I find I am a fool. I ascribed to mere lechery what should have suggested a far deeper flaw. In your case, a deeper evil.” He turned to Mr. Ward. “I examined your daughter’s body the day she . . . returned. I would prefer to say this privately—or not at all, ever—but I think it should be known: Emily Ward was with child when she died. I didn’t get to see the girl dreadful who attacked my daughter here the other night—it was burned before I could do so. But I suspect I would have found her condition the same as poor Miss Ward’s.” He pointed an unblinking stare at Belgrave, and with his cocked head and cold eyes, he took on the look of a bird of prey watching something soft and furry scurrying through the grass. “And I presume there were others? Buried down in the cellar before you simply started throwing them in the lake?”
“This is madness!” Lord Lumpley bellowed.
Belgrave edged away from him, mumbling under his breath.
“What was that?” Mr. Bennet demanded, taking a step toward him. “Pray, speak up!”
“He told me to do it,” Belgrave said, jerking his head at the baron. “Whenever another one popped up to make trouble.”
“What rot! I never told you to kill anyone!”
“You said to get rid of them. Permanently.”
“Yes! Exactly! That’s not kill, is it?”
“You knew.”
“I most certainly did not! I just knew they stopped pestering me.”
“Yes—until the next one came along. There was always a next one.” Belgrave glanced past the baron. At Jane. “There always would be. You couldn’t help yourself.”
Elizabeth could hear no more. She moved toward Lord Lumpley not knowing if she intended to simply strike him or break his neck, though either would be preceded by the Fulcrum of Doom.
Mr. Ward started stalking the baron’s way at the same moment.
“They’ve lost their minds!” Lord Lumpley cried. “Jane—protect me!”
He took a step back, starting to put himself behind his guardian angel. He was stopped by something long and straight and slick red that shot from his body just above the pelvis.
It was a katana, coated with blood. The blade jerked upward, into the baron’s belly, then zigzagged down again.
Lord Lumpley blinked.
“Jane . . .?”
Then he slid forward off the sword and was dead before he hit the floor.
Though the zombies kept moaning and banging away outside, every living thing was hushed and still. Only Jane made any noise, first with her heavy breathing, then the moist shhhhhhhhhhh as she slid her katana back into its scabbard.
The silence was finally broken by a smattering of uncertain applause.
“I don’t th-think that waaaaas c-called for,” Mr. Cummings said, but the clapping just grew a little louder.
The only other dissenting voice belonged to Jane’s own mother, who’d let loose with a disappointed “Ohhh!” as the favorite of all her daughters’ suitors was carved up like a roast duck.
Belgrave, of course, had a less than enthusiastic reaction, as welclass="underline" He simply started running. He seemed to have lost his senses, for he dashed toward what looked like solid wall—part of the paneling that ran along the underside of the staircase. When he reached it, however, a section of it slid back at his touch, revealing a black passageway into which he started to disappear.
There was a series of raps in quick succession—thup-thup-thup — and the tails of Belgrave’s topcoat were pinned to the wall by three throwing stars.
“La!” Lydia snorted from across the hall. “I knew these silly things would come in handy sooner or later!”
Mr. Bennet grabbed Belgrave by the shirt collar before he could shrug free of his sleeves and escape.
“A secret passage, eh? Would there be more of these?”
“Oh, yes, Sir!” Mrs. Hutchinson said. “All through the house. We weren’t supposed to know about them, but we used to hear Belgrave and His Lordship slinking around in the walls like rats.”
“Capital, capital,” Mr. Bennet said. “Belgrave, you have just won yourself a temporary reprieve. Mary, Kitty, Lydia—if you would be so good as to find the cellar and tidy it up in whatever way you find necessary. Elizabeth—you might want to attend to your elder sister. She’s looking a touch peaked.”
Indeed, Jane was staring at her handiwork—filet de noble—looking pale. Elizabeth hurried to her side expecting to arrive the same moment as the inevitable tears. Yet Jane’s eyes, though wide and full of confusion, remained dry.
“I was beginning to believe he actually cared for me . . . that perhaps he wasn’t the scoundrel you made him out to be. How could I have been so very, very wrong?”
“He thought he could take advantage because you have a good heart.”
“Had a good heart, perhaps.” Jane nodded at the baron’s crumpled, bloody form. “People with good hearts don’t do things like that.”
“Oh, Jane—your heart is still good. It’s just that it’s strong now, too. Hardened. Armored.” Elizabeth took her sister by the hand. “The heart of a warrior.”
Jane looked into Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Yes,” she said, speaking in the firm, unwavering way of someone making a vow. “And nothing shall ever pierce it again.”
“Ummm . . . should I have that beheaded and taken up to one of the windows?” a maid asked meekly, pointing at her former employer. “It might keep some of the unmentionables happy for a moment or two.”
“Breach! Breach!” someone shouted from the south wing.
Jane and Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet all started toward the sound of the call, but they weren’t needed: A cluster of men and women jumped in together to hack and slash at the zombie soldier trying to wiggle its way through a fresh gap in the plaster. Within a few seconds, the dreadful was in pieces and the hole in the wall blocked off with an upended chest of drawers.