A Murder of Crows - Chapter 2

The girl had been quietly lurking outside the manorhouse, peering through a foggy window and a lock of rained soaked hair at the goings on within. At sign of a fight brewing, she stealthily made her way around to the next window, hoping for a better view. She moved swiftly and silently, one hand clutching her coat closed, and the other steadying a smallish knapsack slung across her shoulder. Unfortunately, she didn't see the stableboy returning from his errands...
The startled cries of both of them could be heard easily within the manor as collided head on on the muddy cobblestones and tumbled to the ground

"What was that?"
Weasel edged to the window, keeping an eye on Mr. Briefcase. He glanced outside, but it was dark and all he could see was the reflection of his face.
He funbled for the latch, and finally managed to push the window open. The rain hit his face, making him step back again, but with the window open, a moan could be heard coming from the outside.

"Ghosts. If they are dead, they are ghosts. If they are alive, they are ghosts-to-be."
I feel them staring at me. Of course. They donīt understand the truth. They canīt KNOW the truth.

"What ARE you talking about?"
The weasel stared in disbelief.
"Look here guy, you got to get to your senses. This is the real world. There's something out there. They're no ghosts, okay. I can hear them breathing. Ghosts don't breathe."

"My sorrows are my own. Ghosts I must live with, lest I become one of them... Suffice to say that... Bleakmore was a big part of what I lost... and what I gained."
I refuse to open myself further. These men, whomever they may be, are unaware of how close to death they stand. Or rather... how close to Death.
"I assume you all have businesses to take care of... I wonīt be a bother. What I donīt understand is why a History teacher from Louisianna was summoned here..."

The girl stood up, and after a brief angry look at the stableboy as she picked up her soggy knapsack, turned toward the faces peering out the window.
"Pardon sirs," She offered waveringly, "just a soaked traveller seeking a bit of refuge from this torrent."
She slung her pack back over her shoulder and approached the window slowly, her hands open in a gesture of goodwill, but a quick knowing glance in Weasel's direction betrayed her story to the watchful eye.
"Sarah Bradshaw, of Worcester. My father is quite wealthy in the Boston shipping industry, and help you might offer a weary traveller I assure you he would gladly repay..."

With attention momentarily diverted, I move to the bar. Placing my briefcase on top of it, I reach inside. My hand seems to be swallowed by an unending blackness for a moment before it returns. In my hand is a copy of the book "Die Verlorenen Seelen".
I calmly turn, facing the blade-wielding man.
"Mr. Wolffeman. This is for you."
I hold out the time-worn in my right hand, my left hand still on the handle of my briefcase.
"And your Legacy."

At last I reached the small building. It might have been my imagination, but it was as if it was raining even harder than before. I pulled my raincoat a bit tighter and knocked three times on the door with the silver handle of my walking cane.
After a few seconds, the door was opened by a butler.
"Thank god, I'm getting soaked here.", I smiled as I entered the house.
The butler stretched out his hand to receive the invitation I now held in my hand, but I ignored him and walked straight into the room. This was all too convenient.
"My compliments to whoever wrote this invitation!", I said as I looked at each of the guests. My gaze fell on the gentleman with the briefcase. "And that person must be you.", I added, pointing the invitation at him.
A short while ago, I found it in my letterbox. At first, it didn't make any sense. With a little effort, however, I was able to trace it back to this place. Only when the butler had opened the door, it became clear to me that I was *supposed* to trace back the origin of the invitation. It was all part of some plan.
"Frank Vandermeer, private eye from Leuven, Belgium. But you probably already knew that."
Instinctively, I felt for my police badge, but at the same time I remembered it was no longer there. It had been three weeks now since I had begun on my own, and still I felt like a police officer.
"And who might you be then?"

"Well..."
The weasel hesitated. This was a bit covenient, wasn't it? Turning up outside the window on this gathering of skeletal closet holders. But there were few other options aside from inviting the intruder in.
"Ow.. come on in then. No use in staying out in the rain." He added grimly "I'm sure you will fit right in."
He was dimly aware things were going on behind his back, but he choose to ignore it. The girl actually was quite pretty, he thought. And there was at least still a bit of gentleman in him.
He extended a hand towards the girl, to help her get inside through the open window.

Sarah looked at the wease's outstretched hand through the window and smirked.
"Why thank you, kind sir, but perhaps the front door..."
She then hurried across the muddy ground to slip through the door behind the Belgian gentleman, and casually slipped out of her coat, handing it to the butler, though keeping a jealous grip on her knapsack.
"Again, sirs, please forgive the intrusion, perhaps I might share a cup of tea until the storm blows over then be on my way again." She offered noncommitally as she entered the room. The wary eyes about her seemed drawn to a leather thong about her neck from which hung a small ankh and a crude pentacle. She slid into a vacant seat with a slight groan as she scanned the room gauging the reactions of the gathered men.

My smile returns as a regard the new comer. I close my briefcase and turn towards him, my hand extended.
"I am no one of consequence. And no, I did not invite you here. In fact, I did not invite any of you here."
I let the comment sink in, before I continue.
"I just know who you all are."

