The Estate

Brian Matherson sat in his office, puffing away on a pipe, pushing himself to the edge of consciousness. He had fallen asleep, hard at work the night before, and had awoken face-down in a small puddle of spittle. He had lit up his pipe for a morning smoke, because why the devil not.

There was a knock on the door, and he sat up in his chair.

“-ahem- come in.” The door opened to reveal Richard, Morrison, a stout, balding, aging man with a humourless countenance.

“Good morning, Master Brian, you’re due back at the estate.” Brian nodded and coughed into a closed fist.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly half past ten.”

“And Ian is due at noon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright.” Brian stood, collected his pipe and pocketwatch, then smoothed down his jacket. He mused on the irony that his butler looked far less disheveled than he. Brian and Morrison descended the staircase to the streets of London, and right outside the building, there was a carriage waiting.

Brian could feel himself being lulled back to sleep by the constant rhythm of Sanford’s hooves. But, every now and then, they’d go over a pothole or a stone, and he’d be jerked awake again. But regardless, he was determined to sleep as much as possible before he arrived home.

Once the carriage slowed and came to a halt, he stretched his arms and cleared his throat.

“Richard, is my mother awake, yet?”

“She wasn’t when I left to retrieve you, sir, but I’m sure she is by now.”

“Bugger.”

“Indeed, sir.” Brian checked his pocketwatch; it was nearly half past eleven. He stepped out of the carriage, and Morrison rushed to open the front door of the house.

The Matherson estate was known for being one of the largest in that area of the country, but also for being one of the most well-decorated. Whenever asked about it, he often attributed the latter to his mother. He went upstairs to his room, and changed clothes before shaving and having a brandy.

He found his mother having tea in the dining room downstairs. She eyed him with suspicion.

“Why didn’t you come home last night?”

“Good morning, Mother.”

“I suppose you were up late working again.”

“Yes, actually.” Brian’s mother shook her head.

“Absurd. Your father always found the time to make it home to me.”

“I’m not Father, Mother.”

“Hmm.” She took another sip of tea.

“Is Jane awake yet?” His mother replaced the teacup to its saucer and dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.

“Well, if she is, she hasn’t come downstairs yet.”

“Bollocks.”

“Watch your language, young man.”

“Mother, I’m forty-two.”

“A son will always be young to his mother, darling. Now go check on your daughter.” Brian sighed and did as he was told.

Jane’s room was three doors down the hall from his. He knocked on the door, and at first, there was no answer.

“Jane?” Still no answer.

“Jane, it’s nearly noon, Ian’s carriage will be in by lunchtime.” For a few seconds, there was only more silence, then the door opened, and Jane stood completely ready for the day. For a moment, Brian was thrown off-balance by how much she resembled his mother in her youth.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, Jane. Why haven’t you been downstairs yet?”

“I’ve been getting ready.” To Brian, her voice sounded more complacent than usual, almost artificially so.

“Right, well, come downstairs and get something in your belly. Some tea, perhaps.” She nodded, and went down into the dining room. Brian watched her leave for a moment before going into his study and having another brandy.

He sat at his desk, glass in hand, as he reviewed the telegram he’d received from his son three days before.

The telegram read: Father, coming home STOP. Finished my studies STOP. I will be at the estate by noon on the thirtieth STOP. I have a bit surprise for all of you STOP.

When Morrison hand brought the telegram into his office, saying it was from Ian, Brian took the news with a grain of salt. Ian had spent the last four years studying abroad in the Far East, and had only written home a handful of times, often describing his (mis)adventures rather vaguely. Although, that is certainly not to say that Brian didn’t miss him dearly. In his youth, Ian was always outgoing, confident, and well-mannered. Brian thought of his twin, Jane, to be his opposite in nearly every regard.

As someone knocked on the door, Brian swallowed what was left in the glass, and checked his pocketwatch. It was a quarter to noon.

“Yes, come in.”

Morrison walked in with a tray of coffee and cologne.

“Hello, sir, I thought you might like to clear your head and freshen up a bit. Get something else in you besides brandy.”

“Richard, you are the salt of the Earth.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Brian drank the coffee, and was surprised at just how strong it was, then rubbed the cologne on his neck. When he was finished, he faced Morrison.

“How do I look?”

“Like a father, sir.”

“Excellent. Is lunch nearly ready?”

“Greenwich and Smith have informed me that it is, sir.” Greenwich and Smith were the two live-in cooks that assisted Morrison when the occasion called for it.

“Alright, let’s go wait outside.” Brian walked downstairs, and Morrison followed him. His mother and Jane were already waiting for him near the front door, and the four of them went outside together.

Brian had to force himself not to check his pocketwatch out of fervent anticipation. He could feel the old pangs of paternal concern rearing their ugly heads. He usually only felt them when he thought about Ian.

