CHAPTER FORTY
Since the ouklo had clapped out completely and refused to leave the graveyard, the Brimstones left for their honeymoon in a two-seater skim. It was an uncomfortable, ill-sprung craft, but cheap and surprisingly fast in open country – or so the man from the hiring company assured them. For Brimstone, the main problem was its size. There was no room to get away from Madame Brimstone, who clung to his arm and made satisfied trilling noises as he stared stonily straight ahead through the open window.
The skim's built-in navigation system had been created for the city and handled the winding streets of Cheapside with ease. It even managed to negotiate Westgate, a notoriously difficult area for precision magic on account of the quartz content in the local bedrock. But once it left the urban confines, it ground to a halt and hung there, awaiting further instructions.
'The lodge coordinates, Dearest Heart?' said Brimstone, forcing a smile.
Madame Brimstone smiled back. '80-42,' she murmured.
'Really?' Brimstone said. 'As deep in as that?' He leaned forward and repeated the numbers to the dashboard of the skim, which absorbed them for a moment, then moved off in a north-westerly direction towards the woodlands. Brimstone leaned back and admired the scenery while trying to ignore the pressure of Madame Brimstone's hand on his knee.
They reached the lodge in something under ninety minutes. Brimstone felt a little better when they emerged in the clearing. He'd expected a log cabin, probably comfortable enough, but small. Instead he was facing an opulent house, wood-built to be sure, but architect-designed and spacious. A lot of money had been spent here and, without the need for illusion spells in so secluded a spot, it all showed.
'Do you like my little place?' asked Madame Brimstone as she climbed down from the skim.
Brimstone didn't answer. He was too busy calculating how much the building would be worth after he'd paid off the death duties on his late lamented wife.
Despite a display cabinet full of elemental servants in pristine brass bottles, Madame Brimstone insisted on cooking supper personally. Brimstone was suspicious at once. It hadn't occurred to him that she might try to poison him on their wedding night – the usual thing was to wait a few weeks so it wouldn't seem too obvious – but he didn't like the look of this at all.
Minutes after she disappeared into the kitchen, he strolled innocently after her in the hope of catching her out, but she shooed him away at once.
'Not a man's place,' she cackled. 'Not my man's place, to be sure. You take yourself off and read an edifying book. There's a copy of The Knicker Ripper in the living room. You just leave it to me to serve up something delicious. No more bone gruel, Silas – no more bone gruel!'
Brimstone went out again reluctantly. He wasn't quite ready to kill her yet – she had a brother so he'd have to make it look like an accident and that required a little planning – which meant he was going to have to risk the meal. Fortunately, really subtle poisons were expensive, so she probably wouldn't use them, the miserly old hag. With luck and good judgement he could probably spot the cheap ones she was likely to buy. The trick would be to avoid them without making her suspicious.
He found the book and pretended to read. After a while, Madame Brimstone stuck her head around the door. 'All ready,' she trilled. 'I've laid us places in the dining room.'
He walked through to the dining room and found that not only were places laid, but the appetiser was already on the table.
'Sit. Sit,' said Madame Brimstone eagerly. She was looking at him strangely, with a glint of anticipation in her eye.
Brimstone sat down and stared at his appetiser. It was some sort of grey, jelly-like substance flecked with curdled bits of white flesh. The old bat might be making an effort, but this dish hadn't turned out much better than her bone gruel. It looked as if a cat had been sick on a lettuce leaf.
'What is it?' he asked.
'Fish mousse,' said Madame Brimstone, sitting down. T leave the skins on for economy.'
It might make him ill, but would it poison him? Brimstone glanced across at her plate. 'You've only given yourself a small helping,' he said.
'Woman's helping, woman's place,' said Madame Brimstone, quoting an old faerie proverb.
'But my dear, we can't have that!' said Brimstone heartily. 'You cooked the meal. You deserve the larger portion.' He forced his features to contort into something she might take for a smile.
Still smiling, he switched his plate for hers. Let's see if she eats it now, he thought.
Madame Brimstone stared down at the plate. Was it a look of dismay? Did she realise she'd been hoisted with her own petard? But then she looked up to give him a dazzling smile. 'Why, thank you, Silas. How very thoughtful of you.' She picked up her fork and began to shovel fish mousse into her mouth.
Brimstone followed suit. To his surprise, it tasted good.
The second course was roast pork and, despite himself, he found his mouth watering as she carried the joint to the table. It was done exactly as he liked it, with crispy crackling, stuffing, and a boat of aromatic gravy.
Madame Brimstone was suddenly holding a vicious-looking knife. 'How would you like it?' she asked menacingly.
Brimstone half-started from his seat, then realised she meant the pork. He opened his mouth to answer, but she went on brightly, 'A slice or two from here perhaps?' She pointed with the tip of the knife, then, without waiting for an answer, began to carve.
The poison would only be in part of the joint, so she could calm his suspicions by having her share from somewhere else. 'No, no,' said Brimstone quickly. 'Not there. I'd like some from here.'' He pointed.
She didn't seem in the least perturbed, but dropped the slices on to her own plate and began at once to carve where he had indicated. So the joint itself was not poisoned.
'Crackling?' asked Madame Brimstone. 'Ixpect you like a nice bit of crackling. Can't have it myself – plays hell with my digestion.'
It was in the crackling! It had to be in the crackling! He was supposed to eat it while she did not. What cunning! He loved crackling!
'Can't have it either,' he said quickly. 'Gives me gout.'
If she was disappointed, it didn't show. 'Stuffing?'
'If you're having some.'
'I surely am,' said Madame Brimstone. 'And potatoes, carrots, minted sinderack and peas. Always believed in eating well, me.'
Brimstone stared at his laden plate. Perhaps he had misjudged her. No poison here, unless she was prepared to swallow it as well. A thought struck him. Suppose she was using a special poison. Suppose she had already taken the antidote. Suppose…
It was rubbish. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. The old bat was too stupid and too mean for anything of that sort. Anyway, it made no sense for her to poison him on their wedding night. Not with five notches already on the bed-post. Far too suspicious. She would surely wait a month or two before making her move. But by a month or two, it would be too late.
'I'm sorry, My Dear?' Brimstone murmured. She'd said something he hadn't caught.
'A toast!' Madame Brimstone repeated.
He realised to his horror there was a full glass of wine in front of him. He hadn't even seen her pour it. That's where the poison had to be! She'd have added it to his glass while he was distracted. How was he going to get out of this one without showing her he knew what she was up to?
'Here's to us and those like us,' said Madame Brimstone cheerfully. She raised her glass and waited expectantly for him to drink.
Brimstone scowled. What sort of toast was that? And where had that glass of wine come from?
'What sort of toast is that?' he asked, desperately playing for time. A heavy cut-glass claret decanter had appeared on the table and he assumed this was where the wine came from.