Wilderwood Ch. 11

Chapter 11 (of 12) : Devils

The old black iron gates are open, as if we're expected. They're flanked on either side by pillars topped with stone sculptures so worn and chipped we could never work out if they were supposed to be ravens or gargoyles or something else entirely. As we pass through the gates the glare of the headlamps of Emma's bike washes over them and for a moment they almost look like crouching devils.

The Hall lies in darkness, an irregular, angular shadow that's barely visible against the deeper shadows of the trees at the back of the grounds. There's only one window lit up, on the upper floor. It's been five years since we were last here but I know that's the upstairs library.

The grounds in front of the house aren't actually that big. It's not like the huge, open country estates they always have in those British dramas on PBS. Up here the forest presses in close on all sides and the nearest trees send their branches clawing over the old stone walls surrounding the grounds and that only adds to the sense of being hemmed in. It also makes the house itself look even larger than it is, and it looms over us as Emma parks her bike next to Felix's Jaguar, which is the only car in the driveway, a little way short of the steps that lead up to the front doors.

Wilderwood Hall. Our ancestral home.

We've got so many good memories of this place. For years it really was like a second home to us and it was our favorite place in the world. We explored every inch of it, from the maze of attics all the way down to the cool, dusty cellars. At least we tried to. The internal layout is weird, especially on the upper floor and in the attics, and we could never quite match up every window on the outside of the house with every room inside, which led us to look for hidden rooms and secret passages, though we never found any. We were also kept us out of one wing of the cellars which Felix told us was too unstable to go wandering around in.

From here me and my sister would venture into Wilderwood Forest, often in the direction of, but never actually into, the valley below. Then we'd return late, laughing and arguing as we worked out what story we'd tell our parents this time to excuse us for staying out too long. So many good times, and even more so if it really was our friendship back then that turned into what we have now.

It's not a cold night but there's a slight wind in the air. It's close to the end of summer, and it feels like it's building up to one of the sudden storms that are so common at this time of year. As we start walking up to the house Emma shrugs her shoulders and pulls at the collar of her jacket, glancing over at me. Her expression is hard to read in the near dark, but I can hear how nervous she is in her voice.

"You ready for this, little brother?"

I reach out to her and our fingers interlock. "Right here, Sis."

We let go before we walk up the steps to the front doors. We're here to find out secrets, not to give away our own.

I hesitate for a moment before taking hold of the brass door knocker. After the time we spent upstairs at Lauren's place earlier I changed my clothes and I'm now in jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers, with a plaid shirt thrown on top. Standing here now I suddenly wish I was suited up like I was when I went up to the Newley Institute, dressing the part again. Emma is in a short leather skirt and fishnets, along with another of her infinite number of black t-shirts, as well as her Bad Girl belt and the fingerless leather gloves she wears when riding her bike. She's kept the collar on as well, and the metal fittings of it glint in the dim light of the lamps flanking the front doors.

Other than the few words we exchanged on Friday night we've never spoken to our great-uncle as adults. We've never been here, at the Hall, as adults. It feels like we're sliding back in time with every step we take, and all Uncle Nathan will have to do to answer us is to tell us to stop being and silly and go to our rooms. He still has that air of adult authority to him that our parents have long since lost.

Emma takes hold of the door knocker and raps it three times, and the noise of metal on metal sounds like gunshots in the quiet of the night. We don't have to wait long before Felix opens the door and gives us a faint smile.

"Hello, you two."

His shirt collar is open, he's not wearing a tie and his vest is unbuttoned, which is the most casual I've ever seen him. His red hair is a mess, but that's normal. Felix looks tired, even uncertain, and I don't remember ever seeing him looking that way before.

"We need to see him, Felix," Emma says.

He nods and steps aside to let us enter, closing the door quietly behind us. "Wait here," he says, "and I'll let him know you're here."

Felix turns and walks across the main hall and up the stairs. I look over at Emma.

"Think he knows?"

My sister shrugs. "Felix the Fixer knows everything, right?"

