JUST A SONG AT TWILIGHT

‘Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low;
And the flickering shadows softly come and go.
Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes love’s old, sweet song,
Comes love’s old, sweet song.’

From ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ – by James L. Molloy and J. Clifton Bingham

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Part Seven

36 hours later . . .

The weather was definitely improving at last. A fresh, light breeze blew in over the tree-tops and chased all the rain clouds away. Marguerite looked out across the sodden jungle, it was looking decidedly ragged and sadly the worse for wear. The ground down below her was a muddy swamp, glistening with puddles of water. She heaved an unenthusiastic sigh. It was going to take them quite a while to straighten out the storm damage - just clearing the clutter of downed branches from the compound was at least a full day’s work. But nothing could dampen her spirits this morning, not even the prospect of muddy exertion, Marguerite felt happier and more optimistic than she had done for sometime.

“Well?” she turned back to the bedside, hardly daring to hope.

Challenger folded up his stethoscope and nodded smugly. “It appears to be very much as I thought. You know, the practice of medicine is quite logical really if one understands the principles of science. But it’s fortunate Marguerite got to you when she did, John, if you’d inhaled any more of that dirty salt water, we might not have been so lucky. As it is, there’s a definite reduction of fluid on the lung, it seems to be spontaneously re-inflating. Of course, there’s still the infection – that’ll take several weeks to clear-up – but all in all, I think you’re over the worst of it, thanks to my diuretics.”

“Hmm,” grunted Roxton, he didn’t sound as sure. “You didn’t warn me about the side-effects of this damned treatment, Challenger. I’m surprised there’s anything solid left of me at all!”

“Yes, it’s all very interesting.” Challenger frowned at him myopically as Marguerite smothered a smile. “This would suggest a decisive action by or upon the renal nephrons in controlling the cellular exchange of sodium. The medical implications are fascinating, not least for conditions which place extra strain upon the heart. And talking of the heart, it’s important you keep drinking my potassium cocktail in order to protect you from the side effects of dehydration. Here you are, time for another - at least one glass every two hours.”

“It isn’t exactly a gin and tonic,” Roxton grumbled and made a face, but took the glass Challenger gave him and downed it obediently. “Reminds me of the revolting concoctions my nanny used to force me to swallow.”

“Just be a good boy and do as you’re told.” Marguerite mocked him sweetly. “And later-on, if you really behave, I might reward you with a prize.”

“A prize?” Roxton perked up visibly and gave her a saucy look. “And what might that be, Marguerite? I think I’m feeling better already.”

She glanced at Challenger for confirmation and gestured towards the hated chest-tube. “Don’t get your hopes up too much, but if you keep on recovering at this rate, we might be able to remove the tube.”

“It wasn’t only my hopes which were rising,” he muttered, for her ears only. “Thank God,” he said in a louder voice, still holding her gaze with his eyes. “It’s about time I got rid of this bloody thing, the sooner it goes, the better.”

She shook her head with resignation and turned back towards the window. If she’d had to remain at his bedside, her emotions might have betrayed her. Her throat had tightened inexplicably at the resumption of their banter, just to hear him tease her again was enough to make her want to cry.

‘You’re in a bad way, Marguerite Krux,’ she mentally chastised herself.

But it was true. The excruciating tension of the last few days had helped her to smother her feelings, merely intent on Roxton’s survival, she had deliberately pushed them aside. She swallowed the knot of emotion in her throat, watching surreptitiously from under her lashes as Challenger finished examining him. He was still far too pale for her liking, dark eyes and hair thrown into stark relief against his sallow skin. Thinner from lack of proper sustenance, the shadows which persisted in haunting his face threw each line and hollow into prominence, but now he was getting better, time would make good those repairs.

This morning, for the first time since becoming so ill, Roxton had refused any morphine, but his cough still sounded awful and was obviously causing him pain. He was coughing now, at Challenger’s behest, and Marguerite winced in sympathy, but at least the amount of exudate had lessened and it appeared as though his damaged lung was healing. In yet another tree house miracle, Challenger’s diuretic medicine had succeeded in pulling him through.

‘Challenger’s medicine’, she amended, ‘and Roxton’s bloody, stubborn strength of will.’ She couldn’t believe the one would have worked without the other.

It would be a while before he was fit again, but she knew the dread corner had been turned. Fate had decided to spare him – fate and George Challenger’s genius.

