JACK OF DIAMONDS

(Chap 1--pt2: The Road To Mandalay...)

ii

Artie followed Reggie and Claire through the kitchen door, carrying an oversized crate of beets. For a moment, he thought he may have taken too much at once, and then shook his head as if in response to a silent conversation he was having with himself.

If you're gonna be running and jumping about, you'd best get yourself back into shape, boy.

He told himself if he wanted to get back into shape, maybe working a month or two on Reggie's farm wouldn't be such a bad idea. A little bit of hard work never hurt anyone, his Uncle was always fond of saying--which in itself was ironic considering the man never worked an honest day in his life. But, it was better than being back to London trying to make a go of it, he reminded himself. London had proven to be nothing but trouble, for him and everyone he knew. He'd lied earlier when he said he hadn't been in contact with any of his old army buddies. He'd even gone as far as tracking a few of them down.

That's not the life for me.

In London, he'd had to resort to thievery to survive. It was something of a shock to discover how easy it was for him. The streets of London were full of veterans begging for a handout--armless, legless, sightless--there was little they could do, as much as there was little anyone was willing to do to help; it's not that people couldn't help, they simply chose not to help. Oh sure, there were charities, but a man sometimes needed more than a handout. And what did that tell him about living in London? It would be a hardscrabble existence, he told himself. He'd come to that realization when he tracked down Fitzhenry, the gunnery sergeant who'd sobbed into his beer about how his wife had left him and his children no longer knew him.

And why would he think she might stay?

Gunnery Sergeant Fitzhenry had proven himself to be a man of violent temperament. While his violence may have been masked by the war, once he'd returned home from the Front and there was no war for him to hide behind, he took his anger out on his wife and children. Not about to let herself be abused, his wife packed up her bags and left--taking the children and going to Leeds--with the threat that if he ever showed up at her door she'd cut him as he slept and let him bleed to death.

Artie wanted to ask if she was as good as her word, but just looking at the man, he could see Fitz believed her. And yet, even with all that he'd lost, Fitz wasn't about to change. He still went out at nights looking to get into fights.

One cold morning they found Fitz in an alley with a knife sticking out of his neck. He'd bled to death, laying in a puddle of his own blood. It was never made clear to him as to whether Fitz had bled to death, or drowned in his own blood. He supposed it would've been written up as a tragedy had Fitz been a more reputable man, but he wasn't, was he, so he died in an alley with a knife sticking out of his neck.

"Reggie says you served together?"

"That's right," Reggie chimed up, looking at Artie.

"I believe that question was addressed to me," Artie smiled.

"You mean, you think it was addressed to you. But Claire, well, she has a habit of forgetting some things--don't you Darling?--like who she's talking to. And who were you talking to there, Claire? Was it Corporal Spencer, or myself?"

"Oh, don't you play that game with me, Mr. O'Dowd," she chided.

"Play what game with you? And Mr. O'Dowd, is it now? You've hurt me to the quick, you have Miss Hansen. To the very quick."

"I'll show you hurt if you don't get these greens unloaded in time for lunch."

"And what time would that be?" Artie was quick to ask.

"I'll have to start getting things ready pretty quick if we're expecting to have it on the server by this afternoon. And then I'll be making biscuits for afternoon tea. Dinner's at seven, and God only knows how many that will be for."

"How many is it usually for?" Artie asked.

"Ten."

"Ten? Is the family that big?"

"Well, there's Lord and Lady Ainsworthy of course, three daughters and husbands. Oh, and the children--you can't forget the children, even if you wanted to, because they're usually underfoot."

"How big's the staff for a place like this?"

"The staff? Well, I can't rightly say. There's five of us in the kitchen here, I can tell you that much. Miss Wilding's in charge of the maids--ladies maids, parlour maids, chamber maids, house maids, the children's nanny, the Nurse--oh, and the between maid--"

"Between maid?"

"She works where she's needed. Here, or upstairs in the house--"

"How many rooms here? I mean, you must be cooking and cleaning around the clock!" Artie laughed.

"Eighty rooms."

"Eighty rooms! Did you hear that, Reg? That's ridiculous."

"I'll tell you what's ridiculous, and that's you asking all these questions when there's work to be done."

"I'll get to it."

"Mr. Carhill sees to the gentlemen's needs."

"Carhill? Is he the butler?"

"He is. Three footmen valet for the gentlemen--then there's the tea boy, the stable boy, and three groomsman working in the stables, the automobilist, the Gamesman, gardener, and groundskeeper."

"I've lost count all ready," Artie laughed, placing the crate of beets on the floor in the larder.

"Right then. What's all this now, Miss Hansen?"

Artie looked up to see a stern looking older man of nearly fifty standing in the doorway, his shadow crossing the floor as he casually leaned against the doorjamb.

"And what's it look to be, Mr. Carhill? We've got greens from Mr. O'Dowd to unload."

