A Weekend at Blenheim by J. P. Morrissey

Author:J. P. Morrissey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2012-01-24T00:00:00+00:00

chapter 11

WE organized our party into two groups: one group, led by me, to search the stable courts beyond the chapel wing; the other, headed by Mr. Churchill, to explore the chapel itself and the warren of rooms clustered around it. The men—no more than a dozen, none of whom I recognized—were eager to start.

I summoned half of the men, and, our lanterns alight, we set out for the colossal stableyard archway as Mr. Churchill and his group began their task of exploring the chapel wing.

As we reached the archway, Jamison appeared unexpectedly next to me. He had changed out of his livery into a simple shirt, sturdy wool trousers, and boots, and he was out of breath.

“What are you doing here, Jamison?” I asked.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice low.

“We do not know what we shall find,” I reminded him.

Jamison nodded, his head jerking at a peculiar angle, a haunted brightness to his eyes. He squeezed my arm. “Must get him,” he said.

“Get who?” I asked.

“Him who did this to Emily,” he said.

“We will try,” I promised.

But Jamison was not listening. He shook his head violently, like an animal, and pulled me around to face him. The look in his eyes was wild, unbalanced. “He wouldn’t stop, would he? He wouldn’t leave Emily alone.” He started as if he had just heard a shot and yelled into the night, “She didn’t know! She didn’t know.”

I tried to calm him. “We have enough men to search, Jamison. Go back inside and ask the others if they saw someone moving about the courtyard …”

Jamison shook his head vehemently. “Can’t go back,” he said. Instead of arguing further, he bolted from me shouting Emily’s name and ran through a small door near the chapel and disappeared.

“Poor bastard,” one of the men mumbled. “Thinks His Grace is up to his old tricks.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

The man shrugged. “Not for me to say. Only there’s worse I seen at Blenheim than the duke, and that’s the God’s truth.” He shook his head sadly and moved back into the crowd of men that waited for my direction.

Puzzled, I directed the men into the tunnellike. vault to the stableyard. It was very dark, and our lanterns did little to pierce the inky blackness. Our shuffling steps sounded hollow as they bounced off the clammy walls, and I wondered for a moment if anyone had brought a gun.

I felt keenly the malice of Blenheim: It emanated from every brick, tainting anyone foolish enough to be enticed by the drama of this place. The house was as obdurate as the stones that built it; it was merciless, giving no quarter to anyone or anything. Blenheim, I realized, was a house devoid of sympathy and empty of faith. It was a very grand setting, but, like the velvet wall coverings in the bedchamber of the duchess, it concealed much. It was a splendid jewel box that stored a trove of dangerous secrets.

Once in the stableyard we broke into pairs and fanned out to begin our search.

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