Weasel closed the window.
He was slightly irritated that a pretty face had brought him to such unprofessional behavior. But there was something about that girl. Something... familiar.
He turned to view the newvcomer, mentally replaying the conmversation that had gone on behind his back while he was occupied with Sarah.
Vandermeer... belgian... that was in europe... P.I...
He noted the cane in the man's hand, wondering whether it also concealed a blade.
Mr. Briefcase was looking around for some reaction.
Weasel sniffed. There as something odd about this man. But he was not a threat, he decided. Not now, anyway.
He fell back in his chair.
"I know I wasn't invited." he said.
"But neither were you, right? I guess you knew about this meeting the same way I did."
He paused long enough to get the attention.
"So who was it that died?"

The girl... Sarah... sheīs about the same age as... my daughter would be if...
"What are we ALL doing here?"
Yes... Move on... Donīt think. Thinking got you into this...

Sarah nodded slowly, as if repeating the question in her mind. What was she doing there in this forsaken manor with a room full of strange men? Most girls her age werelocked away in sorority houses that evening, or toiling away in some tailor's shop or eatery, but not Sarah. She pondered again why exactly she had agreed to the request she go to the manor, and her eyes fell on the one they called weasel, yes the reporter from Boston. He knew more than his demeanor showed, but what? What did he know? She bit her lip nervously and waited for an answer to the cajun-drawled southerners question, determined to learn more of the reporter's secrets before this night was through.

As I see the book, my eyes fill with a sudden greed, mixed with fear. I start to reach for it - but stop before I get too far. As I speak, my german accent disappears, replaced by an English one.
"I might as well stop this masquerade. I am no more a German than you - except by accident of birth. I am, by education, an Englishman, and it will do no good to keep up this facade.
"You tempt me sorely, sir. How am I to know that the book is genuine - and, if it is, that it is not trapped? Give me a moment." Bringing the words of a spell to my mind, I briefly debate the risks involved - and decide to do it. Murmuring under my breath, my gloved fingers making deft gestures, I unleash the force of my spell, trying to detect any spells that may be laid on the book. I feel a chill, as if from beyond the grave - indeed, as if from beyond time and space - running down my spine, but it passes. Looking at the book, I see that there is no aura about it to show any spells. I shut off the spell, and open the book. Glancing through it, I nod - the book is genuine.
"Sir, you should know that the material within this book will, in all likelihood, never see daylight again. And that, I fear, is for the best." Slipping the book onto the table in front of my seat, I wait for what will happen next...

Having dealt with the immediate concern of the book, I look over the new arrivals. Nodding silently, I take in the >Belgian - I picked a good time to drop my accent - it wouldn't have been good enough to fool him, if he had any sense.
Then I noticed Miss Worcester - and her jewelry.
"Miss Worcester, allow me to introduce myself. I am Karl Wolfemann, visiting this place from England. Our companion who got the door for you is...affectionately...referred to as the Weasel. Our unresponsive colleague over there goes by the name of Claude - more than that, I fear I do not know. As for him," I turn politely towards Briefcase, "he seems to be the one we are supposed to talk to. Might I ask why you are here? [Do you know what you wear, or do you not?]" (The parts in the [] are spoken in Hebrew.)

Sarah smirked slightly.
" _Miss_ Worcester, eh? Hmmph. The name is Bradshaw." Sarah fumbled through her knapsack briefly and pulled out a slightly soggy business card, offering it for all to inspect, as if trying to add some proff to her story.
"My father...his card...as I said owns a major shipping company in Boston, perhaps you have heard of him? Benjamin Bradshaw?"
She gazed around at the men expectantly, trying to decide whether her story was holding water.
"Indeed, that is what brings me out in this awful weather, father sent me to call on an important client. When the rain began to fall, I noticed the lights from this manorhouse, and here I am..."

All the you all stand in the parlor, the storm rages outside. With the helping of Vandemeer and Sarah into Bleakmoore Manor, the butler looks at the old grandfather clock in the parlor. The clock chimes nine times, and the old man begins to move towards the door. He turns and addresses the room.
"Gentleman, and lady, the time is now nine o'clock. I am leaving for the evening. There are drinks chilled in the bar, and tea as well. My wife will be in in the morning, to serve breakfast. I will lock the front door behind me, and there is a key on the hook near the coat rack. Have a... pleasant evening, all."
With a resounding clap of thunder, the butler turns and takes his hat and coat from off the rack and turns towards the door.

Weasel had bene eyeing Mr Briefcase for an answer to his questions, but the mans did not seem in a mood to give away any prices. After a few moments of silence he turned to Sarah.
"Bradshaw... Yes, you could say I've heard of him. Sturb' and I talked to him once, on... " Weasel stopped midsentence, waving his hands as if dismissing a thought. "Well, it doesn't matter though. No need to open up old wounds. I am sure you need not be reminded of that, as well as I do not wish too. But I know how powerful your father is, and his connections."
He eyed the butler leaving, and frowned. "Huh. We didn't even get anything served to eat. I could do with a bite, yaknow." He slithered out of his chair.
"I'm going to the kitchen to get something to eat. Anyone needs some? Maybe we can all go, 'cause.." he pointed out Mr. Briefcase "I don't like to have him out of my sight."