She sounds uneasy and it's not hard to guess why. We never really knew Uncle Nathan back when we used to come up here. He was friendly enough in a stiff way, and much more tolerant of our escapades than our parents, but he was still reserved and distant. Felix, on the other hand, was an ally, and the thought that he might be involved in all of this is somehow more unsettling than the certainty that our great-uncle is. Seeing as Felix has been Uncle Nathan's right hand man for at least ten years it's hard to believe that he doesn't know what's going on. Impossible really.

There's no one else around. There were always at least a few staff up at the Hall but at this time of night I guess they must all be asleep elsewhere in the house.

The front hall is dominated by the staircase that leads up a gallery that wraps around above us in an inverted U shape, with hallways leading off from it to the rooms on the first floor. Right now the hall is lit only dimly by a couple of small lamps, so most of the big space is lost in shadows.

One of the unusual things about this place -- one of many -- is that it's mostly done in gray wood, in every shade from near white to near black and everything in between. Emma and I used to joke that Wilderwood Hall looked like the big houses you see in old black and white movies -- literally. The contrasts aren't anywhere near as extreme as the white and black interior of Lauren's house and there's plenty of color in the drapes, carpets and furnishings, but it's still an unusual effect I haven't seen elsewhere.

Emma nudges me. "Think we'll be asked to stay the night?"

I smile. "It would be separate bedrooms if we did."

"Fine. I'll just use the secret passages to sneak into your room."

"There aren't any secret passages."

"Yes there are," says Emma, "we just never found them."

She returns my smile, but she's definitely nervous. I know I am. I reach out slightly and brush the back of my fingers against the back of hers. It's as close as we can be right now.

The sound of footsteps, accompanied by the tap of a cane on the floorboards, draws our attention away from each other and upward. Our great-uncle, smartly dressed even at this hour, wearing a burgundy smoking jacket over his shirt and tie, walks to the top of the stairs and looks down at us.

"Well," Uncle Nathan says, "it's rather too late for a social call, so I assume we have something to talk about."

* * * * *

He stands there, calm and assured, the literal lord of the manor looking down upon us, with Emma and I made small by his height advantage and by the size of the front hall. It feels intentional, and if it is it works because me and my sister just stand there for a moment, whatever confidence we had draining out of us under that steady gaze. It really is like we're kids again, and the head of the family is giving us a stern look and telling us to explain our latest mischief.

Emma breaks the silence first. "We know about Alex Trowley."

She says it quietly, though her voice carries easily in the big hall.

No reaction. "And what, exactly, do you know?"

"You got him to make that video about Dad," I say, and once I start talking I just run with it, wanting to get it all out before he can silence us with another look. "You've known for years that Dr. Dunning up at the Institute has been screwing with Trowley and you used that to point him at Dad. You probably even made sure it went out when it did so that it would do the most damage, didn't you?"

I'm not sure what I'm expecting. That he'll deny it, or evade the question, or laugh. That he'll compliment us on how imaginative we are, or tell us that he's very disappointed in us and threaten to send us to bed without any supper.

He doesn't do any of that. He just nods and says, "Yes, I did."

"Holy shit, Uncle Nathan." The shock of him just straight up admitting it gives me some of my energy back. "Why?"

He starts descending the stairs, talking as he does so, relinquishing his height advantage like he's rewarding us for being smart enough to work it out.

"My arrangement with Dr. Dunning is motivated by self interest rather than any relish for his methods. The doctor is an extremely twisted individual, as utterly lacking in morals as he is in ethics. I sincerely hope he is unaware that you've learned of his peculiar hobby."

Emma nods. "He doesn't know."

"Good. I will certainly not inform him." A faint smile plays over Uncle Nathan's lips as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and looks us more evenly in the eye. "I admit I'm curious as to how you learned about this."

Emma shakes her head. "Tell you later, maybe."

It's not like we don't trust our great-uncle -- okay, it's exactly because we don't trust him -- but more than that we just want to keep Lauren out of this if we can. Uncle Nathan doesn't press the point.