“Here,” she turned back to the bedside, a moist cloth in hand. “Don’t even think about anything but resting. There’ll be no getting-up for you just yet.”

Although rendered speechless by his coughing-fit, Roxton didn’t miss the innuendo in her tone. He shot her a slightly reproachful glance and put up with her bathing his face. It was one of their unspoken rules of engagement to see how much they could get away with in-front of the others. Over the course of the last few years, it had developed in to a sort of risqué game between them. Challenger was often too distracted to notice some of the more blatant suggestion, Malone too inexperienced and Veronica too sexually naïve. What had begun as flirtatious sparring had turned into something else. It was a defensive way of hiding her true feelings, an unspoken promise of love.

She was afraid it must reflect in her eyes whenever they rested on Roxton . . . must leap across her face when he walked into the room, or sound in her voice when she called out his name.

He was exhausted when the bout of coughing finished and needed several minutes to recover. Marguerite poured him a glass of water and added some more quinine tonic. His damaged lung might be healing but he was still appallingly frail. The residual pneumonia would linger for days and she wasn’t about to take chances.

“Still no gin, I’m afraid,” she said, as she placed it into his hand.

“Thank you,” he drank it gratefully and lay back with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been meaning to ask how our . . . um, unwanted guest is behaving? Damn, I hate being so weak.”

“Strange you should ask,” Challenger settled himself in the bedside chair. “The man’s wound was hardly serious, but he’s taken to his bed - refuses to get up.” The scientist paused and stroked his beard as if giving the matter some thought. “He must have lost more blood than I originally supposed.”

“Good!” Roxton didn’t mince words. “That way, if he’s tucked up safely in bed he won’t be causing any trouble. Keep the guns locked away in the metal trunk until I’m back on my feet. I wish to God you’d never found him, George. That bloody expedition’s brought us nothing but bad luck.”

“Come now, that’s surely a little harsh, it’s hardly Blanchard’s fault. The man was lucky to escape from Anderson and Gull with his life.”

“Too lucky, perhaps?” Roxton didn’t back down.

“Luckier than most.” Challenger regarded him soberly. “As were we.”

There was a minute’s uncomfortable silence in the room. They had indeed been lucky. Anyone of them might have paid the ultimate price as a result of the Ripper encounter. God alone knew how many people had died in the wake of the two-man trail of slaughter.

“Marguerite,” Roxton’s voice was firm. “I think it’s time to tell Challenger about our ‘other’ guest.”

She quashed the instinctive swell of denial and realised he was probably right. Now Roxton’s condition was no longer critical, Marguerite felt able to involve Challenger in solving the mystery of their spectral visitor. There was no need for either of the two men to know the real reason Blanchard had taken to his bed, in a way, the ghost had done her a favour by keeping him out of her hair.

She braced herself for the inevitable fallout and proceeded with the whole disquieting tale. Almost. She omitted all mention of Blanchard’s involvement but didn’t withhold the rest of the story. Roxton’s frown grew deeper as he heard her begin to speak, furrowing his brow in silent concern as she revealed the more threatening details. She’d deliberately kept them from him whilst he’d been so ill, but to his credit, he didn’t interrupt her and Marguerite was grateful for his forbearance.

At the time, she had done it to protect him. She had no regrets for that. Besides, there was no harm in being optimistic. If the haunting had been linked to Roxton’s illness by some sort of paranormal chain, then surely his recovery would mean an end to Mary Kelly’s appearances.

Wouldn’t it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marguerite poured two glasses of wine and took them out onto the balcony. Challenger was already out there, ensconced in Roxton’s favourite chair. The scientist had his eyes half-closed and Marguerite recognised the look. He was absorbed in some form of mental abstraction – no prizes for guessing the source.

She shook her head with fond exasperation. In-spite of her reservations about telling him, it was a huge relief that Challenger finally knew about the ghost. It felt as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, in many more ways than just one. The irony of it didn’t escape her. That she, always the fiercely independent one, should actually want to share her problems with other people . . . what was the world coming to?

“Here you go, George,” she passed him his wine and raised her glass in a toast. “To you – and the wondrousness of diuretic medicine and renal nephrons.”

Challenger opened his eyes and sat up, taking the glass from her hand. He gave her a satisfied smile. “Here’s to all our good health and thank you, Marguerite. I’ll admit that the result was rather pleasing.”

“That’s an understatement,” she said, dryly.

“Quite.” Challenger cleared his throat in tacit agreement.

