A Murder of Crows - Chapter 4

Weasel looks up as mr Trent is ushered into the kitchen, just as Frank stays his suspecions.
"As you hear, it's no use trying to convince us you came here by accident.
Even if you were, no-one would believe you.
Everyone here seems to have a reason to be here, even me. I'll just run you through the intros, eh? saves the trouble. This man sitting next to me is Mr Karl Wolfeman from the Luna foundation, following that are Sara Bradshaw of Worchester, Frank Vende.. Vanor.. whatever, from Belgium, Claude Lafitte of New Orleans, Amy... Amelia Trent, and I am Weasel.
The man who let you in is of no consequence, which is why we are all very interested to hear what he has to say. "

Trent nods to everyone as they are introduced.
"Mmm, quite the gathering, so where did you all go to school together!" He chuckles. "Ye not relatives and proffession hardly seems to link you. A wake? Most of you are glum enough. But more to the point, no I was not 'invited' as such, and just to get it over with I was on my way to take a job," he pauses and looks slightly sheepish, "just got lost." Shrugging he walks over to the oven and stokes it.
The atmosphere seemed to be chilly, but not in any normal way, cold he had dealt with before, but this. He continues stoking. Well the company could be a lot worse!, Maybe.
"Hey, Mr. ... umm Weasel, so who owns this place, you didn't mention that?"

"The house, you mean? I do not know who is the owner.
All I know is that the staff was hired by some lawyer firm in Greenfield, called Belsten and Duyvers. They also send out the invitations. But they were particularly stiff-lipped about who had given them orders, and who currently owns the manor."
Weasel looked around at his comapnions, some of whom eyed him suspiciously.
"Hey, I'm a reporter, okay. I didn't think it was of import. Anyway, I'm not the one most involved with this place. But maybe Mr. Lafitte can tell us. He has been here before. Who is the manor's lord, Claude?"

I walked towards the front door and cast a look outside. The raging thunderstorm made the surroundings look surrealistic, as if every lightning flash made the shadows come alive.
As I closed the door, my eyes fell on something strange. At waist-height, the inside of the door contained a small crater-like depression, such as a colliding bullet would leave behind. It was painted over, probably in an attempt to conceal it. I decided not to alarm the others. Not yet.
"By the way, Mr. Trent, my name is Frank Vandermeer. I thought I'd set the record straight.", I smiled as I came back to the kitchen.

I pale visibly at this question. Oh, dear God! How am I supposed to answer this? With the truth? Or a more believable lie, firmly based on physical reality?
Okay, here goes nothing...
"Well, Mr. - heh! - Weasel, Bleakmoore Manor dates all the way back to the late 1700's, when this part of the country was little more than untamed swamps and forests. For some reason, the Mohicans avoided this part of the countryside, so it reached the hands of Sir Jeremiah Godfrey, third Count of Wilfordshire, in almost virgin state. The Count was - eh... how to put this... - unorthodox in his approach to the natives, and in 1812 the foundations for what would one day become Bleackmoore Manor were laid. Back then the villagers from down the road called this place the Black Moors. That's how the Godfrey Estate got its name."
I sense Weasel's eyes eagerly devouring the story like a rabid beast. I'd better not tell him that Godfrey was also an outcast from Elizabethan court and was declared heretic by both the Catholic and Anglican churches.
"Bleackmoore only achieved its current form in 1822, when the independence of Brazil brought all English businessmen an unprecedented influx of money from amazonian rubber trading. During those golden years - all three of it - Godfrey, now an old man, built like crazy, enriching the Manor with sculptures, paintings and afrescos from the best artists around. But Mr. Godfrey's renegade slave ships were aprehended by British authorities, and in 1825 he lost his money, his prestige, his sanity and - ultimately - his life. His casket was buried empty, for he never emerged from the Black Moors again."
Their eyes wide open. Their jaws hanging. Heh. Once a history teacher, always a history teacher...
"Or so the story goes..."

As I appear from the adjoining room, my face switches from a dark and worried inward gaze to its more common smile. I hang back from the group as Claude tells the history of the manor and Weasel's reaction. Picking up my tea, I turn once more back to face the adjoining room.
As I stare off into the conservatory, I whisper under my breath.
"Aye, 'tis how the story goes, lad. 'Tis how the story goes..."

Amelia nodded a distracted greeting to Mr. Trent as introductions were made all around. Her eyes lingered upon the revolver he carried and she clenched her hands into fists. There is the link, she thought. It's the same as in the dream. He was supposed to be here as well, for one reason or another, even if he didn't realize it.
She looked at Claude as he finished reciting the history of the manor, not entirely sure how much of the story was fact.
"Who then, controls the manor now?" she asked quietly.