I nod towards Sarah.
"I'm sorry, I must have heard you wrong." Then, turning towards the Weasel.
"Indeed, something to eat would be good. I do hope our hosts - and thir representatives - aren't vegetarians..." Looking around, I eye Mr. Briefcase with some annoyance.
"I could head out, if you all wish. While, I admit, I am not the world's greatest cook, I do know my way around a kitchen."

I watched as the butler left the house. In the meantime, I had been studying the other guests. Most of them seemed to be hiding something, some dark secret perhaps. But then again, so did I.
The tension seemed to be rising, as most of those present were awaiting some kind of explanation as to why they were invited to this place.
"Food would indeed be a good idea.", I said to Weasel. I figured that it would give us something to do, something to make this strange situation a little more comfortable.
With the handle of my cane, I pushed open the door to the kitchen. A cold draft chilled my face...

"Splendid idea," offered Sarah, as she stood up, looking around at the men tentatively," a morsel to go with this tea would suit me well."
She walked slowly towards the kitchen with the others, keeping a sharp eye on each man's actions, as if somehow expecting treachery.
" It seems odd though, I think...", she added as she slipped through the door to the kitchen, " that whoever invited you all here this evening would give his butler the night off..."

The butler watches everyone rise to go to the kitchen.
"There is food in the kitchen, if you grow hungry. My wife will make do with what remains in the morning. If there is any trouble, I am afraid, the village is a few miles away. You may have to wait until morning. Good evening all."
With that, the butler puts on his hat and jacket, and walks through the door. You can hear two locks slipping into place as he finishes. You hear his footsteps go down the steps and towards the stables.

I remain standing by the bar, calmly sipping my cooling tea as everyone begins to leave for the kitchen. With the Weasel and Mr. Wolffeman watching me, I seem not to notice the suggestion that I go with them.
Watching the butler leave, I finish my tea and place it upon the counter.

I stand there, watching them all leave for a little snack... Like I could eat in this dreadful place...
Glancing down at my drenched clothing, I noticed I didn't move since I got here. The puddle of rain drops surrounded me like I was an island, isolated from all men. Hh... The things we think about. How I wish I was back in New Orleans with ma petit fillette, cooking her a nice cajun stew...
"Wait for me..."
As I run after them into the kitchen, I notice Mr. Briefcase's smile of amusement.
This house has an odd effect on people.

Outside, a small, dainty figure made her way quickly from the stables towards the manor, picking her way carefully in the dark amid the unforgiving rain.
"There's no reason in the world why you should be here," Amelia chided herself. "At night...during a storm, no less. No one will be here. Who in their right mind would be?" Best not to continue with that train of thought, she decided.
"Truly, there's no reason for anyone to be here tonight, let alone a motley group like that. Talking to yourself won't help either. Of course, since there is no one around to hear-"
Amelia gasped as she saw a man stride past her on his way to the stables. She watched his retreating back and blinked, thinking she had imagined him. No, there he went, disappearing into the dark. The butler? It couldn't possibly mean...
Amelia groaned and looked up at the house in front of her for the first time. There was light coming from the windows. Others were here, and she had a pretty good idea she was supposed to go inside.
Sighing, she pulled open the rather heavy door and stepped in out of the rain. Civility demanded she knock, but Amelia wasn't feeling particularly civilized at the moment. Slipping inside the parlor, she met the gaze of a man standing several feet away at the bar. Very conscious of her blond hair plastered to her head and her traveling cloak dripping onto the carpets, Amelia slumped against the door and crossed her arms to keep from shivering violently from a sudden chill.
"Don't take this the wrong way," she said wearily, "but I really wish you weren't here."

Weasel had skidded of towards the kitchen, but it did not take him long to return to the parlor, chewing on a leg of chicken, holding a plate with some sort of potatoe salad in his left hand.
He nodded to Karl.
"You can go and get something to eat.", he muttered througha full mouth. "I'll watch him."
He frowned, as neither man payed him much attention. He followed their stare to the front door, and the blond girl that was in front of it. "Uh? How did she get in? She had a key?" He stepped forward so the light of the parlor did not shine in his face, and stopped in his tracks as he recognized the face.
The plate of salad slipped from his hands, smashing in thousands of pieces on the tiled floor.
"wuh.. What are YOU doing here?"

I watch as the girl arrives, and the Weasel's reaction, with a slight, bemused smile on my face. I rise, walk behind the bar, pour a cup of tea then turn back to the Weasel.
"What are YOU doing here?" the Weasel asks of the young woman.
Holding the cup of tea, I approach the young lady. Handing her the steaming cup, I look towards the Weasel.
"Since you apparently know one another," I say, "I will let you handle the introductions, Mr. Fudgick."
I continue to move towards the door, locking it, and watching the butler leave through the window.