There was a moment of laden silence as each of them reflected on what might have happened, had the outcome been anything other than ‘pleasing.’ Both of them cared hugely for Roxton – more deeply than either was able to admit. And aside from any personal considerations, it was often his cheerful optimism and sense of common decency which kept their little band glued together. Marguerite shivered involuntarily, his loss was too enormous to contemplate.

“I’ve been thinking about this haunting business,” Challenger changed the subject hurriedly. “It’s all very interesting.”

“Glad you think so.” Marguerite was slightly sarcastic.

“Yes . . .” he ignored her tone. “If one presupposes that ghosts do exist and are not the result of a dimensional shift, a so-called haunting usually occurs for one of several established motives. Houdini and I were working on this during our time together.” Challenger frowned before he continued, as a memory of old friends and other times briefly occupied his mind. “I wonder if he ever finished our work, but then again, I digress,” he sighed. “Back to the spirit world . . . there’s the out and out mischief of a poltergeist or the imprint repetition of a so-called ‘moment in time’ or ‘place memory’ apparition, like the reported sightings of Catherine Howard’s ghost in the Long Gallery at Hampton Court Palace.*”

Marguerite nodded her head with comprehension. “I’ve heard that particular story. Catherine runs screaming up the gallery just before her execution.”

“Just so,” Challenger agreed. “This tends to be the most commonly reported type of haunting. As for the other major kinds, we don’t have a case of magical summoning or an incidence of demonical interference . . .”

“That makes a change.” Marguerite raised her eyebrows, sardonically. “Well, you have to admit, George, the place has been a bit of a demon magnet lately!”

“I believe the Saros incident to be quite unrelated,” there was the hint of a rebuke in Challenger’s tone. “No – this bears all the hallmarks of the so-called ‘human sin’ or ‘unfinished business’ category of haunting, which occurs when a spirit is unable to rest because of something with possible repercussions, here, in the physical world.”

Marguerite’s hair prickled slightly. She was rapidly coming to the same conclusion now Roxton was on the mend. His illness had been the obvious explanation, but it no longer seemed the haunting was an omen. If Challenger was right, it appeared that Mary Kelly was manifesting for another, as yet unknown reason. As bad as the issue of Roxton’s sickness had been, this was not very reassuring.

“Such as?” She was reluctant to hear his answer.

Challenger shrugged. “Oh, all of the usual suspects. Murder, injustice, a body not having been buried properly, or in some cases, not being found at all. There was an incident near my student lodgings in Edinburgh; a gang of builders disturbed some ancient Viking bones whilst re-laying sewage pipes. It was eventually resolved by a Norwegian expert who knew something of Old Norse Paganism. Once the bones had been re-buried with all due ritual and deference - I believe there were no further occurrences after that.”

“I don’t think our problem involves any Vikings . . .” Marguerite paused acerbically. “But this being the bloody Plateau, you’d better not quote me on that.”

Challenger gave an appreciative chuckle and swallowed some more of his wine. “I think they’re one of the few groups of people we haven’t come across just yet. It’s not unfeasible either, when you consider Leif Eriksson was supposed to have crossed the Atlantic long before Christopher Columbus.”

Marguerite was silent for as moment, recalling the Osric* incident. She had never mentioned her and Roxton’s uncomfortable, little encounter with the boy-God to any of the other tree house inhabitants and it seemed as though Roxton hadn’t either. She shivered at the memory of Roxton dying on the ground. Nasty, pint-sized megalomaniac . . . but she had easily recognised the language Osric and his followers had spoken. It had been a form of Norwegian. So much for Challenger’s theory about a lack of Vikings on the Plateau.

“So, what is Mary Kelly trying to tell me?” Marguerite steered the subject back before Challenger could veer off at a tangent. “Malone’s visions were received through the knife but we all saw it destroyed in the lava-bed. As for Anderson and Gull, other than the fact Roxton and Veronica didn’t find Gull’s remains, it’s pretty certain both men are dead.” She glanced back towards the doorway. “That just leaves us with Blanchard.”

As if on cue, the bead curtain parted and the guide came out onto the veranda. Marguerite’s heart sank; it had suited her purpose very well to have him convalescing out of the way.

“Good evening, Professor, Miss Krux.”

Blanchard seemed polite enough, but Marguerite caught an edge to his voice. He stood in the doorway between them and the tree house with a rather strange glint in his one, remaining eye. Marguerite regarded him uneasily, there was something barely restrained about the man, desperate almost. Not unlike an addict in search of his next source of drugs.

