Chapter 2
What a Tangled Web We Weave
“Rather perplexing, what?” Peter stared at the countryside whipping by. “D’ya think it will rain?”
“Ah. Yes, your lordship,” responded Bunter, unable to account for the sudden leap in conversation. He peered out the window of the train. “The sky does look rather overcast, my lord.”
Peter drummed on the glass with his fingers, almost nervously. “The story which we heard after dinner – well, durin’ dinner for you, I s’ppose, poor belabored man – is seemin’ unaccountably troublin’ to me on further thought.”
Bunter raised one eyebrow just enough to convey his interest while not appearing to be so interested that Peter would be forced to continue out of sheer courtesy.
His lordship entirely missed this display of his manservant’s remarkable control over his facial muscles. “Yes,” he mused. “Most unaccountably troublin’. Would you oblige me by hearin’ my thoughts?”
“Of couse, my lord. I am always glad to receive the benefits of hearing your thoughts upon a case.”
“You’re very good, Bunter. Ah… well.” In a rather unconscious imitation of Fiona earlier that evening, Peter held up three fingers to mark off his points. “No. 1 – they made up the whole story. No. 2 – everything is as they presented it, and then we have a hydra-like problem on our hands. Or, No. 3 – and I’m not fond of this one at all – one of them was bein’ perfectly honest and the other was lyin’ most frightfully.” He paused and seemed to be waiting for Bunter to add something.
Bunter gently cleared his throat. “Well, my lord, I took the liberty of inspecting the back side of the house, and there is indeed a broken stained-glass window on the third floor. There was no glass on the lawn which I observed, my lord.”
“I really haven’t the foggiest what I’d do without you,” said Peter, a bit absently. He thought for a moment, then straightened in his seat. “In your candid and seldom fallible opinion, were they tellin’ the truth?”
His valet considered. “Strictly as a matter of opinion, my lord, I would say that they spoke the truth and nothing but the truth, but not the whole truth.”
“So you think that p’rhaps we were not hearin’ quite the entire story? Interesting… I was pickin’ up on the same feeling’s scent, in a manner of speaking. If you’re havin’ any more thoughts, feel free to interrupt me as I ramble. In particular, neither of them seemed much inclined to discuss their family, or what precisely they were doing in England… there was somethin’ else, but it seems to have slipped the steel trap of my mind. Have you ever wondered if there was some sort of wee beastie which goes around stealin’ thoughts out of your head? I s’ppose the W.B. says it’s liberatin’ them, not stealin’ them, but it feels remarkably like prosecutable theft to me when I’ve been struck with a brilliant idea, filed it away in my mind, and return only to find that it’s gone with the Wee Beastie. I surmised – as a child – that p’rhaps the W.B. eats them. But –”
“Perhaps you are referring to the unusual hesitancy which Miss Paul displayed in revealing what name the glass spelled out,” inserted Bunter.
Peter’s eyes widened. “You never fail to astound me, Bunter. You positively should have been drowned for witchcraft – or would it be warlock-craft? That was it exactly.”
“Thank you, your lordship. I believe that this is our stop.”
Peter followed him dutifully.
“Are you planning to pursue a solution to this mystery, then, my lord?” inquired Bunter.
“It doesn’t exactly merit Scotland Yard,” admitted Peter. “But, to put it poetically, I have eaten of their salt. And if something is wrong – in concurrence with my instinct –” He stopped in the middle of the platform. “This is either a chase after wild geese or an incredibly dangerous situation, and thus I’m reluctant to lay my hand too heavily on the scale either way.” He frowned, then shrugged it off with a brightening smile. “Yet it has been cast into my lap and I lead the next trick…” His voice faded off into the whistling of a gay tune between his teeth. Peter began walking again, jumping into a cab with, apparently, not a care in the world.
His telephone was ringing as he opened the door of his flat, but of course the ringing stopped instantly when he was within arm’s reach of the phone. Wet and exasperated, Peter gave the much-abused door a solid kick, sending it flying shut. He looked about his flat and fell onto the sofa. “Dash it all,” said Peter, holding onto his suddenly aching head as if to keep it from floating away. The phone began ringing again.
~~~~~~
“Skandar,” Fiona had said. He looked up from his whittling. “I’m not sure that I want to sleep in that room again.”
He thought about this for a moment and returned his attention to the block of wood in his hands. “You’ve spent many nights in places less sheltered.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m… I… I don’t feel safe.”
Alexander continued to work steadily with his knife. “Because you know that someone must have been inside?”
She sat down on the floor at his feet. “Yes, Skan. And they were in my bedroom. And they knew Dante’s name.”
He reached out a hand and rested it on her head. “You will not be alone tonight; Di’rgan and I will see to that. Which frightens you the more?”
Her lips trembled. “Was it Dante?”
