The Red Duke

by Matt Spencer

conclusion

“Well... you don’t speak like a gentleman.”

Frederick’s chuckle got a shiver from her.

“That,” she went on, “and, well, I’ve never seen a gentleman fight like that.”

Frederick sighed. “I’ve known one other man, used to fight like me. ’Cept he’d’ve let that bastard know he was coming, would’ve faced him honestly.”

“Lawrence...”

“Lawrence Walter?”

“You knew Lawrence? That’s really who you meant?”

“Aye. How well’d you know him?”

“Better than anyone in this house.”

Frederick knelt. “How much you know, ’bout how he really got his neck stretched?”

She recoiled. “Why, he murdered the General.”

“So he did kill the old bastard.”

She shut her eyes tight, fighting tears. “I know he did. And I know why.”

Frederick touched her arm. “There now. Take your time.”

“The General meant to force himself on me, much like that brute in the hallway.”

“And Lawrence stepped in on your behalf.”

“Lawrence and I... We were saving money to go away together...”

“But your master got his own notions. So why didn’t you step to Lawrence’s defense, when that bitch bore witness against him?”

“How could I have changed a thing? He murdered a gentleman! I’d have been turned out of doors, run off into God knows what work.”

Frederick nodded impatiently.

“What of you, then?” she asked.

“It’s Lawrence. He was my friend. I suppose I wanted to find out, well... what you’ve just told me.”

“And visit vengeance upon my mistress, for her honest testimony against a man who’d robbed her of a husband?”

Frederick said nothing.

“That man in the hallway... and the other down in the ballroom. And their master... You’re here with them, aren’t you?”

Frederick squeezed her hand. “Listen well, dear. I came here with them, aye. But plunder and public humiliation’s one thing. Rape’s another. Anyhow, I’ve more horrors to visit on their heads than your mistress’s. I’ll not let them near you again. By night’s end, I’ll have them gone away with me. For now, stay hidden.”

“And if you should get yourself killed in my defense, just like Lawrence?”

He shrugged. “There’s always that possibility, aye.”

* * *

Frederick found a low window facing the garden behind the house. He climbed down and darted from shadow to shadow ‘til he reached the stone patio outside the ballroom. From inside, a pair of young lovers parted from the dance and came out for a stroll. Once they passed, Frederick peered through the glass. There was no sign of the Duke, Madame Lariviare, or the remaining thug. Hopping the railing, Frederick crept closer to the glass and concealed himself in the shadow of the marble fountain.

For a while Frederick could only crouch waiting, eyeing the celebrants as music and laughter floated out, mingling with the fountain’s constant spout and splash. As he rose to see better, his shoulder bumped one of the stone angel carvings that decorated the edge. The figure wavered, grinding dully on marble. Frederick caught it and went rigid. No one was around to see or hear, so he peered inside again. Within, the Duke chatted joyfully with several guests. There was no sign of his remaining servant.

Frederick went inside, reached the Duke’s side. “Lordship, there’s things we must discuss.”

“There most certainly are, Edward.” The Duke lifted his glass and made a rounded gesture towards his blank-eyed cronies. “Shame as it is to forsake such charming company.”

None of the cronies spoke. The Duke strode calmly from their center, passing his hand casually along the body of a gentlelady, lifting a jeweled necklace from her neck. She appeared perfectly unaware of the touch, save for an unconscious shiver. The Duke draped one arm around Frederick and led him back towards the patio. Loathing the man’s touch, Frederick kept cool.

“You’ve shed your disguise,” the Duke noted.

“Figured I’d dispense with one for another.”

They passed back out onto the patio.

“Very well. Now tell me, Edward, what new matters do you bring before me?”

“Has your looting gone well?” Frederick whispered, grinning.

“It has indeed, my young friend. This idea of yours was well posed.”

“Splendid. I feel it’s time we made our break. Something ain’t right here.”

“Indeed. I am aware of it.”

Frederick looked surprised, for he’d come up with the argument in the moment. The incident with the servant girl had left Frederick cold on the whole affair. He needed these men out of here, before more innocents were pulled into the mix. His final strike against the Duke would have to be later.

Now, though, his gut clenched dreadfully. “Aware of what, Duke?”

“Of something amiss. As you say, we may be in over our heads, and do well to quit this place while we remain ahead.”