Eventually, a carriage rolled out on the far end of the property, and Brian could feel himself quickly inhale.

Eventually, the carriage stopped, just a few yards from where they were standing. A small gust of wind picked up. The door to the carriage opened, and a handsome, raven-haired, tanned young man stepped out, wearing a “proper” English suit that looked as though it hadn’t been worn in years. He stood silently for a moment or two, looking at his father, then embraced Brian in an enormous hug. This caught Brian off-guard, but went along with it anyway.

“Welcome home, son.”

“Oh, it’s so good to see you, Father!” He pulled away and hugged his sister with equal fervor. He went down the line, greeting Brian’s mother and Morrison in turn. Brian couldn’t help but notice how the carriage door was still open. Before he could open his mouth to comment, Ian beat him to the punch.

Brian recognized what Ian was saying as a Chinese phrase (Matherson and Laurie had several clients based in Hong Kong), and a young, Oriental-looking young woman stepped out of the carriage. Ian took her hand in his, grinning like an idiot. The woman was very clearly with child.

“Everyone, this is Jing-Mei...my wife.” Brian reeled from surprise, but he would only imagine what everyone else was thinking.

Nobody said anything for a little while, so Brian decided to break the silence first.

“Well...this is certainly a surprise.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother go back into the house. He angry toward her in that moment, as if she was trying to make his only son feel unwelcome in his own home. He made a mental note to berate her about it later.

He saw Jing-Mei hold her belly and look down in shame. Genuine pity sprouted inside him, and he felt pride for his son well up as he held his bride closer to him by the waist. Jane and Morrison looked on, silent as the grave. Brian wasn’t sure what to make of their reactions. He stepped forward and gave Jing-Mei the same customary bow he gave to his Chinese clients.

“It is an honour to welcome you into our family.” She didn’t reply, just looked at him rather blankly. He looked at Ian.

“Does she speak any English?”

“Some, she’s just terribly shy.” Brian nodded in understanding.

“Please excuse my mother, Jing-Mei, she’s…not easy to get along with. Hell, I’ve known her all my life, and I still can’t bloody stand her.” At that, Jing-Mei awarded him with a slight smile, and Brian felt reasonably accomplished.

“Well, now that introductions are out of the way, Richard, please help my son with his luggage, then check on lunch.”

“Of course, sir.” Morrison did as he was ordered, and Ian helped Jing-Mei inside. Jane stayed outside with Brian, and neither of them said anything to the other.

Once everyone was inside, and the carriage had left, Brian meant to have a word with his mother, a stern one. As the others settled into the dining room, he found her in her bedroom, staring at herself in the mirror. She had on her face a peculiar expression, but it was one that Brian recognized rather easily. She looked as though his father had died all over again. His voice came out sounding considerably less harsh than he had intended.

“Mother?” She didn’t take notice of him at first. He was about to repeat himself when she sighed with quiet exasperation.

“That boy...is going to be running our family one day. After I’m gone. After you’re gone. And he has the gall to bring that...whore into our house, and pollutes our bloodline with that child in her belly. I don’t know how Ian could do this to us, Brian.” She looked at her son with genuine tears welling up in her eyes, but any amount of sympathy Brian may have had for his mother when he crossed the threshold of her bedroom was now gone, vanished without a trace. He grit his teeth and clenched his fists, all those little things angry men do.

“I’m sure luncheon will be along soon. Feel free to join us once you feel like Ian’s bloody grandmother again.” Then he left, without another word being said.

Just as before, everyone gathered in the dining room, with Ian sitting in-between Jing-Mei and his sister. Morrison was just walking in with a tea tray. Brian sat at the head of the table, and stared at his father’s portrait on the wall opposite. He was in a sort of trance for some time before Morrison served his tea.

“Thank you, Richard.” Morrison nodded. Brian cleared his throat and smiled at Ian.

“So, Ian, how did you meet...Jing-Mei, was it?” Ian nodded.

“Well, it’s a bit of a silly story, actually. I was--”

“Lunch is served.” All heads turned toward Morrison as two stout men, the taller of which having dark brown hair, the other, bright blonde curls came into the dining room carrying large trays of soup, meat pies, and roasted beef. Brian suddenly became aware of how hungry he was, and encouraged everyone at the table to tuck in.

Once they had all eaten their fill, Brian remembered that Ian was about to tell everyone how he’d met Jing-Mei.

“Ian, you were saying something?”

“Ah, right, thank you, Father. I was in Shanghai, doing research for an essay on the economic development of the East, and how the Crown has ultimately aided such, when--”

“I’m sorry, aided?” Everyone’s heads swiveled toward Jane, who had finally opened her mouth. Brian was not only surprised, but profoundly irritated.

“Jane, don’t interrupt--”

“Interrupt what? How our beloved Ian seems to believe that our presence abroad seems to have done more good than harm?” Jane seemed indignant, but Ian smiled and patted her on the wrist.

