"Friday. June Eighth. 1855. Police investigation reveals the late Geoffrey Brews hoarded Satanic memorabilia in his Rosefield Plantation. Turns out Mr. Brews had a business deal with the Florence, notoriously rumored as a SATANIC slave ship. Memorabilia at the plantation complex consisted of stones with sigils, dreamcatchers, rugs with demonic horned figures, red candles, an elephant's tusk, a jar labeled 'Scorpion for Sacrifice', and some bones from an animal hanging from the ceiling, and many other sinister items.
"Mrs. Brews was not available to provide further detail apart from a letter she wrote to Penwood State Police saying how caring and loving Geoffrey was to her and the children. He was not an evil man at all, and 'He only wanted what was best for the family.'"
Next to the article in the Westerfield Evening Gazette was a photograph of the inside of the plantation and of various objects. On a coin was a horned ram with the letters, "TPL" engraved on it.
Mallord Beagle was reading the gazette in the living room alone. At the end of it, he felt a vision tickle his peripheral. He put down the paper and sent the vision away. It didn't help his sleep reading these sorts of things. Now he wanted to smoke or drink, but he'd quit all that when he retired. His wife made him promise if he were going to be a father.
He almost wanted to break that promise now. Being the Heather Hero in hiding was taking a toll on his mental energy. In the secret cupboard behind his favorite book by Reuben Shormstear was a pack of expensive cigars. He took one out and breathed in the familiar scent.
At the sound of the front door, he flinched and hastily put away the cigar. For his family, he made a promise, and he was going to keep it. He heard Michael creep across the floor, making it squeak as he went upstairs.
Mallord emerged from his study to call to his son but hesitated. What could he say? Punishing him didn't seem right. He didn't think his son meant anything bad to happen to his father when he stole those guns. With a heavy sigh, Mallord leaned against the door of his study, hands in pockets, wondering if he had failed as a father.
* * * * *
Michael was in his room when he heard his father's footsteps up the stairs. As always, his father went away. With a sigh of relief and disappointment, Michael took the telegram out from his pocket. It was in the mailbox. A policeman in casual clothes put it in there. Michael remembered seeing that wavy, brown-haired policeman before. Some time long ago when his father was still a detective.
All day, he and Will had been preparing to leave for Montgomery. They would take a cabby as far as Penwood and then hitch another ride with someone Will worked with on the Florence. The ship was coming in on the tenth. Will's hope was to snatch a special Roktion slave and get the ship prepared for departure on the day.
There was no guessing, on Michael's part, why Will was so hung up on this one Roktion slave appearing on June tenth at an inn called Connie House. And there was also no knowing how Will, either. How had he known about the contents of the telegram a month ago?
Detective Beagle
Help me find my husband Stop Will pay Stop
Meet me Stop Connie House Bayland Noon June Ten Stop
Red scarf Stop Ship in a bottle Stop
Anastasia Nikolaeva
Will had said a man called Richard, leader of the Red Circle, told him all about it. At the time, Michael didn't think much about this as Will often exaggerated things. The leader of the Red Circle? Exaggerated. A somehow special Roktion slave? Exaggerated. He learned long ago to never believe Will's claims until he saw it for himself.
But for the first time he wondered if Will hadn't been exaggerating. Who else could know about the future before it happened? Who else, but an evil man who worked the shadows?
The windows banged open, startling him. A wind rushed in, tugging at his sheets. Michael went to close the windows and sat back on the bed cocooned in his sheets.
Little by little, Michael was teetering towards telling his father everything, but a small part of him wanted to keep everything hidden, afraid of being disowned. His father was a man of law and justice, and Michael was in crimes. He wanted to be tough, but instead, he'd gone down the wrong path. He was only fifteen.
Tears welled in his eyes. He lay back in bed and cried himself to sleep. But as always, sleep didn't come easily.
In and out he went. Nightmares of screaming slaves, a giant Will chasing him, or his father disowning him kept waking him up. Minutes felt like hours. Hours went on forever, ticking by at tortoise speed. Michael whined, tossing, and turning, trying to sleep and forget, but his conscience nagged.
