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.”

Part XI: Recovery

The sound of turning pages welcomed Haddock back to consciousness.  He was lying in a bed, a very comfortable bed.  He wearily opened eyes that felt like they had been glued shut.  The room was a familiar one.  So they had made it to the hunting lodge after all.  Orange autumn light was fading away through the window, striking dust moats that lazily floated through the air as dusk descended.  A few small candles provided meagre illumination in the mahogany-tinted room.  He couldn’t see who else was in there with him.  Slowly, so not as to disturb whoever was reading, he moved his arm to probe his chest for the wound.  His fingers rubbed across a bandaged tender spot, causing him to make a pained noise in the back of his throat.  The reader set the book down and hustled over to his bedside with a swish of fabric.  Miss Marlowe’s face fell into the candle’s halo of light.  Haddock had expected to see no one else’s face but hers.  The thought made him curious, but he dismissed it.

              “You’re awake,” she said with a smile and an overwhelming sense of relief.  She looked like she hadn’t slept.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he croaked.  Working his dormant tongue caused him to taste old blood in his throat.  He made a face.  Miss Marlowe poured him a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand and administered it to him like he was a small child.  He would have taken the glass from her if his arms didn’t feel like lead.

              “I told my family that your mother wanted me to spend a month at the Estate, and I told your mother that I had to leave town for a family tragedy,” Miss Marlowe said simply, placing the glass back on the stand.  Haddock leaned his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. 

              “Lies within lies will only get you into more trouble.”

“You’re one to talk,” Miss Marlowe replied with a sniff.  Haddock was too drained and weak to engage in a verbal battle right now.  The sounds of a swishing dress drew away from the bed.

This was followed by the sound of a chair being dragged to the bed and subsequently occupied.  Nails thrumming on a book cover.

              “I made a deal with Evans after he pulled that bullet out of you.  I told him that we could take turns looking after you so that he wouldn’t be worn ragged.  He quite liked the idea, which is why he helped me to fabricate the stories sent to my family and your mother.  He’s resting right now—he stayed up most of yesterday as your personal nursemaid.  You should thank him when he returns, Mr. Haddock.  You owe him your life.”

              Haddock almost said, “It’s not the first time,” but held his tongue.  Miss Marlowe was putting on an air of indifference to hide the worry she was unconsciously projecting.  He didn’t need to alarm her about his past injuries.  Instead, he asked:

              “How long have I been, um…?”

“You’ve been delirious for two days, talking nonsense when you’ve been intelligible enough to string together words…”

              The thrumming stopped.

“Do you want me to tell you what you said?” she queried, a smile in her voice. “Oh, I’ll just tell you anyways.  For one, the way you called my name incessantly shed some light on your true feelings about me—"

Haddock’s eyes popped open as he snapped his head in Miss Marlowe’s direction.  Miss Marlowe laughed.

              “I’m only teasing you, Mr. Haddock!”

Haddock glared at her.  It was a half-hearted glare that fell away into an easy smile.  Miss Marlow’s laughing subsided.  She quirked a brow at him.

“Is there something on my face, Mr. Haddock?”

“What?”

              “You’re staring, and it’s making me feel very self-conscious.”

Haddock twisted his head back so that he was looking up at the ceiling once more.

              “No—no.  Your face is…fine.  It’s fine.”

He needed to change the subject quickly or he’d start finding it difficult to talk to her.

              “What happened to Sir Drexel?” he asked.

“You nicked him in the arm and he cried like a baby.”

              Haddock snorted.

“No, really.  What happened to him?”

              “I just told you, but if you’re referring to what he did afterwards, he holed himself up in his townhouse and hasn’t left it since.  He’s recovering, like you.”

“He’s licking his wounds and plotting,” Haddock said flatly. “If I had just aimed a few more inches to the right…”

Haddock counted knotholes in the beam over his head, thinking.

“What day is it, Miss Marlowe?”

“Saturday, but you slept through most of it.”

              “The next full moon is this Friday,” Haddock mused.

“What are you thinking?” Miss Marlowe asked suspiciously.  Haddock turned his head to look her full in the face.

              “He’s injured but not too grievously that he wouldn’t pass up a chance to go hunting during a full moon…He wouldn’t expect someone to be hunting him—”
              “And that’s going to be you, is it?  Mr. Haddock, I hope you realize you lost a significant amount of blood in your previous attempt at murdering each other.  You need to be resting, not thinking about going for a second round,” she said authoritatively. “I’d like to see you try to get up and walk around after lying about like a cor—”

              Miss Marlowe bit her lip.  Lying about like a corpse?  She shifted in her seat to hide her discomfort.

“The werewolf constitution helps the healing,” Haddock said.  That was half true. “And I’ll actually be the bait.  Evans will be lying downwind to shoot him with a silver bullet.”

              “But you’re still fighting him.”

“Yes—”

“Is Evans privy of his role in your scheme?”

“Not yet—”

              “Is this how you treat your friends, Mr. Haddock?  Volunteering them for possibly-fatal exploits?”

              Haddock turned his head, facing the window.  That was a low blow.  The sun sank lower, bathing the room in blue shadows.  Haddock heard a chorus of crickets begin chirruping from beneath the windowsill.

              “Do you know how to shoot a pistol, Miss Marlowe?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

              “Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”

“…No.”

              “I’ll teach you.”

Miss Marlowe ruffled visibly.

“I—you can’t just—how dare you assume—!  You’re an idiot if you think you can attempt two fights in a row!” she snapped, and got up and crossed to the window before Haddock could respond.  Haddock’s thoughts fell inward.  He began to see how much the duel and him getting shot had thoroughly rattled Miss Marlowe.  There was a sort of hysterical edge to her that he hadn’t seen before, one that felt if she was pushed too far, she would be liable to completely break down.  An uncomfortable, sickly sensation susurrated in Haddock’s chest.  Guilt.  He’d ignored her pleadings and strong repulsion towards the duel just so that he could feel the satisfaction of dropping Sir Drexel.  The ghostly image of Florence fluttered forth from the back of his mind where he’d locked away his deep regrets.  No, not again.  He barricaded her away.

              “Miss Marlowe?”

The woman turned so that the sinking sunlight limned her in a white glow, throwing her face in complete shadow.

              “Yes?” Wary.

“Sir Drexel’s comeuppance can wait.”

              The silhouette shifted.

“Are you being sincere, Mr. Haddock?”

              “Quite.”

There was a brief pause.

“It’s nice to know you’re being sensible for once.”