Wrong Place, Wrong Time - The d'Arc - Chapter 1 (excerpt)

A blustery wind blew across the River Thames as Diane Firestone, carrying a yellow wicker picnic basket, walked back to a leased 1936 Riley Kestrel parked near a large hackberry tree off to the side of the road.  The breeze was strong enough to make it difficult for her to hold the trunk lid open while she stowed the basket in the car’s ample, immaculate boot.  The sun had long since started its slow, inevitable slide toward the horizon; and the recent winds had begun to dislodge a considerable amount of leaves and fruit from the ancient tree that, by the look of its gnarled umber-colored bark, suffered from Witches’ Broom Gall.  The tan leather seats of the deep-blue convertible had become littered with brittle, brown leaves and pungent, cranberry-colored fruit from the ailing, mature shade tree.

“It’s getting late, Bob.”  Diane – an attractive woman in her early twenties, with rich blonde hair – said to her husband Robert, while she tried to keep the wind from blowing her light-colored skirt up over her knees.  “Besides, I don’t know if the fruit from this tree will stain the leather seats.”

“You’re always so concerned over things that don’t belong to you.”  Robert Firestone – a good-looking man in his mid-twenties, with dark brown hair – said to his wife.  “Why should you care?  The firm leased it for us.  Let them worry about it.”

“Why?  Would that make a difference?” Diane quickly countered.  “You’re supposed to be a good litigator.  Aren’t you the one who always says, ‘The law’s the law’?  So, as long as we’ve got the keys to this car, I believe it’s our responsibility.”

Robert couldn’t help but smile as he watched his wife struggle to maintain her modesty against the relentless onslaught of the gusty winds, even though they were completely alone; with the exception of Selena, their five-month old daughter.

The Firestones had driven out past Marlow in Buckinghamshire from London early that morning to enjoy a leisurely lunch on the banks of the Thames.  His law firm had decided to give Robert the day off as a “thank you” for completing a successful negotiation on behalf of their flagship client, Bethlehem Steel.

“So I take it you want to get back to London?” Robert asked rhetorically, as he rolled the pram containing their sleeping daughter back to the car.

“I’d love it if we could be back home before dark,” Diane offered, scanning the orange and purple sky.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Robert added, as he lifted the white, bentwood, bassinet from the pram’s dark metal frame and set it in the back seat on top of a smattering of leaves and fallen fruit.

“Watch out for those berries!” Diane gasped.

“Too late,” Robert apologized, realizing that he’d crushed some of the ripe, red fruit into the Kestrel’s leather seats.  He walked back and secured their empty baby carriage in the car’s rear boot next to their picnic basket.

“Bob!  It looks like blood!” Diane gushed, as she lifted the bassinet up and wiped the crushed fruit and leaves off the rear seats.  She was relieved when she discovered that the juice from the fruit had not stained the leather.

“Diane, d’you want to wake Selena?”  Robert hushed.

“Oh please!  You know once our little angel’s finally asleep, she’s out for hours.”  Diane gently set the bassinet back down on the seat.

Robert shrugged as he walked over to the driver’s side of the vehicle, opened the door and stepped back.  “Okay mom, hop in.”

Diane flashed a brief smile as she briskly walked past her husband on her way to the other side of their leased automobile.  Robert, realizing his error, dashed around to the opposite side of the convertible and opened the passenger door a split-second before she arrived.

“Guess I’ll get used to these British cars one of these days,” Robert murmured to no one in particular.

“We’ve been here almost fourteen months, Bob.  You’d think you’d’ve gotten the hang of things by now,” Diane said as she slipped past him and sat down in the passenger’s seat.

“I know, I know!  But we’re leaving to go home in a couple of weeks.”

“So then, let’s just chalk it up, this time, to you feeling homesick,” Diane chided.

“Well, this place does kind of remind me of home,” Robert mused half-heartedly.

“Oh, this place doesn’t look a lick like New Orleans, Robert Firestone.  And you know it.”

Robert knew that his wife loved nothing more than to goad him.  So, he merely smiled, shrugged again, and sped around the car to slip behind the wheel.

“If we’re lucky, we should be in London well before dark.  I promise,” Robert assured his wife with as much gravitas as he could muster.