Back in the garden’s darkness, Frederick again noted the remaining thug’s absence. Was the man still in the ballroom, filching from guests, or off in the same corridors as his unconscious companion, searching for servants to molest?

Frederick glanced back at the patio. No one could see them out here. His arm muscles grew tense and hot, hands opening and closing like talons. Here was his chance! Once the Duke was dead, Frederick would figure how to deal with the thugs, perhaps somehow alert the authorities anonymously. If caught, he’d at least go to the gallows having avenged his family.

Frederick lifted one open palm behind his companion, ready to close and crush the Duke’s neck. Then he froze. Yards away amongst the bushes stood both thugs. Even in the darkness, Frederick saw deepening bruises on the one’s face. They glared murderously.

The Duke smiled grimly. “As we both said, something quite amiss, something to do, in fact, with my new business partner.”

As the thugs approached, the Duke shoved weakly against Frederick’s back. In his surprise, Frederick went stumbling. His fist swung, but the man he’d beaten earlier caught him by the hand. Frederick’s arm was twisted behind his back, spinning him face to face with the other thug.

“Now Mr. March,” said the Duke, “I thought you meant this to be a partnership. Tell me then, how can we enjoy lasting trust, if we can’t even properly respect one another’s hired help?”

Frederick jerked and squirmed. “So try making your bleeding help keep their hands to themselves.”

“Shut your bloody trap!” A giant fist crashed into Frederick’s gut, rattling his ribcage, shoving the air from his lungs. For a moment he was sure he’d vomit up his own liquefied innards. He wanted to double over, but powerful arms suspended him.

“Now Mr. March, I thought our plan was to pillage the widow’s property. And poor Willard here, from what he’s told me, attempted nothing else.”

“What should we do with this’n, boss?” said Willard, grip tightening.

“He’s clearly worthless as a businessman. Kill him if you like. We’ll leave him here, so the widow and her guests may have a thief to blame for their losses.”

“Make the first cut, Arlo,” shouted Willard.

Through his coughing and the watering eyes, Frederick saw Arlo flip open the blade of a pocketknife... Frederick’s own pocketknife!

“Bet you never thought you’d see this again, eh?” Arlo brandished the blade at Frederick’s face.

“Careful now, now. Don’t finish ’im off ’fore I gets my cut.”

“Oh, I’ll leave the face to you, Will, how’s that? Me, I think I’ll start at his balls...”

As Arlo prepared to strike, there rose behind him the cold, serene, infantile face of an angel — an angel of stone, from the patio fountain. It dropped on his skull with a thumping crack and he crashed to the earth. Behind him stood the servant girl. Willard’s grip loosened in surprise, and Frederick jerked forward. Willard scrambled to get hold again, but Frederick ducked and snatched his knife from the dead man’s hand. He spun and lashed, slicing Willard’s leathery neck. Frederick darted away as the blood arced out, raining across his suit. Willard’s body shook, spasmed, sank. The Duke gaped.

“Seems your boys had a disagreement.” Frederick smiled.

The Duke seemed ready to lose all reason, then fixed his whirling eyes on Frederick. The words came slow, in perfect modulation. “I think not, Mr. March. Indeed, I believe it was your boys disagreed... the three of you, in fact, over a servant girl. A servant girl whom you then proceeded to torture quite savagely with that blade before realizing what you’d done and cutting your own throat for fear of capture.”

The girl stayed silent, fallen in the thrall of those wicked, dancing eyes and that perfect, rhythmic, metered voice. Frederick’s own thoughts dulled, and his knife hand rose. Aye, the slice of steel, the parting of flesh... ever so sweet...

But even as Frederick let the rhythms of his mind patter across the hypnosis, he’d retained his own thoughts, so they mingled with the Duke’s suggestion more agreeably. With a snarl, he sprang and caught the cap of the Duke’s skull. As he lifted the knife, the Duke’s face twisted in protest. The point flashed twice, so the Duke’s eyes gave watery pops. The mouth gaped, and Frederick caught the jaw. The knife struck a third time. There was no scream, only a bloody cough and gurgle.

The girl stood horrorstruck, her trance broken. “What have you done?” She looked at Arlo’s body, his brains bathing the stone angel. “What... what have I done?”