“Oh, my dear, lovely Jane. Don’t ever change, sweet sister.” Jane pulled her arm away, and for a moment, Brian was worried she’d slap her brother, but to his relief, she managed to restrain herself.

“How can you have spent four years away from home, and still be just as ignorant as you were when you left?” Brian had had it at that point.

“Jane, I think you ought to excuse yourself.” Nobody said anything, and after a moment, Jane huffed, and left the table. Brian, Ian, and Jing-Mei sat in silence. Brian reached into his jacket pocket and lit his pipe nervously. Ian chuckled.

“Well, then, that was all fine and good, wasn’t it?” Jing-Mei and Brian stared at him as he began to sober. He cleared his throat and drained the rest of the wine in his glass.

“I trust my room’s as it was?” Pipe in mouth, Brian nodded. Ian stood from the table and left the dining room, holding Jing-Mei’s hand.

Brian sat alone, puffing on his pipe silently for a few moments, staring at the portrait of his father. After he had died from consumption twenty years before, Brian refused to have it taken down and replaced with a portrait of himself. In his mind, it would always be his father’s house. Brian wondered if Ian felt the same way about him. He would have fallen back asleep if it weren’t for Morrison coming in from the lobby.

“Sir, the post is in.” Brian sat up and extinguished his pipe.

“Anything interesting?”

Morrison handed him a few letters, none of which were particularly out-of-the-ordinary, save for the letter from Brian’s younger brother. He opened the envelope with a feeling of vague curiosity. He read it aloud as Morrison straightened the tablecloth.

“Dear Brian, things are going well up here in Scotland, although it’s absurdly cold and I can’t bloody stand the Scottish and their ridiculous idea of what passes for food around here.

Regardless, I do believe we should be able to form a Glasgow branch of Matherson and Laurie within the year, perhaps by October. Give my love to Mother and your children. Regards, Colin Matherson.” Morrison was polishing a fork when Brian finally looked up.

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“I’d assume so, Master Brian.”

“Hmm. Oh, did you tell Greg Laurie I wouldn’t be coming in the next few days?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you tell him why?”

“I don’t believe he would have cared either way, sir.” Greg Laurie was known for being stingy with work time, but since Brian was a fellow partner, he really had no grounds to protest. It often gave Brian a youthful rush to agitate him.

“The old sod. But you did tell him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Brian stood up and decided to talk to Jane before he did anything else. Her bedroom door was shut again, and he knocked four times.

“Jane? May I come in?” There was no response. The whole thing felt annoyingly familiar. His frustration overtook him, and he opened the door. Jane wasn’t there. He could feel himself turning pink from embarassment, although there was nobody watching. He opened his mouth to call for her, then figured she was in the library, and instead made his way there.

He found her sitting in an enormous leather armchair, poring over some indistinguishable volume. He cleared his throat, and Jane turned her head toward the doorway. Brian could tell she’d been crying. Paternal instinct drove him to her side. He rested a hand on her shoulder as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Nothing needed to be said. She looked up at the portrait of her mother, and Brian did the same. The painting was made and hung a few weeks after Kathryn died giving birth to the twins. It had been there as long as either could remember. Brian kissed her on the head and walked back to his study.

Once he sat back in the chair, he tried to console himself with the fact that, at the very least, Ian and Jing-Mei seemed relatively happy together. But he began to feel genuine curiosity towards the circumstances under which they met, married each other, and became future parents. He found it almost comical as to how Ian was consistently interrupted during lunchtime.

He decided against lighting his pipe again, Kathryn always hated it when he smoked.

The door was open, and he took notice to Morrison walking past, holding a tray with food on it.

“Richard?” He stopped in his tracks and looked into the study.

“Yes, Master Brian?”

“To whom are you bringing that tray?”

“Your mother, sir. She missed luncheon, so I figured she was hungry. Should I not disturb her, sir?” Brian sighed and shook his head in a sort of non-commital way.

“Carry on, Richard.” Morrison nodded, and went on his way again. Suddenly, Brian recalled all the trouble his mother had caused that morning. He checked his pocketwatch, it was nearly two o’ clock. He sighed and tried to figure out something to do to keep him busy until dinnertime. After a moment, he decided to simply look over some expense reports until he fell asleep, and, sure enough, after just a few minutes, he was out cold.

He awoke slowly, his eyes opening and closing over and over again, before he summoned the will to sit himself up and check the time. It was nearly five. He figured that dinner would be ready soon, so he stood up, and walked through the house. It all seemed so lazily quiet to him, as if everyone was simply waiting for something to happen.

The door to Ian’s room was closed, so Brian held his ear up against the wood. He heard a woman giggling, and Ian saying something in Chinese. He smiled, then went down into one of the various sitting rooms adjacent to the library.