"Dr. Dunning considers me a friend or at least an ally, and he is well aware that I will withdraw my patronage if Alex Trowley ever takes too much of an interest in the Wilderwoods. He is a more perceptive investigator than you might think, and the history of our family would offer him rich pickings."

Emma leans against the end of the bannister and smirks. "So if you're so eager to keep Trowley away from us what happened on Friday night."

"it was necessary. Despite the break with you father which I engineered five years ago he remained, in the eyes of the town, my heir apparent. Moreover he has long plotted with Edward Danforth to contest my will were it not to fall in his favor. He is not the only one. The other branches of the family -- in Boston, New York and elsewhere -- also continue to circle like litiginous vultures."

We've never had much contact with any of our cousins, and I don't remember every meeting any of them when we were up here. I guess now I know why.

"Mr. Trowley may have exceeded his remit, but can hardly be blamed for that since he didn't know what it was. I didn't anticipate the political complications that might arise from Peter Warren and his friends in Washington being dragged into this but the main objective was to discredit your father, and do so in such a way that he will find impossible to come back from. That has been accomplished."

"How long have you been planning this?"

"Miss Shaw approached me with the Magic of Wilderwood proposal about six months ago. I have let that hook dangle since then, just out of reach until events required that I let your father take the bait."

"Was Morgan in on it?"

"No, she is merely the latest of your father's infidelities. I regret it went so hard on her, but I imagine she'll make a better recovery from this than your father will."

It's the way he says all of this that really strikes me. There was an edge to his voice for a moment when he spoke about our cousins but other than that he's completely matter of fact while he tells us how he ruined our parents' lives. There's no regret, but there's no sense he enjoyed it either. It's just something he did.

"You're kind of a bastard, Uncle Nathan."

He shrugs, and this time there is a hint of a smile on his lips. "It's in the best interest of the family."

Not all of the family, that's for sure.

"What events?" Emma asks. "You said events required you to do this now. What events?"

Again Uncle Nathan answers without hesitation. I'm starting to get the feeling he expected us to find out about this and has been rehearsing his replies. Or maybe he's just so certain about everything it just comes naturally to him.

"Your brother is the last of the direct line of the Wilderwoods, the only one who can carry on the family name. However, he is still very young, and I need to ensure that any rival claimants are dealt with before I name him as my designated heir."

What?

Emma shrugs. "If you write it in your will it's done, right?"

"Not necessarily. Wills can be contested and, with the right friends in high places, disregarded entirely. Your father had the strongest claim, but following recent events I fancy he no longer has many friends, high or low."

He allows himself another little smile before continuing in the same calm, controlled voice. "There are also other factors to consider. Jamie's rights as my heir would be much easier to overrule if it were revealed that he is conducting an incestuous affair with his sister."

Oh shit.

"You know about us," says Emma.

"For quite some time."

"How?"

Uncle Nathan drums his fingers on the top of his cane a few times before replying. "We have a lot to talk about, and I'd prefer to do so in more comfortable surroundings. I'll find Felix and ask him to bring some tea and coffee up to the library." He tilts his cane slightly, indicating the stairs. "I'm sure you remember where it is."

* * * * *

Uncle Nathan walks off to talk to Felix and so we take our time on our way to the library. Neither of us have said anything yet, and we linger by a few of the paintings that are hung on the walls up here as we work out what to say to each other, let alone what we'll say to him. I guess we both hope he'll be on our side, because we're Wilderwoods, or because he has fond memories of us from when we were kids, or even -- and this is another unsettling thought that's been hanging about in the back of my mind for a while now -- because we're not the first of the Wilderwoods to do this and he's all for continuing family tradition.

He says he's known for a while and he doesn't seem put out by it, but then he doesn't seem anything by it, good or bad. All we can do right now is wait to find out, because there's no doubt our great-uncle is in control here.

All of the family portraits are on the upper floor, hung at intervals around the gallery and continuing down each hallway. We walk by at least a dozen of our ancestors on the way to the library, all looking out from frames of dark wood or old, tarnished silver with expressions of aloof disdain. No Wilderwood ever smiled when they were having their portrait painted.