"And where is O'Dowd? I simply ask because we're not normally in the habit of taking deliveries from O'Dowd on a Tuesday."

"I didn't know you were aware of when we take deliveries. And what's it to you if we take deliveries on a Tuesday, rather than a Thursday?"

"We run this house on a tight budget, Miss Hansen, that's what it is to me. If we took deliveries from every local farmer whenever he felt we should, rather than when we deemed it proper, it would amount to fiscal anarchy, Miss Hansen. Fiscal anarchy."

"Fiscal anarchy, you say?" Artie laughed, looking up at the man.

"I believe I've not had the pleasure?" Carhill said, looking down at Artie from his great height just as Reggie returned with another crate of greens. "Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

"He's a mate of mine, come to stay for a time," Reggie pointed out, dropping another two boxes. "Come on, Artie, there's work to be done."

"Come to stay, is it? And so you bring him here?"

"And where's the harm in that?" Claire asked, placing her hands on her hips and staring up at the larger man. "He's here to work for Reg."

"The harm, Miss Hansen? Don't you see the harm? We can't have just anyone coming in, even if he's a friend, or a mate, of a regular supplier. It's all about the turpitudinous behaviour of said gentlemen."

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Miss Hansen asked. "Turpitudinous behaviour?"

"Look, mate," Artie said, approaching the man and looking up at him. "I've come to visit my army friend Reg, here. The dikes and streams overflowed with the rain we've had these last two weeks--or so he tells me-- and the fields are half flooded. We've salvaged what we could. Leaving it until Thursday is just asking for the rot to set in--or so he tells me. Bringing it here made sense; salvaging what we could, made more sense. Now, do you want to stand aside and let us get on with our task, or are you going to beat her up about helping out a supplier in need?"

"Army friend, is it? Well, we're not at war anymore, are we?"

"No, we're not."

"Still, why deliver on a Tuesday, rather than a Thursday?"

"I'm pretty certain refusing to take the goods would not be conducive to a beneficial relationship, seeing how ol' Reg here would be forced to go elsewhere with his goods, and where will that leave you when you really need him? Like, say, when there's a major dinner happening?"

"And do you think this is a charity?"

"He's not asking for charity, is he?" Claire said, her temper flaring.

"Do you think you can just show up and drop off your goods without prior notice?"

"Prior notice? Do you mean, as in send advance word? Perhaps ring up the house and seek permission?" she asked.

"It's what one would expect."

Artie looked at Reggie and slowly shook his head.

"So, do you want us to take the goods elsewhere?" Artie asked.

"It would be conducive to a beneficial realtionship."

"How's that? Beneficial to whom? There's plenty of manor houses in the area. How many did you say, Reg? Six in total? But this is the biggest. I suppose we could go elsewere?"

"Perhaps you could?"

"And perhaps you should tell me why you two are negotiating what neither one of you is qualified to do?" Claire said, stepping in between the two of them. It wasn't as much of a question as it was a statement. Carhill looked down at her and nodded, stepping aside and letting her pass.

"This is my kitchen, not yours," she said, looking up at the man. "You go look to your boys and leave the simple, everyday running of the kitchen, to me. If I say we need greens to make soups, or stew, then I will accept them. Even if we don't need them at the moment, and it helps out a friend, we'll take them. Do I make myself clear?"

"I believe I am responsible for the fiscal navigation of this kitchen--"

She looked up at him and shook her head silently as she untied her apron and laid it on one of three large chopping blocks.

"What are you doing?"

"Let's see how you navigate your way through lunch, shall we Mr. Carhill?"

"Lunch?"

"Yes. My employment here is done. I have no need for a man like you, telling me how to run my kitchen. As the man said," she pointed out, nodding at Artie, "there are a great many houses in the area. I'll have you know, I've been contacted by several of them over the years, looking to lure me away from Ainsworthy Place."

"You can not leave!" Mr. Carhill protested.

"No? Watch me. You," she said, looking at Artie, "pick those boxes up and put them back in the cart."

"Happy to oblige, Mum," Artie laughed, picking up the crate of beets again.

"No! Leave them."

"They are unpaid for, and as such, still belong to Mr. O'Dowd," she pointed out. "I will not tolerate you coming into my kitchen trying to enforce your Draconian measures on me, Mr. Carhill. You may think you run this household, but in all honesty, you know very little, or next to nothing, as to what is needed here. Lunch is set for one o'clock, Mr. Carhill, I suggest you get your staff ready to make preparations," she said, reaching for a large overcoat hanging on a peg behind the door. She walked to the largest of the chopping blocks and began to wipe down several of the knives.

"What are you doing?"

"Doing? Why, I'm leaving, Mr. Carhill. These are my own personal knives and I'll be bringing them with me. Any good chef worth her salt has their own knives."

"You can not leave.

"Watch me."