He was relieved to find Morrison dusting off one of the armchairs. Once Brian entered, Morrison stood up straight, at attention. Ofttimes, he admired his butler’s military-honed precision, but that’s not to say he didn’t occasionally find it tedious.

“Afternoon, sir. Can I get you anything? The boys assure me dinner will be ready by six o’clock.” Brian shook his head.

“I’m fine, Richard, just…”

“Bored, sir?”

“Well...yes.”

“It happens to the best of us, sir. Don’t feel too bad about it. Some men just aren’t suited for life outside the city.”

“Right.” Brian had only been away from London a few hours, and he could already feel himself missing the hustle and bustle of it all.

“I’m not sure you should have taken so many days off work sir, if you don’t mind my saying.” Brian felt as if Morrison had read his thoughts.

“Perhaps not, Richard. Perhaps not.” Brian sat in one of the (numerous) armchairs Morrison wasn’t dusting, then fiddled with his pipe, collecting his thoughts.

After a few minutes, Brian could hear a set of quick steps coming down the staircase, and after a few seconds, Ian and Jing-Mei came into the sitting room, holding hands and laughing like the young lovers they were. Nothing could have made Brian happier. They sat in two separate chairs, adjacent to one another. Ian nodded toward his father.

“Hello there.” Brian ginned and returned the nod. Morrison asked the pair if they required anything, but Ian shook his head. For some reason, Brian found himself wondering what Jane was up to. He motioned to Morrison, and the butler walked over. Brian gestured to lean in closer.

“Check on my daughter, will you, Richard?” Morrison nodded, and promptly walked out of the sitting room. Ian and Jing-Mei were still tittering back and forth, hands clasped. Brian cleared his throat and they both looked over.

“You know, my boy, if you’re really home for good, I ought to take you into London for some proper clothes. No Matherson is going to be caught dead in anything but the highest fashion.” Brian could hear his father in his book, but felt alright about it. Ian chuckled and nodded.

“I’d be glad to, Father. I need to get to know London again.”

Brian grunted a reply and drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest. Just as he was about to check his pocketwatch, Morrison poked his head inside the sitting room and cleared his throat.

“Dinner is served, everyone.”

“Ah!” Brian clapped his hands together jovially, giving Jing-Mei a start. Brian was the last to leave the sitting room, and Morrison pulled him aside.

“Your mother and daughter are perfectly alright, sir. They’re awaiting us in the dining room.” Brian patted Morrison on the back, as if to signal “Good job.”

Everyone sat in the same seats as they did at lunchtime. Nobody said much. Once Morrison had cleared the table, and they all kept looking down at the tablecloth, Brian figured he might as well try to liven things up.

“So, I received a letter from Uncle Colin today.” Ian and Jane’s faces lit up like almost simultaneously. Jane spoke up first.

“Really? How is he?”

“He’s perfectly fine.”

“Still up in Scotland?”

“Yes, actually.” Brian saw in the faces of his children memories of the Scottish countryside as their uncle looked after them whilst he was away on business. Jane laughed, it was a rare and beautiful sight, not unlike a comet or some other equally gorgeous cosmic event.

“Oh, he must hate it there.” It was Brian’s turn to laugh.

“Of course, my dear.” The atmosphere around the table seemed considerably less stuffy. Brian even took notice to his mother cracking a smile, but she caught wind of him looking, and sobered. As if to mock his impeccably raised spirits, thunder cracked, and light flashed through the window behind Brian’s seat. His father’s portrait was harshly illuminated for a fraction of a second. Jing-Mei was visibly startled, and Ian rubbed her shoulder affectionately. Brian checked his pocketwatch, it was nearly eight.

He furrowed his brow as he tried to determine whether or not he wished to retire, or to stay awake for another hour or two to spend some time with his children, or perhaps the woman carrying his grandchild. Perhaps it was boredom, or simply the need to feel as if he were a decent parent, but he decided on the latter.

“Ian, would you care for a brandy?”

“Of course, Father, let me just get Jing-Mei, ah, settled, and--”

“Actually, I thought she might be able to join us. Oh, and you as well, Jane.”

Everyone sitting at the table looked fervently surprised and vaguely uncomfortable. Brian’s mother stood from her seat and wiped her mouth with her handkerchief.

“I think I’ll be turning in. Good night, darling.”

Brian was somewhat relieved, and didn’t feel at all guilty about it.

They all stood and shuffled into the same sitting room where Brian had found Morrison dusting shortly before dinnertime. At least, Brian thought it was the same sitting room. Yes, he was positive.

As Morrison poured the brandy, there was another bout of quiet. Jane had taken the seat closest to Brian whilst Ian and Jing-Mei sat across the room, hand in hand. The window in the sitting room was speckled with raindrops. Brian noticed Ian’s eyes flitting bemusedly between his father and sister.