His wife’s subtle smirk, told him she wasn’t buying what he was selling.  To prove her wrong, Robert wasted no time in engaging the car’s ignition.  The Kestrel’s engine sputtered to life for a few seconds, backfired and then clunked off.  He tried again with the same results.  This second backfire managed to rouse their sleeping child, causing Selena to wail like a banshee.  Diane reached back and lifted her agitated daughter out of the bassinet.  She held her babe against her breast and began rocking, back and forth, in an attempt to settle her down.

Amused by the unexpected turn of events, Diane looked over to her husband, shook her head and smiled.  “Never promise what you can’t deliver.”

“You got that right, Di.”

Robert got out of the car and opened the hood.  He took off his coat and laid it over the car’s wide front pontoon fender.  Then, he rolled up his sleeves and tried asserting his long-assumed, God-given, mechanical skills to fix the problem.

Forty-five minutes later, Robert stood back away from the Kestrel’s exposed engine.  His face, hands and clothing were streaked with thick black grease.

“Try it again,” Robert said with hopeful optimism.  Diane reached over and turned the key in the ignition, careful not to disturb her sleeping daughter.  The engine sputtered one last time and then shook with such finality, that both husband and wife knew that this was a fight they were not going to win.

“Look, why don’t we just walk to that church, or whatever it is over there, and call for a mechanic?”  Diane said, with well-meaning sincerity, as she pointed to the towers of Medmenham Abbey, peeking through a grove of sycamore trees, a few miles down the road.  “It’s going to be dark soon,” she quickly added.

Robert wiped his dirty hands on his soiled shirt.  His frustration resigned to little more than an afterthought.

“We might as well,” he told his wife as she gathered up their child in a warm blanket and placed her back into the bassinet.

“A perfect ending to an otherwise perfect day,” Robert said as he moped around to the rear of the car to retrieve their pram.

“Oh, it’s not your fault, Robert,” Diane said, hoping to cheer up her pouting husband.  “Besides, I didn’t marry you because of your mechanical skills.  Or did I?  It’s been so long I can’t remember.”

“Very funny, Mrs. Firestone.”

Her soft, sweet laugh was carried off toward the dark cloistered abbey by the still strong winds.

Twilight brought a pale, full moon into view.  The winds had not let up, and the Firestones were happy that they had decided to keep Selena safe and secure in her sturdy pram.  The road up to Medmenham Abbey had been fairly smooth and they covered the distance in less than an hour.  During that entire time, not a single vehicle had passed by them.

As they approached the darkened abbey, Robert and Diane noticed that the three-story compound they were headed towards was an awkward, Georgian architectural monstrosity, cobbled together by some mad 19^th Century builder.  Medmenham Abbey was comprised of three buildings huddled around a central courtyard with turrets jutting from every corner – each set at a different angle.  To add to the overall unsettling aura of the compound, the buildings were guarded by a company of esoteric gargoyles perched along the edge of the various rooftops.

The wind whipped up a swirl of leaves as Diane and Robert pushed their baby carriage onto the uneven cobblestone lane leading to the abbey.  The placement of the stones on the narrow private road made it impossible for them to wheel the pram any farther.  Without bothering to consult with her husband, Diane reached into the bassinet, lifted her sleeping daughter out, and began walking down the tree-lined drive.

“I don’t want to get stuck out here all night, Bob.”     “I know, Diane.”

Robert ran after her, abandoning their pram in the middle of the cobblestone roadway.  They quickly moved past a broken chain with a rusted sign that danced to the fury of the winds.  If the young couple had taken a moment to stop and read the “No Trespassing” sign, things might have turned out completely different for them.

Robert and Diane found the vegetation in the sparse gardenesque courtyard sorely unkempt.  To them, the compound’s informal gardens looked wholly unattended.  Most of the shrubbery, hugging the walls of the abbey, was either dead or in the process of dying.  Adding to the overriding sense of abandonment that surrounded the compound, the few small windows on the ground floor were dark and secured with thick iron bars.  The Firestones approached the large wooden entry door in the main building with apprehension.

“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Diane said with a mild unease.

“It’s not like we’ve got all that many options Di,” Robert said as he approached the door and reached up to take hold of the heavy brass knocker.  He stopped to read the rusted metal plaque attached to the wall.

“Medmenham Abbey,” he read aloud.