Of course every old house has paintings like this, but the ones at Wilderwood Hall are different from what I've seen up on Hamilton Hill. There's no paintings of family groups or even of husbands and wives, at least not up here. Up here every Wilderwood stands alone, and we know that it's only those of the blood, as Mom put it the other night, not anyone who married into the family. It's no wonder she's never liked Uncle Nathan.

Some of the wall panels in between the paintings are deeply recessed, forming alcoves in which hang or stand other objects -- old pistols, old swords, tribal masks from Africa and carnival masks from Venice, small statues and scupltures, though it's not always easy to tell what they're actually supposed to represent. Some of the back panels in the alcoves are also engraved, with designs like medieval coats-of-arms or astrological symbols. In places the objects in the alcoves also seem to have some connection to the adjacent paintings, like the crossed cavalry sabres -- one of which my sister once almost decapitated me with -- hanging to the left of the portrait of Ethan Wilderwood.

All of this is old -- I doubt there's anything in these hallways that's less than a century old -- and we used to spend a lot of time looking at some of the stranger objects. One I remember was a small statue of a woman, about eight inches high, with bat wings and horns and a pointed tail curled around her legs. I always thought it was bronze or some other metal from the way it caught the light but it felt more like stone. Emma used to tease me when she saw me looking at it, and I never dared ask anyone -- not even Felix - where it came from because then my sister would have teased me even more.

It's still here, in an alcove in between two portraits of a man and a woman in fairly modern clothing, at least compared to the rest of the paintings. There's a red leather half mask with curved horns hung in the alcove above and behind the statue, like the ones worn at masquerade balls. We don't recognise the people in the paintings -- we don't recognise most of them really -- but it's not hard to guess.

"Jane and Joseph," Emma says.

"Has to be."

Joseph is slim and pale and not very strong looking. He's in very formal evening clothes - a black tuxedo with a short jacket, white tie and waistcoat, patent leather shoes - but whereas most of the Wilderwoods are shown standing he's sitting, almost slouched in his chair. He's young in the picture, maybe in his late twenties, and definitely doesn't look like a multiple murderer.

Jane's portrait is something else. She's as slim as Joseph, with short, slicked back, black hair, and is dressed in exactly the same style as her brother. Cody Shay was wearing a tux at the event on Friday night, but on her it looked quirky. Jane wears her tuxedo, white tie and waistcoat like the style was invented for her. She's stunningly beautiful, and her eyes are as green as my sister's,

The next portrait along is of Richard Wilderwood, our great-uncle's father. He's much younger here than in the painting up at the Newley Institute, probably only in his thirties, with darker hair and a much thinner mustache, like an old-time movie star. It's really the ring I recognise though, the same bright green emerald as in the other portrait.

The older brother, Jack, is the next portrait along after Richard. Since he died in the First World War I'd kind of expected him to be in uniform, but he's in evening clothes, like the others. In the alcove between Jack and Richard there's a female carnival mask, and below that a flat case, very ornate, in the same white, gold and red of the mask. I idly try the lid, but it's locked.

Emma glances at me. "Is it just me, little brother, or is this place creepier than I remember it being?"

I nod. "It's not just you. Were there always this many masks on the walls?"

"I like the masks."

Maybe it's just that it's after midnight and everything is in shadows, and we're both on edge and it's not like either of us got much sleep last night, but there is something uncanny about the Hall tonight. The portraits we walk by feel like they remember our ancestors in the same way tombstones do.

The paintings continue along each of the adjoining hallway but I don't know if there's any pattern to how they're arranged. I'm not even sure the ones we walk past now are the same ones that were hanging here five years ago. Some things have definitely been changed around, and we haven't seen the fencing swords we fought with that one time. They used to hang near the sabres.

As we come to the door of the upstairs library (there's another downstairs -- Wilderwood Hall has libraries like other houses have bathrooms) we walk by two more portraits, and they, and what hangs in the alcove in between them, were definitely not in this location the last time we were here.