“So, any suitors for our lovely Jane, yet?” Without thinking, Brian chortled at the absurdity, and immediately felt awful. Jane focused her eyes on the carpet. Brian reached out with his hand to comfort her, but she turned away, put her brandy glass down, and went upstairs. Brian sighed.

“Buggering hell.” He raised his glass to his lips, but a crash of thunder unsettled his already shaky nerves, and he spilled it all over himself. Before he could let off a string of curses that would have put a drunken sailor to shame, Morrison took the glass out of his hand and began to wipe off Brian’s shirt with a spare cloth. Brian waved him away, suddenly incensed by Jing-Mei’s giggling.

“Sod it all, I’m going to bed. Good night, Ian, good night, Jing-Mei. It’s been a pleasure.” He briskly walked out of the sitting room and went up to his room, not unlike Jane did only a moment before. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but he didn’t particularly care. As he changed into his dressing-gown, Morrison stood right outside the doorway, facing out, for the sake of privacy.

“Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t like another glass?” Brian looked into the mirror and stared at his thinning, raven-black hair before shaking his head as the thunder crashed again.

“No, Richard, I’m tired, I just want to go to bed.”

“Very well, then, sir. Just ring the bell if you need anything else.”

“Good night, Richard.”

“Good night, sir.”

…

If he wasn’t sure the scream wasn’t Jane’s, Brian wouldn’t have gotten out of bed.

The shriek itself was ear-piercingly high, but only about three seconds in length. Nonetheless, Brian, fearing the worst, trampled down the stairs, posthaste. He was not surprised to find Ian in a similar position, just exiting his bedroom, alone. For a fleeting moment, he wondered where Jing-Mei was, if not at her husband’s side.

They found her facing up at the bottom of the stairs, with bits of her uterus hanging out of her belly. She looked as though her abdomen had been sliced open, then her innards partially scooped out. Her skin was silky white, and her eyes were blankly open, staring at the cavernous ceiling.

Needless to say, it was a complete mess.

It took Brian several seconds to process the imagery, but for Ian, it was nearly instantaneous. Jane was kneeling over Jing-Mei’s body, her hands shaking and hovering over the open flesh, sobbing quietly. Ian took his place beside her, and Brian saw his eldest son, always the first to smile or make light of any situation, sobbing openly beside his twin. Brian’s stomach began to slowly churn, as if his eyes had relayed a message to his brain, and his brain, to his insides.

He vomited all over the staircase. Again, complete mess. Neither of his children seemed to mind.

He could feel his knees growing weak, but his mind began to sharpen. There was very little chance he would find himself sleeping anytime soon. As he began to slowly descend the staircase in the half-darkness, the thunder rumbles, and everything was illuminated by lightning for an instant.

But an instant was all he needed to see what would have been his grandchild, bathed in crimson, sprawling and still amongst the innards of its mother. He would have vomited again, but there was nothing left in his stomach. But his knees finally gave, and his backside thumped hard against the step. He opened his mouth to say something, but everything was still, and only one word came through, like the croak of an emaciated toad.

“Richard.” Saying the word gave him strength, and he said it again and again, louder each time, until he was screaming it. Brian heard a door bang open, with feet quickly bounding down each step. Morrison began speaking before he reached the scene.

“Sir, what could have possibly happened, it’s--” And then he saw Jing-Mei. He quietly muttered “Oh, God…” But it was hard to hear over the thunder. Brian could feel Morrison’s hand on his shoulder, what would normally be a comforting, familiar gesture. But he could hear himself mutter under his breath.

“I’m not a child anymore, Richard.” He stood, like he was a taught a grown man should. His children were still sobbing over Jing-Mei at the bottom of the stairs. He cleared his throat.

“Richard, please retrieve a tablecloth from the kitchen.” Brian didn’t have to look to know that Morrison nodded before he slowly descended the staircase, semi-tiptoeing around the body and calmly walking to the kitchen. His posture was perfect.

Brian walked to the end of the steps and wrapped his arms around his children.

“Ian...Richard’s going to be covering up the body, now.” Ian didn’t say anything, he just kept breathing through his mouth, weakly, like someone who’s just come off a crying fit. But, before Brian could say anything else, his son nodded, his eyes fixed on the assortment of human organs on the steps before him. The three of them pulled away while everything else stayed in the same place.

After a moment or two, Brian could hear the light taps of Morrison’s slippers against the floor, and the Mathersons saw him dragging a long, white sheet towards the scene, and he didn’t hesitate before swiftly lying the tablecloth on top of Jing-Mei, completely covering her body, save for a small, athletic foot sticking out at the end. When the pale, perfect white began to blossom crimson, Jane gasped quietly and looked away, holding Ian’s shoulder. The four of them stood silent for another moment before Brian spoke again.