“Nothing.” Frederick filched jewels, coins, pearls, and watches from the corpses, leaving some behind as evidence. “They did this in the interest of robbing him, then argued about the share and turned on each other. Go fetch a kitchen knife. I’ll fix it in ol’ Arlo’s fingers. I’ve no wish to part with my blade.” He wiped his chin and neck, then shook red droplets from his fingers into the grass. “And be good enough to fetch me clean clothes from your husband’s room.”

The Duke lay rolling, choking, croaking, one hand clasped over both gutted sockets, the other over his red foaming mouth, muted moans barely sputtering past the palm’s edges. The girl stared silently at her hands.

“Yes, Madame,” Frederick said, thankful but impatient, “you’re quite capable of violence of your own. I’m glad to say I misjudged you there.”

* * *

The Lariviare house looked dull in the morning glow. Frederick sat on a bench across the street, reading in the Times of the burglary, the murders, and the ghastly crime that had befallen Sir George Wimple. The police had drawn no official connections between Wimple and the men who’d maimed him. Wimple, naturally, had nothing to say on the matter. Likely the guests had drawn their own conclusions. Though Wimple was no duke, and none of his wealthy contemporaries knew him by that alias, his activities had touched their gossip over the years. When word spread that he’d again be making a formal appearance, old chatter resurfaced.

Frederick waited as the police came and went, then went and knocked. The lady of the house greeted him in the same mourning gown she’d worn in court. Servant’s clothes had looked more fetching on her.

“You’ve nothing to fear, Mr. March. The police know nothing of the real story. As you’ve repeatedly pointed out, I’ve as much to fear as you, should the facts come to light.”

He believed her, but saw no reason to give his real name. “I hardly think a noose ought be compared to a little added scandal, though I suppose it seems so to you.”

That was unfair, aye. She’d proven tougher and more resourceful than her station demanded, and he still had his life and balls because of it. Still, he couldn’t help disliking her.

“Why have you come today, Mr. March?”

“I’ve an unanswered question or two. Mostly what possessed you in the first place to go play dress-up, sneaking about in the dark during your own party?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “And I thought you were the one with the long-running foreknowledge of Sir Wimple. Quite simply, I suspected him of treachery the moment I received his written request for an invitation.”

A request for an invitation... Frederick shook his head.

“When I spied his entry with you and those other servants,” she continued, “I knew he’d not grown a day beyond his scurrilous youth, save that he’d likely perfected his crafts. Rather than present myself straightforwardly, I decided to see what I might learn under the guise of a servant.” Her face grew frailer. “In the garden... when he spoke... his voice. What...?”

“Better you let that be, dear.”

“So tell me truly, when did you know me for myself?”

“When that great ox fell with his skull bashed in, you standing behind him.”

Truly, her disguise had been impressive — not merely the clothing, but her speech and posture. All an act, aye. But the moment she took a life, all that regal splendor — what had so infuriated Frederick in court — had shattered. And she’d looked exactly as Frederick had pictured her in such a moment. Now she wore it again, but it was transparent to him. Her hands stayed clasped tightly before her, as though still meaning to conceal the blood that had splashed them.

“So for whom do you truly wear that fetching black, Madame? Your late husband, or the man you sent to the gallows on his account?”

“Oh, how can you ask — but you’re simply a — oh Lord, it’s too horrible! Mr. March, it is true, I loved Lawrence, but I... my husband...”

“You was sick of the old bugger, so you carried on with a servant till it went awry.”

“Oh why must I try explaining such things to you? You know all about murder, but you couldn’t possibly understand... Oh, what was I to do? He’d murdered my husband!”

“Aye, in your own defense. Same defense I stepped forward in, you’ll recall. But you couldn’t tell a jury that, just as you can’t tell the police about me.”

Of course, the police knew enough of her. So did all those gossiping peacocks at that party, whose valuables had gone missing under her roof. So’s whoever read the papers. Frederick remembered his copy of the Times, recounting the scandal. He squeezed it a bit lovingly.

Madame Lariviare said, “Why do you suppose Lawrence never told the jury his side of things?”

Frederick glared. “Who’d’ve believed him?”

“Yes, but even such words would be enough to cause scandal. Why, then, did Lawrence not go to his grave with the satisfaction you feel is worth dying or killing for?”

“He’d misplaced a heart what would’ve moved him to do so.”