“Feeling better, Mister Blanchard?”

Marguerite was glad to hear a note of reserve in Challenger’s greeting. There had been no option other than to offer help, but they had been burned too many times in the past not to be wary of strangers. She had kept the map with her at all times ever since Blanchard had drawn it, safe and sound and hidden securely inside her décolleté. For an unpleasant moment, she was acutely aware of it scorching into her flesh.

“Much improved, thank you. I don’t know what came over me. A weakness of the blood, perhaps?”

Blanchard’s words were directed at her, heavy with innuendo. Marguerite studied him carefully, from the sound of it he’d explained Mary Kelly’s apparition away by concluding she might have drugged him. She relaxed slightly, if his recollections of the night were hazy, it suited her purpose well. She flicked her eyes across to Challenger, but if he’d noticed the unspoken frisson between her and Blanchard, he gave no appearance of it.

“Indeed.” Challenger agreed with him. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d picked up a fever after stumbling around in all that rain.”

“I see the weather is much improved.” Blanchard joined them at the balcony rail.

“Much improved,” affirmed Marguerite, heavy on the emphasis. “And our friends will return now the storm is over. In-fact, they’re probably on their way back right now, even as we speak.”

Blanchard nodded, sardonically. Her meaning was ultra clear. Once Ned and Veronica returned to the tree house, their uneasy bargain could be concluded and the man would exit their lives for good. Not a day too soon, in her opinion.

“And how is Lord Roxton?” Blanchard’s question was silky smooth. “Faring better, I assume?”

“He’s a fighter,” said Marguerite, defensively. For some instinctive reason, she didn’t want to discuss Roxton with this man. He was still too fragile to be involved in all this and there was also the little matter of the map . . .

“And of course, my medicines have been making a tremendous difference,” Challenger wasn’t so reticent. “A most heartening improvement, if I do say so myself. A triumph for science and pharmacology over the grim spectre of disease.”

Marguerite knew a moment of malicious satisfaction as Blanchard paled at Challenger’s choice of words. A fleeting expression of fear crossed his face, but he mastered it in an instant. It had answered one of her questions, though; Blanchard’s recollection of Mary Kelly was obviously as graphic as her own. Just for a second, she caught Challenger’s eye and was startled to see the glimmer of a smile. Had the scientist been conducting a sneaky experiment? She certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

“Congratulations.” Blanchard cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “It would have been tragic, don’t you think, for those devils Anderson and Gull to have claimed yet another victim even after death. Lord Roxton is indeed most fortunate. It seems their knowledge of poisons and pharmacology . . .” he looked across at Challenger with a nod, “. . . was deadly and thoroughly extensive.”

“Obviously.” Marguerite’s voice was cold. “There’s nothing like a bit of psychological torture and Anderson clearly enjoyed it. To render Roxton helpless but fully aware as the water went down into his lungs.”

“Gull certainly used his medical training in a grotesque manner,” Challenger became suddenly sombre. “He made a twisted mockery of the Hippocratic Oath. And for a talented surgeon who numbered royalty and heads of state amongst his patients - to perform such abominations on those poor women – the man must have lost his mind.”

“There was a knife . . .” Blanchard leant forward across Marguerite with an unholy light in his eye. “The one that Gull attacked me with. Not a surgeon’s blade or a scalpel, it was more of a ceremonial instrument. They kept it locked-up in a special box and treated it with reverence, rather like a treasure or religious artefact as opposed to an ordinary knife. Lord Roxton might remember finding it when he cleared out what was left of their camp?”

“Why is this knife so special?” Challenger spoke warily in the present tense, as though the knife still existed.

“Well, don’t you see? It’s ‘the’ knife. The one they used back in London to finish those dirty whores!” Blanchard was clearly disturbed as he moved across to the doorway, blocking the entrance to the tree house as he regarded them both accusingly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of rosary beads, running them continuously through his fingers in unconscious agitation. “Roxton found it – he must have found it. Miss Krux, you said you knew where it was!”

“Blanchard, old man . . .”

Marguerite barely heard what Challenger was saying. Her glance was fixed upon the guide with an awful sense of realisation. Ned Malone’s account of his visions came flooding back with shocking clarity.

“Your face . . .” the words choked out of her somehow. “How did you get those scars on your face?”