“Richard, wake Greenwich and Smith. Ian take your sister upstairs.” Morrison went off without another word, and Ian began to lead Jane upstairs, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. When Brian was practically alone again, left with the thunder and his thoughts, he allowed his eyes to rest on the stained tablecloth, and began to fully analyze the situation. As he figured it, there was no sign of a break-in, so that meant the culprit had to have been inside the estate when Morrison locked all the doors and windows before dinner. The thought sickened him, although he wasn’t surprised. He also noticed there was no murder weapon near the body, and while that perplexed him at first, he supposed that the culprit would know the estate well enough to know of at least several places in which one could safely hide a knife. Brian cursed his father for making their home so huge.

Morrison walked behind Greenwich and Smith as they approached the staircase. Greenwich yawned, his eyes were barely open.

“Bloody hell, sir, what’s all this about?” Greenwich’s lower-class accent grated against Brian’s ears; he gritted his teeth and inhaled so as to keep from erupting.

“It appears...my son’s wife has been murdered.” Right on cue, the thunder clapped again, and light flashed through the window. Brian didn’t pay any mind. Greenwich and Smith both scrunched up their faces, as if the fact was at all difficult to understand. It was Smith’s turn to speak.

“What?” That was all he needed to boil over the tiniest bit.

“My son’s wife is dead, you bloody imbeciles. Just...Richard, set them down somewhere, look after them.” He cringed on the last phrase, and he wasn’t sure why. Greenwich stepped forward, looking indignant, but Morrison held him back with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hang on, you don’t think either of us…?” Brian locked eyes with the cook, and decided to be honest.

“I don’t...bloody...know.” Brian supposed he looked rather intimidating, because Greenwich’s eyes opened fairly wide, and he backed away. Morrison led the pair back into the kitchen, and he was left alone again.

“Brian?” His heart began to pump venom when he realized that the tired, faint voice coming from the top of the stairs belonged to his mother. He turned and looked up.

She was standing on the top step in a white dressing gown. Brian climbed the stairs with haste, hoping he could turn his mother away with a lie and little else.

“Brian, what’s going on? It’s well past midnight.” He was hoping with every fibre of his being that her eyes wouldn’t fall on the stained tablecloth.

Just before he could put his hands on her shoulders and turn her around, she pointed to the bottom with a single, ghostly finger.

“What is that at the bottom of the stairs? Is that...my God, is that blood?” Brian tried to do as he intended, but his mother swatted away his hand as she might a common housefly, lazily. If it was at all possible, his spirits sank even further than they had been before. His mother tended to have that effect on him.

“Mother...she’s dead.”

“Oh, my God, Jane?”

“No, Jane’s fine, thank Heaven, but...it’s Jing-Mei.” As his mother’s expression slowly shifted from panic to a mask of sympathy, Brian couldn’t recall a time when he had been so repelled by his own flesh and blood.

“Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? ‘Ah’? For God’s sake, mother, a woman has died. The woman carrying your grandchild.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Brian Matherson. I’m not dense, I knew the girl was pregnant.” Before Brian could say something he knew he would immediately regret, Morrison called to him over the thunder.

“Sir, all the doors and shutters are precisely the way I left them. Nothing’s been broken or stolen.” At that moment, there was a loud crash, and the tinkling of glass. Brian and Morrison sprung into action simultaneously, with the former being even more careful than before to avoid the dirty side of the bottom of the stairs. He jogged at a decent pace, following Morrison to the south side of the estate. Eventually, they stood before a shattered lock and a door ajar, the garden sprawling out before them beyond the threshold.

“Greenwich and Smith, I’d wager, sir.” Rage and frustration rattled around in his skull like ice cubes, and he clenched his fists.

“Yes, they’ve gone, but...it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, sir, I see what you mean. No viable motive.”

“Precisely. Neither of them had ever met Jing-Mei before yesterday, I’m sure of it.” Brian walked over to the broken door, inspecting it as well as looking out into the garden.

“I don’t see them in the garden, although they could be--” His words were cut off by a small pinch in the side of his neck, and a weakness in his limbs. He could feel his knees start to slack, but before he could collapse to the floor, a pair of strong arms caught him and laid him down gently. He opened his mouth, perhaps to cry out, but he lost consciousness before he could say anything at all.

…

When he opened his eyes, his vision was hazy, but he recognized the room; the cellar, but darker than he remembered. He noticed he was sitting down, tied to a wooden chair.

“Father?”

“Ian?” Brian squinted in the darkness and was able to make out the outline of another figure tied to a chair.

“Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Were you tranquilized as well?” Ian nodded.

“Yes, from behind.”

“It had to have been Richard, then.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know.” Brian struggled against the rope, but succumbed to exhaustion after a moment.

“I’m so sorry, son.”

“No, Father, this…I think this is my fault.”

“Ian don’t be absurd. Now, try to see if you can get out of your--”

“Father, listen to me. Jing-Mei, she...we didn’t exactly meet in a...romantic capacity.”

“What?”