"Oh. A gathering at the home of an ex-loony, well at least that's not so bad." "The army had them in a majority!" He mutters.
"So if some of you think that all of us were MENT to be here, by whatever means, then there must be some sort of common factor. So come on spill the beans everyone, Shhesh subterfuge is annoying!"

A bit bored with the conversation, Sarah fetched a bowl with some raw meat from the icebox and sat it on the counter. She eyed the stove with slight contempt and kicked at the woodpile lazily.
"Anyone know how to work this thing?" She wondered aloud, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm famished, and these lamb chops look to be the only food in this miserable place, though what I wouldn't give for a bowl of chowder and a bit of of honeyed bread..."
She tossed her knapsacked down upon the table haphazardly, a soggy newspaper spilling out onto the table, the Boston Daily Sun, dated about 4 years earlier and folded to a coverstory about the local authorities arresting a group of women suspected of witchcraft in the Worcester area. Sarah smirked almost imperceptibly, then turned back to the stove...

Weasel frowns as the newspaper hits the tabletop.
For a moment, it seems as if he is state something.
But then he thinks better of it. Why should he start?
Instead, he points at one of the cupboards.
"There was some potatoe salad in that one. You don't need to heat that, though I took most of it.
I think it is still... ehr... on the floor in the hall. Oh. And there was some left over cold chicken. But I ate that."

I walk back into the kitchen, having heard their conversation from the other room.
"All right, I can tell that somebody will have to go all the way with their secrets before the others will. That's the only way we have to find out what in God's name is going on here. So I'll go first.
"I represent the Luna Foundation, a philanthropic group dedicated to preserving the past in a safe manner. However, while my Foundation ties are my chief reason for being here, I believe I know the specific reason that I was requested to arrive." I pull off my gloves, showing human hands covered in short, curly fur - rather like a cat's.
"My body is like this from neck to toe. That is why I dress as I do." Then I turn my eyes skyward.
"Are you happy now?! Let my shame be paraded about - if only it will let me bring you down! Let the darkness be parted, and let the light shine through!" Calming down, I turn to the other guests.
"Forgive my outburst. Our secrets are only prolonging the inevitable - whatever has brought us here is going to enjoy the secrets, just like Godfrey enjoyed having his. We must deal with it in the only way possible - by taking our darkest secrets and exposing them to light. I have done so - will anybody else?"
Perhaps this wasn't my darkest secret - but it was the only one that might be understood at this point...

"That's it? Fur? Huh. You think _you_ have a problem."
Several eyes swing to the Weasel.
"Hey! Don't expect me to out anything. This isn't psychiatrics."

I look at the Weasel, mild annoyance on my face.
"Fur, hydrophobia, mild allergy to alcohol, and other difficulties. All because I didn't know enough not to dabble in things man is best not to know.
"All things considered, I think that my curse, while minor, is enough to pose a difficulty - they still burn witches in some parts of this world."

I turn my eyes to the young lady.
"Well, you're guess is as good as mine, since Godfrey left no heir apparent, and the government tried to wrestle the Manor for their own use. Unfortunately, no records survived as to why no one managed to live here in the past 70 years for any significant length of time."
"Only temporary visitors managed to sleep here. Mostly visitors. Some historians. A few curators, interested in the art pieces. But whomever holds sway on the Manor seems unmoved by whatever money is offered him. All the lawyers say is that the Manor "is still in use". By whom? Well, my bet is le diable himself. Le chien de l'infer."
"Only one thing is certain about this manor. Of all people who slept here in the past 70 years, only two survived. More or less."
"Mon dieu, 'tis a good tea, huh?"

I turn to face Mr. Wolffeman as he makes his speech. Quite calmly, I watch him revealing his secret. Still holding my briefcase, a quick look of pity crosses my face.
"Such are the prices of your trade, sorceror," I say. "A pity even magic has been corrupted in our world."

"Well." Trent pauses to consider the ramifications of these revelations.
"I hardly have the sort of secrets some of you seem to have, but considering what I have just heard about this house I think that I should tell you this at least." Again he pauses.
"The map I lost was leading me to this area, this house I can not be sure, but the job I was to undertake was to see to the safety of several 'important' people. Now if this is the place, and regardless of the intention of the job offer, genuine or mearly to get me here I don't know. But this I am sure of, there are things in this world, but not neccesseraly OF this world that are well beyond me means to harm." Towards the end of these words he instinctivly and unknowingly checks that his revolver is fully loaded.
"But I will do what I can, however little." He adds.
Boy did lady luck hate his guts.