Blanchard turned angrily towards her and it was as though he had been unmasked. “Those filthy savages attacked me like a pack of drunken dogs, one of them even managed to glass me, but I was too crafty for them. I was always prepared for trouble - I had a pistol – here, in my pocket. I blew off two of the bastard’s heads before I managed to get away.” He fingered the terrible scarring on his face and his mouth worked with agitation. “Not before they took my eye out though. They thought I’d drowned in the bloody Thames – but not me. I fooled the lot of them!*”

“Good God!” Challenger rose to his feet. “Glassed you . . . but that must mean . . . Malone saw it all in one of his visions. John Netley, Queen Victoria’s coachman, the third man in the Ripper trio. Anderson and Gull betrayed you, but you escaped and followed them here.”

“I tailed them halfway across the world and they didn’t even know it, took on the name of that fool suspect Blanchard, just to rub some extra salt in the wound. Inspector bloody Anderson of the Yard – so much for the great detective. They left me to die without a backwards glance, but who’s had the last laugh now?”

“Your injury was self-inflicted.” It wasn’t a question.

Netley laughed. “I’ve been watching you all for several days – such convenient and charitable fools. You kindly took care of my own little problem and I didn’t even have to lift a finger.” He gestured towards Challenger. “I waited until you left the tree house and stabbed myself in the shoulder. I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone out there, wounded and lost in the jungle, and sure enough, it worked out exactly as planned, but I underestimated you, Miss Krux.”

His words coincided with the first glimpse of sunlight they had seen the onset of the storm. The pale rays flashed on the rosary beads and glanced off a small silver cross. Marguerite’s eyes were drawn to the crucifix, she knew it only too well.

“It was you!” She spoke for the first time. “You and Gull murdered Mary Kelly . . . you bastard, you helped kill them all!” She knew then, she’d made a bargain with the devil and it had never been about money. Netley was part of the Ripper murders and he had come looking for the knife.

END OF PART SEVEN

Lisa Paris - 2006

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Part Eight

For the first time in days there was a sunset. It was unlike anything Marguerite had seen before, eerie and otherworldly, a supernatural relic of the dissipating storm. The sun was a ball of crimson fire on the distant pale horizon, blazing away in the gunmetal sky like a strange, blood-coloured portent. A fine mist was rising up from the jungle, twisting and weaving like a web through the trees with the steamy evaporation of moisture. There were branches and debris everywhere, the ragged scars of devastation. Marguerite shivered involuntarily and gripped hold of the wooden railing, her one ray of comfort was the solid weight of the hidden gun in her skirts.

They were still out on the balcony.

“Well done, Miss Krux.” Netley was mocking as he acknowledged her revelation with a small bow. “You nearly hit the nail on the head. It was Gull and I who did most of the killings. Anderson had a taste for the whores themselves, but I never touched the filthy bitches.”

Marguerite watched with a flash of dismay as he withdrew one of Roxton’s Webley’s from his jacket and pointed it leisurely at them. At some stage during the day, probably when they’d been preoccupied with Roxton, he must have forced the lock to the gun-store and helped himself to their weapons.

“The crucifix,” she said, dully. “It belonged to Mary Kelly. You kept it, you evil bastard, you kept it as a bloody souvenir.”

He smiled sardonically at her and continued his awful tale. “We each had our specific appetites. Anderson had certain carnal needs and Gull . . . well, the good doctor liked to experiment. As for me,” Netley shrugged with pseudo-modesty and a hint of remembered pleasure. “I just enjoyed their terror, the way their eyes would fill with fear before I cut their throats!”

“Monstrous,” muttered Challenger, angrily. “By God, you must be depraved. What on earth made you do it, man? What ill-chance brought the three of you together?”

“It began as a simple clean-up job, a commission you might say. We were each of us chosen for certain merits on behalf of the highest in the land. Through the dictates and power of our sacred Lodge,* we were charged with a vital role to play.”

Challenger frowned. “The highest in the land . . . you mean . . .” he broke off, aghast, as he reasoned it out, the pieces all coming together. “You’re saying you murdered by royal decree, that the deaths of those unfortunate women were officially sanctioned by the top echelons in the land. And by lodge, I assume you’re referring to a Masonic Lodge, to a Freemasonry organisation. You’re actually saying, Lord help us, that the whole abomination was a planned conspiracy?”

Netley nodded, smugly. “I see the penny has dropped. When we were chosen it was almost an honour, however distasteful the assignment. We knew we had to get on with it, to up-hold the sacred vows we’d made.” His voice altered reminiscently. “It may have started out that way, but afterwards, everything changed. It became like a hunger, a deadly need, and all three of us fell prey to it. Which brings me back to my reason for being here – give me back the knife!”