“I was in Shanghai, that much was true, but I wasn’t composing an essay or whatever I said I was doing. I was...I was an opium addict, Father.” Surprise and confusion settled in Brian’s gut.

“You...but...why?” Tears began to well up, but he swallowed and blinked them away.

“I don’t know, Father, I...it all just got so out of hand. I married her to settle a debt with some...bloody rich Chinaman. I thought if we knew each other well enough, and I brought her home, I could learn to love her, but…” Brian swallowed.

“Ian...did you--?”

“I didn’t kill my wife, Father, though I bloody well might as well have. What’s worse is...I know who did it.” They were both silent for a moment.

“Who was it, Ian?” There was another pause.

“It was Jane, Father.” Brian could actually feel his mouth hang open.

“Jane? But...how do you know?:

After I took her upstairs, she showed me the murder weapon and confessed.”

“Why?” Brian could tell Ian was looking at him, unsure of what to say next.

“Father, there’s something you should know about Jane and I. We--” Before Ian could finish his sentence, the room was flooded with sunlight, and the two men squinted. When Brian’s eyes adjusted, they swiveled around the room and landed on a tall, skinny man in absurdly clean evening wear with reddish-brown hair, and a long, angular, slightly tanned face.

“Colin?” Matherson, the younger smiled slightly and kneeled down to Brian’s sitting height.

“Hullo, Brian.” Out of the corner of his eye, Brian could see Ian had his mouth gaping open in shock. He supposed he looked at least somewhat similar.

“Colin?” Brian felt like an idiot repeating himself, but he really couldn’t help it.

“Yes, it’s really me.” Colin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe Brian’s brow.

“You’re sweating like a pig, brother, dear. Although, I suppose that’s all my fault.” He tossed the handkerchief on the floor.

“You...what are you doing here, Colin?”

“I’m here to save the world, Brian.”

“What?” Colin sighed and looked down at the floor.

“Oh, dear...there’s so much to be explained, and so little time. Morrison?” Brian turned his head and Morrison descended the stairway to the cellar, wiping his hands with an old rag.

“You called, sir?”

“Please untie my brother and nephew.”

“Of course, sir.” And Morrison did as he was told, avoiding Brian’s questioning gaze. Once the rope was undone, he stood, but found it took some small effort to do, so he leaned against the wall.

“Wait a few moments, the disorientation will pass. In the meantime, I ask that you all join me for breakfast. It’s a long carriage ride from Scotland, and I’m bloody starving.” Colin smiled again, then went up, with Morrison, Ian, and Brian in tow.

They all sat at the dining table, this time with Colin in Brian’s usual seat. Morrison poured tea, but neither Ian nor Brian touched it. Colin took notice and chuckled.

“Come on, lads, it’s not poison. Besides, you need something to settle your nerves.” Brian just kept glaring at his brother.

“What’s happened to Jane? And Mother?”

“They’re safe.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, brother.”

“Brian, I would never lay a finger on my own flesh and blood, you know that.”

“No, I don’t bloody know that.”

“Hmm.” Colin took another sip of tea.

“Now just tell me why you’re here and what the hell’s going on, if you don’t mind.” Colin laid the teacup carefully in the saucer.

“Alright, I will.”

“I wish you would.” Colin smirked quickly, then sobered.

“Do you remember all the stories Morrison would tell us when we were just children?”

“The ones about King Arthur?”

“Yes. We both loved the idea of going out to slay some evil beast all in the name of chivalry. But we grew older, grew proper, learned how to be a real Englishman. Father made sure of that. What I’m going to do here in--” He checked his pocketwatch. “A little under an hour is going to change the course of the world for the better.” Ian growled and pounded his fist against the bare wood.

“Just bloody tell us, Uncle!” Colin smiled again, and Brian began to hate him.

“The land on which this estate resides is old. Sacred. And the stories, Brian, oh, the stories this land could tell if it had a voice...what I’m trying to say Brian is that...they’re all real.”

“What’s real?”

“What’s real?”

“King Arthur. Merlin. The dragons. They were all here, hundreds of years ago. Right where we’re sitting.” After a beat, Brian laughed because it was the only thing left to do.

“You’re mad, Colin, mad as a bloody hatter…” He began to chortle so hard, his belly began to ache, but he kept giggling after the fact. It was Colin’s turn to glare.

“I’m being serious, Brian.”

“I can tell, but you’re obviously delusional.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. The stories were just that, stories.” Colin continued to glare for a moment.

“Morrison, bring me the book.” After a few seconds, Morrison came into the dining room and handed Colin a small, very tattered, leather-bound volume. Colin opened it to a page he had earmarked and began to read aloud.

“And so, the last Great Dragon shall be put to rest under the earth, and may only be awakened the morning of Midsummer’s eve, providing the blood of an innocent be spilled on its ground. And I, Merlin, foretell that a new her shall wield Excalibur and slay the Dragon, once and for all.” Colin closed the book.