"Uhm. As long as you keep on remembering you're here to protect us..." Weasel said, eyeing Trent's revolver nervously.
"So..." he turned to Karl "It was magic that did that to you? I mean, you're sure it wasn't... something else?"

"Yes, Weasel, it was definitely magic. Might I ask all of you a question? How much do you all know? If you know more than I had thought at first, I may be able to explain a few things to you that will break down further the walls of secrets here."

"Let me see if I have this right so far," Amelia said slowly, glancing from Claude to Karl, her eyes lingering on his fur-covered hands. "According to Mr. Lafitte, two people in total have survived a night in this manor, meaning that our chances are...questionable at best. There are at least three people-perhaps more-among us who can employ sorcery, in one form or another. Mr. Wolfemann seems to be covered from neck to foot in fur...and William seems to think he has a dilema that can rival even that."
She paused and regarded the Briefcase thoughtfully. "And you, sir...you were not in my dream; I would have remembered. Yet I knew you as soon as I laid eyes on you in the parlor. How? I'm afraid I've no more stomach for riddles. What are you afraid of?"

Jacob lets out a worried sigh.
Perhaps lady luck was on R&R.

I smile at the young girl, this time a truly warm smile.
"Yes, Amelia," I begin, "you should remember me. I see you still have that necklace... How long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen? You have grown up so fast..."
My smile fades as I answer her second question... much more quietly...
"And aye... I am afraid, lass... I am afraid of the same thing that did that to Mr. Wolffeman."

Amelia paled visibly, her hand reaching up unconsciously to where her necklace hung, a flash of silver in the light.
She stood abruptly and walked over to stand in front of the Briefcase.
"It was a gift," she said shakily, her eyes pained. "The one who gave it to me is long dead. So are all who knew of it, and me...or so I thought. Who are you, sir? Give me a name, if I am to know you...please. If you or I, or any of us, are to face off against something unspeakable here tonight, we must know who is friend and who is foe."

My smile seems to fade somewhat at her commentary.
"So Laura is dead?" I say, my face acknowledging the truth. "Your mother gave that to you to protect you... I gave it to her when she was your age."
I turn and look back towards the doorway to the conservatory.
"My name is irrelvant," I continue. "It would not help to clarify matters at all. Suffice it to say that I am an old friend of the family."
A very old friend, I add silently.

"She had been ill for some time. Now there is only me," Amelia said wearily. I am sorry to pain you...I had no idea you knew her." Why do I know you?
she wanted to shout, but instead pushed the frustration aside. It would not help, not now.
Instead she reached out tentatively and touched his shoulder, smiling briefly. "At least you've managed to answer one question for me. Friend then. Now to figure out who-what-the foe is."

I tense a bit at the touch, but relax, sensing her caring intentions. He smiles warmly again for a moment, turning to her. His smile fades though, as he nods his head.
"Our foe," I say, looking very old and dark suddenly. "Our foe... is what did that to Mr. Wolffeman. I dare not speak even its name, for it might hear us. I don't want that."

I was almost glad to hear what Mr. Briefcase had to say. Some dark presence, some kind of evil was present in this world. I had always denied the possibility, believing that there is a rational explanation for everything. Until that night a few weeks ago. My thoughts lingered back...
"... that's when I quit the force", I whispered.
Everyone stared at me.
"Let me explain. My father was a policeman, and I followed in his footsteps. As a result, I was brought up to always think rationally, to look at the evidence and find a plausible explanation.
"However, a few years back it started. I was appointed to certain cases... cases which remain unsolved to this day. They defied all logical deduction. At first I thought it was the work of some sick individuals, you know, mental patients or something."
I paused for a moment to let this information sink in.
"One night I chased the main suspect of one of the murders. It was dark. I thought he pulled a gun... I shot him. I was only a few yards away and couldn't possibly have missed him. And yet, he ran away, as if nothing had happened.
"The next day, I quit the police force. Either I was going crazy, or something was going on behind the scenes. I decided to start on my own to find out.

"I'm afraid that you may have had a run-in with an old enemy of mine. Of course, I'm sure that there are other creatures in this world who would be in Belgium..."
I thought back to the day when the book I had just reclaimed had been stolen - and to the monstrosity of fur and flesh that I had seen stealing it. The blood all over the store, and the dead woman who had tried to keep the creature out - and given her life to do so. Did Frank know...
"Did you ever meet an English officer by the name of Edward Derring? An old associate of mine."