Part XII: A Plot

“Sir Drexel is feeling like his old self again, Master Haddock.  There was another mauling last night,” Evans announced grimly as he backed into Mr. Haddock’s room with a tray of food.  The butler gave a full body jump when he saw that Isolde was seated by the bed.  Her hand shot backwards from the coverlet where Mr. Haddock’s hand was lying as he slept.  Evans’ movement became slower and quieter when he realized the Master was asleep.

              “Oh.  I didn’t realize you were here, Miss Marlowe—what I mean to say is—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Evans.”

Isolde cleared room for the tray on an ornamental table across from the bed, and Evans gingerly set it down.  He began to take the food and tea things off the silver platter and deposit them over to the table.

“Mr. Evans?”

“Yes, Miss Marlowe?”

              “Who, who was it?  Sir Drexel’s victim, I mean,” she queried.  Evans shook his head.

“This isn’t a topic fit for—”

              “Oh, come off it already!” Isolde hissed. “I saw Mr. Haddock shot in a duel and held his head in my lap while he nearly bled to death.  I think I can stomach discussing Sir Drexel’s murders.”

              Evans set a platter of cold meat down with a sigh.

“Hetty Bixby.  They found her body at the edge of the moors.”

              Isolde felt sick.  She had seen Hetty nearly every day, as the girl sold flowers with her mother in town.  She couldn’t have been much older than fifteen.  Isolde squeezed her eyes shut, driving away the grisly images her imagination dredged up of a disfigured Hetty Bixby.  Her loathing for Sir Drexel increased tenfold.

              “How could people overlook Sir Drexel seducing a young girl?”

“He didn’t.  Miss Bixby was returning from visiting her mother’s sister in the country when Sir Drexel attacked her.  He’s killing for sport now.”

              “He’s asserting his hold on the town,” Isolde mused aloud.  Evans nodded.  Isolde watched as Evans gathered up the used food things from breakfast, piling them onto the platter as he prepared to take them to the kitchen.  She played with the edge of the table’s doily, twisting and rolling it between her fingers while she sank into her thoughts.  When her eyes focused and she looked up from the table, Evans had already spirited himself and the platter of old food away.  She turned to face the prone Mr. Haddock.  He had come a long way from the shaky, pale figure a week before who had been too weak to hold a glass of water to his lips.  Color now suffused his face.  Gone was the wheezy rattle whenever he breathed.  Isolde hadn’t believed him at first when he’d said that his being a werewolf would help him to heal faster.  She twiddled her fingers within the rivulets of her dress.

              It was time to make a compromise.  Isolde shook Mr. Haddock by the shoulder.

“Mr. Haddock.  Mr. Haddock.”

He stirred groggily.  Cracking an eye open and seeing Isolde, he tried to roll over, muttering something along the lines of being too tired to talk after their previous four-hour marathon conversation.  Isolde shook him harder.

              “Mr. Haddock, wake up.  I’ve changed my mind.  I’ll go ahead with your plan.  Show me how to shoot a gun.”

Mr. Haddock flopped over and gave her a confused, bleary-eyed look.

“H-huhhh?”

“Ohhh!  Do I have to spell it out for you!  Your plan to execute Sir Drexel!”

This seemed to clear the cotton in his head.  Mr. Haddock started so violently that the movement caused him to wince.

              “Absolutely not!”

“Why?” Isolde queried, crossing her arms.

              “Evans is more experienced—it’s not safe—Sir Drexel might—NO.”

“The way I see it, I’m young and Evans is old.  Therefore, my reflexes are better, and I can run if Sir Drexel sees me.”

Mr. Haddock made a frustrated noise.

“A fat lot of good that’ll do you!  Have you even seen a werewolf running?”

“I’ll have a gun, silly.  I can just shoot at him if he—”

“Not if he comes at you from behind!”

“Isn’t your job supposed to be keeping him distracted so that won’t happen?  You were so eager for me to be the accomplice in your plan when we first talked about this, Mr. Haddock.  Why the sudden change of heart?”