Diane looked down at her daughter sleeping peacefully in her arms and smiled.

Robert politely rapped the knocker against the door several times and stood back to wait.  They were greeted with vacant quietude.

“Anybody home?” Robert offered up, tentatively.

The couple waited in silence for another moment.

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Robert snarled as his frustration finally got the better of him.  He grabbed the knocker and slammed it hard against the doorplate as he ranted with growing impatience.

“Hello!  We need some help!” Robert yelled at the top of his lungs.  “Can anyone hear us?”

His incessant pounding ultimately woke Selena up again.  The infant started crying with equal gusto to match her father’s pounding.

“Quiet now, Selena,” fretted Diane.

“Oh, just let her cry!” Robert shouted back to his wife.  “Between the both of us, we should make enough of a racket to wake the dead!”

Robert continued to rap the brass knocker against the metal doorplate as he repeatedly yelled into the darkening nighttime sky.  “Hello!  Wake up!  Anybody!  Come on!”

Combined with Selena’s ferocious wailing, Robert’s annoyed litany of shouting and banging created a cacophony that echoed throughout the courtyard.

Nestled in the shadowy extremes of one of the compound’s outer buildings, a narrow wooden door, hidden behind the expansive skeleton of a long dead hemlock, slowly opened.  Unseen by either Robert or his wife, a hooded figure, supported on a slender walking stick, stepped out from the darkness behind the doorway.  It was apparent, by size alone, that the hooded figure was a broad, heavyset man.  The hood’s cowl hid the man’s face, as he silently made his way toward Diane and her wailing infant.

“For crying out loud!” Robert shrieked.  “Answer the door before I break it down!”  His pounding grew even louder.

Diane was having a hard enough time trying to soothe her newborn daughter that she failed to notice the mysterious figure that drew up beside her.  A sudden, strong gust of wind blew the hooded man’s cowl back to reveal the sallow, wrinkled, and podgy bald-headed face of Lord Reginald Hastings.  Hastings looked much older than his 56 years would have suggested.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, young man?”  Hastings blurted out, after being caught off guard by the wind’s untimely revelation.

Startled, Robert and Diane both spun around.  They were speechless.  Selena, on the other hand, continued to wail unabated.  Surprisingly, Hastings seemed genuinely pleased upon seeing the babe in Diane’s arms.  He moved cautiously towards them.

“Poor child.  A girl?” Hastings cooed.

Robert quickly moved to stand between Hastings and his family.

“Hold your horses, Pal!  Are you out of your mind?  You nearly scared us half to death.”

Hastings stopped and glared over at Robert.  “Oh, really?  But then, I’m not the one pounding on a stranger’s door in the middle of the night like a maniac.  Now am I?”

“Middle of the night?”  Robert argued.  “It’s not even seven o’clock!”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s out of his mind?”  Hastings countered, as he moved closer to Robert.

Diane hoped to defuse the situation.

“Can’t we all just calm down and start over.  I’m Diane Firestone.  That’s my husband Robert and this, ah… this wailing banshee is our daughter, Selena.”

“Lord Reginald Hastings,” the bald-headed man said in a matter-of-fact manner as he backed off, his gaze returning to the infant.  “Nevertheless, this is a private residence.”

“Look, our car’s on the fritz.”  Robert continued,  “We were hoping there might be a phone here, so we could call a mechanic.”

“I see,” Hastings said with offhanded ease.  “Perhaps there’s something we can do for each other, after all.”  Before Robert could react, Hastings reached past him and gently put his gnarled hand on Selena’s forehead.  The infant stopped crying almost immediately.  Diane glanced over to Robert and smiled reassuringly.

“Thank God,” Diane whispered.

Without warning, Hastings swung the end of his cane up and slammed it into Robert’s neck.  The strong young man crumpled to the ground without making a sound.  Hastings adroitly pivoted and cracked Diane on the side of her head with a backhanded swing of his cane’s carved brass handle.  Moving with uncharacteristic speed, the heavy-set man swooped down and snatched the child from the arms of her falling mother.  Diane collapsed onto the ground next to her unconscious husband.

“Yes indeed,” Hastings said to the wriggling child, “thank god!”

Hastings’ sickening laughter echoed throughout the wind-whipped, decaying courtyard.