"Fig," he swore and sat up at long last in the wee hours of the morning. Angry at being unable to sleep, he stomped across his room, rattling the floorboards, not caring if he woke his parents up. Why were they sleeping so peacefully? Michael thought he would punish their peace, but in truth, he wanted them to knock on his door. He wanted them to talk to him. He wanted his mother and father to care enough.
"Fig!" He opened the door and slammed it shut. Then he stomped about again and shouted, "Father! I have a father who doesn't care! I hate him!"
* * * * *
"It's four in the morning," Penelope grumbled in bed, woken at the sound of her thrashing son. "Go talk to him." She turned over to her side.
"Dear me," Mallord said with a sigh and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He went to pour himself some coffee and back upstairs he went. Michael had stomped thrashing about his room. Silence hung heavy in the air like the eye of the storm. At the end of the hall, Mallord knocked on his son's door. "Mike?"
There was no answer. "Michael?" he tried a stronger tone.
"Michael, are you awake in there?"
"Go away."
Despite the anger in his son's voice, Mallord was thrilled to have a response when he hadn't had one in a long time. "So, you've been out a lot lately."
No answer.
"To Will's?"
Silence.
"What do you two do out so late?"
No answer again.
Mallord was growing impatient. "Michael," He laced his tone with irritation and jiggled the door handle which was locked, "You come out and we're going to talk. This can't go on."
Silence.
"You are in my house, and I am your father," he spat. "Get out here!"
He softened his tone. "And your mother and I are worried about you."
Silence.
"Shit," Mallord said under his breath. He held back the urge to break down the door, afraid that he would hurt his son out of blind anger. He desperately wanted to be a good father, but it was hard for him especially when his own father was never there when he needed him.
Mallord's father only valued success in terms of social status. Everything was judged with scrutiny and if Mallord ever did anything not in line with his father's views, he would be punished. His knees hurt as the memory of kneeling on gravel for hours on end came back to him. His cheeks hurt as the memory of being slapped and punched came back to him.
To shove those memories away, he focused on the present. He began to wonder if Michael was in some kind of trouble. Maybe he was ashamed to tell his father? Maybe he was even afraid of what Mallord would do?
"Michael, whatever it is, even a," He scratched his neck with unease, "even a crime, just know that your mother and I, we're here for you. We'll help you. Whatever it is. I won't punish you, okay? Your mother loves you very much." He bit lip and sighed, overwhelmed with emotions that filled his chest to the brim. "And I love you, too, Michael. You're my precious son."
He waited, but there was no response or movement from inside. Nothing was working. Maybe he was too late. Maybe there was no way to mend this relationship? After a big long sigh, he finished his coffee and turned heel in defeat.
The lock clicked. Mallord stopped in his tracks as the door opened with a soft creak.
"Papa."
When he turned, his son, tears streaming down his face, jumped into his arms. The coffee cup slipped from Mallord's hands and shattered on the floor. Rose began to cry. A few seconds later, Penelope came dashing down the hallway.
"What's happened?!" she said and stopped when she saw her son and husband hugging in the hallway. "Emily!" she called for the maid. "Emily, a broom!"
"Mah-mah!" Rose cried and jiggled the door handle of her room. Penelope rushed into her room to calm her down and came back out with Rose sniffling. Emily came running in her nightgown with bedraggled hair and half-opened eyes. She saw the situation at once and ran off, only to come back with a paintbrush instead because her mind wasn't awake.
"Emily, the broom!" Penelope said with a giggle and Rose began to laugh.
"Oh, my goodness." Emily cracked a smile and her cheeks flushed. "My goodness me."
Amidst all the commotion, Mallord and Michael were shrouded in a bubble of peace hardly aware of what was going on around them. It had been a long-time coming. Each heart was filled with love for family. Family was important. Not that one last case or that toxic friend. Before anything there was family and finally the two men of the house realized that at last. Or, rather, they were reminded thanks to each other.
* * *
After everything calmed down and the shattered coffee cup was swept away, the family—Penelope, Mallord, and Michael—sat down in the living room while Emily kept Rose company upstairs.
"Now, what's the matter?" Penelope said after a sip of tea. She hugged her son's shoulders when his bottom lip trembled. It reminded her of when he was a lot smaller.