“Don’t be silly, lassie,” Alexander rebuked her with a smile.
“But I do fear for Dante! If he comes to danger on my account –”
Her brother laughed. “On your account? If Dante should come into danger, he will do it of his own choice.”
Fiona set her jaw stubbornly.
“Shh, don’t say it,” warned Alexander, his eyes solemn again. “But we will watch tonight.”
Now it was the afternoon after they had kept watch, and Fiona was trying to reach Peter Wimsey.
~~~~~~
Peter glared at the phone while reaching for it. “Hello. You have reached the –”
“Peter? Erm. Lord Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Are you busy?”
“Who on earth is this?”
“Fiona. Paul.”
“Oh,” said Peter, forgetting his headache. “What is happening? And no, I’m not ’specially busy. Why?”
She made a sound from which he inferred that she was trying not to cry. “Can you come back?”
“Er, well, yes… now?” He was a bit off balance.
“Please.”
“Could you tell me what has happened? I’m assumin’ something has happened?”
“Yes.”
“Now. Take a minute, pull yourself together,” advised Peter, not unkindly. “Shall I come to your house? Or direct me where’er you will from the station, I’m at your command.”
She was crying now. “You can’t come to the house. It’s not… there. Burned down.”
“What in the blazes —” roared Peter, and checked himself sharply. “I’ll be there as soon as ever I can. I’d say tell me all ’bout it now, but I’d simply be wasting time. Hang tight.” He set the receiver down firmly. “Bunter?”
Bunter appeared in the doorway.
“We are returning on the next train,” declared Peter.
“Yes, my lord,” said Bunter. “I took the liberty of packing a few items for you.”
~~~
Peter had mashed his coat up into a pillow. It provided limited comfort due to its abundance of buttons, and was no where nearly as dapper as a pillow as it was as a coat, but he fell asleep nonetheless. He awakened at several intervals, feeling everything from pleasantly drowsy to bonenumbingly and irritably cramped. Peter watched the station come into view with no relief at all; he wanted nothing to do with this case. But it was rather too late to be thinking of that, and the decision had been made (albeit accidentally) when he had answered the phone. He was not good at refusing help to damsels in distress, especially when they sounded as though they were about to cry, and had given him a very decent dinner the night before.
Peter gave himself a sympathetic sigh for having a soul which was so duty bound and stepped onto the platform, blinking.
Fiona looked as if she had spent an even worse night than Peter. He was duly impressed.
“I — ah — found a room for you,” she said after a moment of awkward silence. He managed to pull out a smile.
“I hope ratha’ awfully that there’s a bed in it.”
Fiona made a face. “I assumed that there is. It’s a BED and breakfast.”
Peter yawned. “Am I to see it or the house first?” Bunter appeared at his elbow, offering him a cup of coffee, which Peter seized at eagerly. He took a sip, coming awake in spite of himself, and stood looking expectantly at Fiona.
She sighed. “Are you going to die or faint or do something similarly silly if you don’t get to sleep?”
Offended, Peter straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “Decidedly not.” His English pride had been deeply stung. “I am not yet tottering on the edge of the grave.”
Fiona pushed her hair out of her face. “Good. Come on.”
Inside the car Peter yawned again and she looked at him somewhat apologetically. “I am awfully sorry, and really, I wouldna have called you if the problem was just the house.”
“Isn’t the house enough?” He could see it now, the smoke curling through the early morning air.
Fiona swallowed hard “Of course it’s not about the house, who cares about the house? It’s Skan.”
“They think he set the fire?” asked Peter suddenly.
She stared at him. “Wha– oh, why would they think that?”
He leaned back against the seat. “Beg your pardon, I don’t know. Fog of a not-fully-awake mind. Go on. What about Alexander?”
“He’s missing,” said Fiona, grimly.
Comments»
very cool!
one thing…this quote: ” “There was no grass on the lawn which I observed, my lord.” ” is that supposed to say “glass” ?
*clears throat* Yes, it is. Thank you.
*sighs* No GRASS on the lawn? What was I thinking???
it could’ve been substantial evidence. you never know! (and i must say, extra points to bunter for telling peter about there being no grass on the lawn. because THAT is VEEERRRRRYYYY suspicious…:P) but look on the bright side, your logic in your story is flowing so well that the reader knows exactly what you’re talking about and isn’t confused by a minor detail.
from ghosties and ghoulies
and long-leggity beasties (and wbs, too)
and things that go bump in the night
oh Lord, deliver us.
to the above comment…:amen
as to the rest of your story: very lovely! write faster.
and as your ever faithrul self-appointed editor: “He thought about his for a moment and returned his attention to the block of wood in his hands” ~ “He thought about THIS for a moment…” right?
Er, yes, thank you dear! What would I do without you??
Well, send me some ideas for what ought to happen next in the story…