The argument ground to a screeching halt as they both glowered at each other.  Isolde let her counterpoints sink in while thoughts whizzed behind Mr. Haddock’s squinted eyes.  She thought she might hurry his decision along.  Getting up with a sigh, she said:

“Well if you can’t make up your mind, I’ll simply act as bait and shoot him myself.”

“The hell you will!”

              “Language, Mr. Haddock,” Isolde tsked.

“You can’t shoot him.”

              “You said you would teach me.”

“I was desperate,” Mr. Haddock muttered.  Isolde seated herself on the bed and Mr. Haddock’s eyes tracked her cagily.  She forced herself to calm down, the slight shaking of her hands from the sudden burst of adrenaline ebbing.

              “I changed my mind when Sir Drexel began killing young girls for the fun of it,” Isolde said in a low voice.  Mr. Haddock looked down at the coverlet as the hardness melted away from his face.  Isolde tapped his hand with a finger, prompting him for a response.

               “It’s…not that I don’t think you’re capable of shooting a gun, Miss Marlowe.  I’m sure you could learn how to do that in a cinch.  I would just rest easier if Evans was the one doing so, not you.  I don’t want to see you get hurt on account of me.”

              Mr. Haddock wrapped his hand around hers.  Something bright and warm welled up in Isolde’s chest, but she quelled it.  This wasn’t the time.

“I trust you’ll keep me safe, Mr. Haddock.  You haven’t failed yet,” Isolde said with a small smile.  Mr. Haddock’s gaze was still on their entwined hands as he smirked, then laughed.

“Lord, your mother would strangle me if she knew what you were really up to.”

                                                                                      *

It was a windy midafternoon.  Dark clouds loomed over the treetops, gorged with snow that would soon be set loose and turning the sun into a ghostly white disc.  Mr. Haddock, swathed in a dark heavy coat, leaned on a cane while Isolde aimed a gun at the cushioned backrest of a decrepit chair set in the middle of the field.  He had explained to her the basics: how to clean the gun, load it, preparing oneself for the eventual kickback, finger positions, and likewise.  She was eager to have a go at shooting, keenly absorbing Mr. Haddock’s instructions with excited nods.  Her fingers were cold from the outdoors, colder against the metal parts of the pistol.  She screwed up her face as she steeled herself for the gun’s kickback, slowly pulling back on the trigger while her heartbeat quickened.  The pistol cracked, much more loudly than Isolde had expected, yanking her hands backwards.  She felt a thrill rush through her tingling limbs as the smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.  The smoke swirled away in the wind and she squinted at the chair.  There was nary a puncture to be seen.

              “Try aiming for the target next time,” Mr. Haddock quipped.

Crack.

She took a piece off of the woodwork.

“Would it help if I fixed a portrait of Sir Drexel onto the backrest?”

Isolde swung the pistol at him mockingly.

“Maybe you ought to sit in the chair yourself, Mr. Haddock.  With the luck I’m having, I doubt I’ll it you.”

“I’m fine,” Mr. Haddock replied, keeping his distance from the woman with the gun. “Try again.”

“I am trying.”

              “Not hard enough.”

The electric feel to prove herself coupled with an annoyance at Mr. Haddock’s cynicism sparked through Isolde’s body as she took aim at the chair once again and rapidly fired the pistol six times.  She shot the rim of the chair twice, and the dirt three times before finally hitting the target full on.  She panted, feeling the adrenaline rush ripple off.  When she saw the fine hole in the chair amidst the smoke, she beamed at Mr. Haddock.  He raised a thick eyebrow.

              “Very nice.  Again.”

Isolde had expected a bit more praise.

              “I-I shot it right through the middle—”

“Yes, I can see that,” Mr. Haddock said, walking stiffly up to her. “But that was one out of six attempts.  You need to be able to make six out of six successful shots if you plan on shooting Sir Drexel.  If you miss, he’ll see you and realize what’s happening and flee before you can have time to line your sights for a killing round.  Understand?”

              This isn’t a game, his tone and posture said.

“Yes,” Isolde said in a small voice.  Mr. Haddock spun her around to face the chair.

              “Although, that was a very nice shot regardless.  Again.”