Eventually, through hiccups and more sobs, Michael told them bit by bit what had happened, and it all had to do with Will. He spilled everything. The first slave Will snatched to the recent Heather shootout. Penelope bit back comments of 'I knew something was up' and comforted her son in silence. Over an hour later, Michael brought out a crumpled telegram he had been hiding.
"Telegrams!" Penelope exclaimed. "The old thing or the new thing?" Since Mallord left his job as detective, telegrams had grown in popularity and then ceased. Now, it seemed to be growing again but with the threat of the telephone.
"That's a Roktion name no doubt." She observed. "So, Mike, Will said the same thing months before we got this? And Albert's address?"
"Some officer with wavy brown hair put it in our mailbox." Michael shrugged. "Will did tell me and said he heard from Richard, the Red Circle man."
Penelope gave a loud, 'HMM!' as if she wanted to curse, but not in front of her son. She knew which officer that was—Cody 'Cricket' McGuire. She speculated that the telegram office must have sent it to the McGuire's by mistake.
"Bayland?" came an ambiguous reply from her husband.
She put her hands on her hips "I know that tone, mister. You're not about to go down there, are you? Bayland, that's Montgomery. It's close to dangerous Sawyer. It's probably swarming with slave traders. They're a rough bunch I've heard."
"Will's going to kidnap her, Mama!" Michael shrugged away from her. "We have to stop him. I already told him I'd be going with him. We're leaving tomorrow morning for Penwood. Let me go with him, I'll meet you down there. We'd ambush him."
Penelope pinched Michael's nose and he pushed her away. "Now you my dear son, don't you go turning into your father. And it's much too dangerous. We'll take this to the police if—"
"Will trusts me." Michael's eyes shone with both excitement and fear. Penelope didn't like where this was going at all.
"We can't give this to the police. You know what they'll do? Sweep it under the rug. If it's about slavery, this gets too political for them to intervene. I'll intercept Will and Mike at Connie House and bring him home. I'll take someone with me, too. Someone from the old job. What day is it today?"
Penelope pursed her lips. She knew she had lost the war. How many times she had to resign but let the men go and do their man things, she couldn't count. But it wasn't like she always sat around passively at home. Often, Penelope had been tasked to do information digging from home because she was good at it, and most often villains didn't suspect her to be that smart.
"I don't like this." She crossed her arms. "And it's the ninth."
"You never liked it." Mallord countered her with a smirk. "And I trust Michael to be careful. Won't you?"
Michael bobbed his head. "Will trusts me, Mama. Especially after I took the gun—ouch!" Michael cried out when Penelope pinched his cheek, leaving a red mark.
"You sneaky thief!" she scolded him. "Never, ever do that again. You're lucky your father's a good fighter." Penelope wondered if there was ever going to be a normal day. Nothing was normal about her life since she married Mallord. Then again, she knew herself she wouldn't change a thing.
"I'll go tomorrow. Keep safe, partner." Mallord held out his hand and Michael shook it. Then they both looked at her. Penelope hung her head in defeat.
"Alright, I'll make croissants," she said the usual amidst the smiles of her men. This all gave here a bad feeling as if it was the worst decision ever.
* * *
After a breakfast of croissants and eggs, Mallord called up Albert, telling him about the situation.
"You still know the McGuires?" Mallord asked after explaining. It was quiet at the other end of the line. It was well known that the McGuires and Mallord never got along. Spanky, Cricket, and Mallord despised each other on varying levels, but they did all respect each other's skills. Mallord couldn't think of anyone else. Besides, they were some of the few he trusted with his hidden house address.
"Well?" he prompted Albert.
"I do but comes with a price."
Mallord gave a loud sigh. "You want to come."
"You know me." Albert laughed.
"Polly's Café. Six sharp. Make it happen, Al."
After hanging up, Mallord sat with his son to get everything out on the table. He took out his old case notebook and turned to a new page.
"Now, start from the beginning," he said.
* * *
Later, Spanky and Cricket reluctantly agreed to join the chase because it was Mallord Beagle's favor, not Albert's. They wouldn't have if it was Albert's. Albert was known among the police as one who associated with all the big bugs, thought himself a huckleberry above a persimmon, and made poor choices in lackluster manner. They'd rather him mosey off and leave them alone, but Albert never got the message.
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Note: Author here!
Well now, things seem to be brewing ;)
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