Marguerite looked over at Challenger, her eyes desperately conveying a message. If Netley became aware of the knife’s true fate, he had no reason to keep them alive. Thoughts raced frantically through her head as she prayed the scientist would understand. If they could only stall things for another night, until Veronica and Malone got back . . .

Challenger clearly apprehended the danger they were in and gave her an imperceptible nod. What they needed was a plausible story to explain the knife’s whereabouts.

“I don’t understand it,” the scientist played for time. “Why do you want that particular knife so badly? You could have made a complete getaway by now. We didn’t even realise you were here on the Plateau, no-one would have ever known the truth.”

“You don’t understand.” Netley became agitated. “This knife is different from ordinary knives – it has power, a life all its own. I knew from the first time I held it, I could sense the strength it possessed. From then on, it seemed to control me. I was compelled to obey its will.”

“What nonsense!” Challenger snorted. “It’s merely an inanimate item. The knife was never alive or sentient and is therefore void of any soul. You’re blaming an object for your own degradation, for your own foul, disgusting deeds.”

“They said it was an Aztec sacrificial blade, bathed in the blood of thousands.” Netley continued talking with a faraway look in his eye. Challenger might have spared his breath for all the notice the man took of his words. “It was handed down through the Masonic lodge by generations of Grand Masters. The knife was especially sanctified to fulfil a specific purpose, but until the very monarchy was threatened, no-one realised what that purpose was. We were appointed its sacred guardians, an honour of the highest degree.”

“By Jove, could it be the knife itself? I suppose there is a remote possibility,” there was an abstract look on Challenger’s face and the dawning of realisation. “An energy imprint or perhaps a curse, something strong and incredibly powerful. In the hands of a susceptible person, it could become a catalyst for evil.”

Netley laughed, hysterically. “You sound like that bastard, Gull. He was always seeking the source of the power to try and make it his own. It’s why they came here, to South America, in-search of the origin of the blade.”

Challenger’s face was grim. “It’s a power which should be consigned to history. Back to the bloody place in time from which the evil thing was spawned!”

“Enough! You don’t understand – how could you!” Netley was becoming dangerously agitated again. “You’ve never heard it call your name, never felt the desire to hold it. To glory in the purpose it was made for, whilst it eats away at your soul. You see, Professor Challenger, it needs to feed. It craves the brutal spillage of fresh blood. I don’t have any control over it. I’m here to obey its needs!”

Marguerite listened with growing dismay as Netley ranted on about the knife. Whether or not it had been haunted or cursed, the bloody thing was destroyed. As was Netley’s mind. The man had lost all sense of reason and was dangerously psychotic. It was clear he intended to start with them once he’d retrieved his killing implement. It was the only leverage they had over him, except that it no longer existed.

An idea flashed through her brain – one which might buy them some hours. It was a reasonable assumption that Malone and Veronica might have taken the knife into the jungle with them. If she could just make Netley believe her, it would give them the ghost of a chance. She looked up quickly before Challenger could speak and gave a tiny shake of her head. It was better if she tried to deal with this – and besides, she still had her gun.

“The knife – give me the knife!” Netley was watching her now.

Marguerite got slowly to her feet, her face a mask of false anxiety. “Don’t you think we’d hand it over if we could? There’s only one small problem . . .”

Before she could utter another word, Netley had turned on her. “No. Oh, no, I’m not having it. Don’t try and double-cross me, you bitch. You fooled me the last time with your bloody tricks, but I won’t fall for them again!”

“I’m only trying to tell you, we can’t give you the knife right at this minute, because . . .”

Netley turned back into the tree house. “I’ve had enough of your pathetic games, but your precious Lord Roxton might make you see reason.”

Marguerite’s heart gave a thud of horror. She ran to the doorway after him with Challenger hard on her heels. “I’m not trying to double-cross you. No, wait, listen to me . . .”

Netley had reached the head of the stairs and she had no hope of catching him. To make matters worse, Roxton called out her name, clearly aware there was danger. She prayed he wouldn’t do anything foolish, but they’d already run out of grace. When she arrived at his doorway, Netley had entered the room. Roxton struggled to get out of bed but was hampered by the chest-drain tubing. Netley knocked him backwards with the heavy butt of the gun then flipped the weapon over and held the muzzle up to his head.