“Well, there you have it.”

“Uncle...you can’t really think that any of that is true?” Colin smiled and shook his head lightly.

“Like father, like son…” He downed the rest of what was in the teacup, then walked to the portrait of Charles Matherson. He took it off the wall, and hanging on the wall behind it, there was a beautiful longsword, taking in the light so radiantly, it seemed to glow, hilt and all. Ian and Brian both stood in awe. Brian momentarily forgot his brother was in the room and was utterly enraptured.

“Is that…?”

“Excalibur. The old legends say it was lost with Arthur himself, but somebody recovered it and laid it here. Do you believe me now?” Neither Brian nor Ian said a word. Colin checked his pocketwatch again.

“Bugger, still a bit of time left…” He fumed, twiddling the watch between his fingers, and furrowing his brow. After a moment, he quickly stuffed the pocketwatch in his...pocket, and slowly took the sword off the wall. It took great effort. Excalibur seemed drawn to the ground, it seemed to heavy. Brian stepped forward to help, but Clin shooed him away.

“I”m fine, just...Morrison come here and take them outside. We’ll be starting early.” Morrison walked in and stood near the table, watching Colin.

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, we might as well, just grab the body.” Brian was reminded of Jing-Mei and her demise, but Ian beat him to the punch.

“How, no, why did you get Jane to kill Jing-Mei?” Colin stared at his nephew for a moment, then laughed heartily.

“Did she really tell you she did it? Oh, that’s...that’s funny.”

“She had the murder weapon.”

“And who do you think could have given it to her?” Brian’s insides writhed and froze as the truth dawned on him. Morrison said nothing, but Brian saw his hands clench and relax, over and over again. Ian was still visibly incensed.

“But why?”

“Weren’t you listening? I need the blood of an innocent to raise the Dragon.”

“Jing-Mei wasn’t innocent, she was a pickpocket from Shanghai.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jing-Mei.” More silence, thick with disgust. Colin went on.

“Once sent a wire, asking me to bring him back to England, and I saw he was expecting a child...well, you don’t just stand idle when fate hands you the opportunity.” Ian looked down, shock prevalent in his countenance. Brian flitted his eyes between Excalibur and his brother.

“If what you’re saying is true...then England will be…”

“Crippled. Not destroyed. Jane was right. The Crown has become too decadent, too arrogant. We must return to our roots, and embrace, a newer, stronger Albion.”

Brian could feel the air deflate from his lungs, and the bristle of eyelashes as he gripped the side of the table in shock.

He would have thrown up if there was anything in his stomach. He could feel Morrison grip him gently by the arm, and he tried to shrug him away, but he felt weak and detached.

“Sir, please. We won’t want to be in the house in a few minutes.” Brian and Morrison locked eyes.

“She was pregnant, Richard.” For a moment, Brian thought Morrison might have been sorry.

They all walked single-file out of the estate, onto the front steps and the lawn. As Colin dragged Excalibur behind him, it seemed to cut through the stone and shrivel the grass, as if it was pure flame. Morrison carried a few candles and a small bundle, the contents of which Brian never wanted to think about for the rest of his life, but still, the image kept replaying itself in his mind.

“We should stop here.” They were about five hundred yards from the front door. Morrison began to stick the candles into the ground, creating a starred pattern. He laid the bundle carefully in the middle. Colin slid Excalibur into the ground as easily as he might have slid it into a pig. Brian and Ian stood near Morrison as Colin lit the candles and kneeled by the sword. He began to say something quietly in Latin.

“Excita, magna creatura, ut per orbem vagari antea terrorem ad quod volueris nomine Merlinum, quaeso CONCIO.” For a moment, there was no sound, save for the birds and the wind in their ears. But the breeze grew stronger, and the ground began to shake. Colin began giggling and held Excalibur with his two hands. The shaking grew stronger, to the point where Brian could hardly keep his footing, and Ian had to hold him up. All eyes were fixed on the estate in the distance.

The rumbling in the ground stopped, and they heard a crash come from the house.

The Dragon burst through the front, enormous and terrible. The wood and stone cracked and fell in pieces onto the lawn. It was dark brown, and had wings, as well as a set of arms and legs. It was easily just as large as the house itself.

The Dragon sniffed the air, more or less stationary, completely indifferent to all the damage in its wake. Then it opened its mammoth jaw and roared. It was high-pitched, and seemed to assail the senses. When he clenched his eyes tight and held his ears, Brian hoped this was all some horrible nightmare, and he’d wake up in his own bed when he opened his eyes.

He didn’t.

The Dragon flapped its wings against the wind, and began to rise into the air. It roared again, then soared east, toward London.

As his eyes followed the Dragon, Brian opened his mouth to whisper something, not to anyone in particular.

“God save the Queen.”

He didn’t.

THE END