Everything froze like a ghastly tableau as time and space seemed to waver. Marguerite waited, hardly daring to breathe, aware of Challenger just behind her.

Roxton lay motionless, stunned by the blow, and Netley smiled with callous indifference. “Such a shame if all your hard work should go to waste – one bullet is all it takes.”

“John . . .”

Marguerite tried to call his name, but to her chagrin, her voice was hoarse with fear. Roxton was white and unmoving, sprawled out across the bed. For a terrified moment, it all seemed for nothing, then she saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing – thank God, he was breathing - but his eyes remained firmly closed.

“No more games, Miss Krux.” Netley cocked the revolver. “The knife or Lord Roxton dies!”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” the words wrenched desperately from her lips. “If you kill Roxton, you’ll never see it again. He’s the only one who knows where it is!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Night had fallen down on them swiftly, covering the jungle with a pall of darkness, thick and humid after the deluge. The air felt sluggish, sodden and heavy, as though nature was taking its time to reawaken in the aftermath of the storm.

Marguerite chafed uselessly at the rope around her ankle, filled with anger and bitter frustration. It anchored her firmly to Roxton’s bedside, a prisoner in body as well as heart. Netley had left her hands free so she could perform nursing duties. It was a small mercy, in the scheme of things, but better than nothing at all.

Netley’s reaction to her hasty revelation that Roxton was the only one who knew the knife’s location had been comical in a grim sort of way. In striking down the Englishman to gain information, he had been hoist by his own petard.

Challenger was tied-up in the corner of the room, his ropes uncomfortably tight. Netley had shown no mercy to the man who had offered him aid and hospitality. For the moment, they were still alive - and where there was life, there was hope. But in-spite of all her usual ingenuity, Marguerite found it hard to envisage how they would get out of this one.

They were prisoners of a madman, confined to Roxton’s bedroom, weapon-less and completely at his mercy. Any optimism that Netley might not discover her gun had been dashed when he’d searched her. Marguerite sighed at the irony of it all and glanced worriedly at the man on the bed. Once again, their lives depended on Roxton, but not in the usual fashion. Normally, when he was unconscious, she fretted for him to wake up, but this time she prayed he’d stay out for the count. They might all live longer that way.

Roxton murmured and began to cough and Marguerite tensed with apprehension. Netley leaned forward from the doorway, watching them both like a hawk. There was a strange, almost sexual air of anticipation about him as he waited to see what would happen, but it was a false alarm this time. Although his eyelids fluttered with troubled dreams, Roxton did not wake-up.

Marguerite bathed his hot, dry skin. The fever she dreaded had returned. The blow to his head had not helped things at all, and she prayed the pneumonia wouldn’t worsen.

“He’d better not be faking!” Netley stepped forward and pushed her hand roughly aside. He scrutinised Roxton carefully and nudged him non-too-gently with the gun. Before Marguerite could stop him, he slapped Roxton hard across the face. “Time to wake-up, Lord Roxton . . . I’ve had about as much as I can take!”

“Don’t touch him!” Marguerite leapt to her feet in fury and glared at him, her eyes brimful of hatred. “You did this – it’s your fault for hurting him. He’s burning-up with fever.”

“Excuses, just lies and excuses . . . I’ve had enough of you all!” Netley raised the gun to strike her and for a moment, she thought she’d pushed him too far. His knuckles clenched white around the weapon, as if to bring it down on her head.

“Wait – this is lunacy!”

Marguerite caught a glimpse of madness before Challenger’s voice rang out. A flash of unadulterated evil, barely restrained from breaking free. Netley took a deep breath and seemed to check himself, only barely regaining control before lowering his arm again.

“Roxton won’t give you the location of the knife if any harm should come to Marguerite. And the more she’s able to nurse him, the sooner he’ll wake-up.” The scientist spoke in measured tones as if soothing a fractious child. “Why don’t you untie me and escort me to my lab? I have an idea which might help revive him. A medicine I can concoct.”

Netley regarded him uncertainly. “You’d better not try to deceive me. I’ll shoot you down at the first sign of trouble and then I’ll return for her.”

“I want Roxton awake as much as you do, being unconscious isn’t helping his breathing,” No word of it was a lie. “And besides, you hold all the cards.” Challenger eased his legs out in front of him and gestured down at the bindings. “The sooner you know where the knife is, the sooner you’ll be on your way.”

Challenger didn’t believe Netley would let them live any more than she did, but it wasn’t a bad piece of acting, and Marguerite held her breath. To her surprise and enormous relief, Netley nodded curtly and untied Challenger’s feet. His overwhelming craving to hold the knife again was beginning to cloud his better judgement.

Just as she felt a slight glimmer of hope, he blocked the narrow doorway and grasped hold of her by the hair, prodding the pistol against her temple as he looked squarely into Challenger’s eyes. “One trick or false move, remember, Professor? I’ll kill her then come after you.”

“It’s understood.” Challenger remained remarkably calm but there was an underlying anger in his tone. He watched Marguerite in a guarded way and gave an imperceptible nod. Whatever plan he had in mind, it meant getting Netley down to the lab. “I’m not about to risk Marguerite’s life for the sake of a miserable knife.”

When they were gone, she turned quickly to Roxton, examining him with anxiety-stricken eyes. He was thankfully oblivious to the whole affair, but limp and terrifyingly unresponsive. Marguerite raised his head from the pillow and trickled some drops of water between his lips.

“John . . .” She didn’t have a clue if he could hear her. “John, please listen to me!” Nothing. There was no palpable response. Marguerite tried again. “Lord Roxton, I’m telling you to wake-up, it’s an order, Major Roxton!”

It could have been the military overtones, or perhaps just the sound of her voice, but Marguerite gave a sob of relief when she saw Roxton open his eyes.

“Marguerite . . .” he was barely audible. “Netley . . . what’s going-on?”

“Shush,” she hushed him immediately. “You mustn’t try to talk.”

It didn’t take long to apprise him of events, but she hated having to do it. His jaw tightened with lines of worry and distress - Roxton was so predictable. He had assumed the role of protector without so much as a by-your-leave, and at first she had almost resented it, until she knew the reason why. If Roxton thought any one of his band of fellow travellers was in danger, he could no more sit quietly by than fly to the moon. But this time, he would have to.

All their lives depended on it!

END OF PART EIGHT

Lisa Paris - 2006

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Notes

1. Catherine Howard’s Ghost – the fifth wife of Henry VIII was imprisoned at Hampton Court Palace in London before her execution. It is said she escaped from her suite of rooms and ran along the gallery screaming for mercy. Caught by the guards and dragged away still screaming, she was transported by barge up the river Thames and beheaded at the Tower of London. One of the most famous hauntings in the British Isles, many people claim to have heard Catherine’s screams of anguish and seen a woman dressed in Tudor costume running along the gallery. She has even been seen without her head on several occasions!

2. Osric – (Spoiler) From the Season One Episode ‘Resurrection’ in which Marguerite and Roxton had a nasty encounter with a megalomaniac god in the form of a child and his pack of Viking-like followers. The language spoken in the episode was Norwegian and of course, our resident tree house linguist would have recognised this. Big thanks to Rann for the most excellent save here! <smile>

3. John Netley and the Conspiracy Theory – Netley was indeed chased by an angry mob after he tried to run a woman over with his cab shortly after the Ripper murders. He was believed to have been drowned in the Thames. According to Stephen Knight’s Ripper Conspiracy Theory, Netley was associated with Anderson and Gull at the behest of Lord Salisbury on Queen Victoria’s behalf. The Queen’s grandson, Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward (known as Eddy to his friends) apparently enjoyed visiting the East End in search of prostitutes. One of the girls he favoured became pregnant and had his child – more notes re; this subject to follow later-on in the story. Fearing the threat of blackmail, the Royal Family asked Lord Salisbury to ‘see to the problem.’ Salisbury involved Gull and Anderson through their freemasonry links, and with Netley as their driver and means of escape, they created the persona of Jack the Ripper to get rid of Eddy’s ‘little problem.’ This theory can be found in far greater detail on any of the good Ripper websites.

4. Masonic Lodges – Freemasonry is the world’s oldest and largest esoteric fraternity. There’s a wealth of information out there on the World Wide Web, so I won’t go into huge detail about it. Suffice to say, the society is best described as secret and based on a system of morality and ritual, veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbology. A Lodge is the basic organisation of freemasonry. Freemason’s meet as a Lodge – not in a Lodge – although each Lodge’s premises may be known as a Lodge or Temple. Wikipedia has an excellent abundance of reference pages if you wish to find out more on this subject. There’s also a small amount of information regarding the tie-ins with the Gull/Anderson/Netley Ripper conspiracy theory.

Lisa Paris

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