Justice Will Be Served

Sunrise painted the rain swept rocks of the castle gold as she poured poison into her husband’s morning whiskey. The fire of the spirit would mask the ice of the paralytic which had been crippling Lord Blackstone for months.

Lady Gemma Blackstone had everything arranged for the death of her husband would be slow, deservedly so. Revenge was a dish best served cold and Algernon Blackstone liked ice in his whiskey.

Gemma watched the chest of her hated husband rise and fall. His crackling breaths came in stutters. The poison had started work on his lungs. She has lessened the dose to ensure he didn’t die suddenly. Everyone needed to know was that Lord Blackstone was a sick man. His twisted mind would meet its match in the gnarled agony of his flesh.

She smiled sweetly, best to always smile in case he was looking. Gemma played the part of a doting wife. She fluffed his pillows. She changed the bed pan. She stoked the fire in the night when the servants were gone.

“Gemma? Is that you?” he rasped, coughing.

“It’s Algie, what can I get you?” she asked him in the simpering voice he knew her by. “How is it? Do you feel better?”

“Maybe.” He wheezed. “A solid breakfast will do me the word of good.”

Gemma nodded and called the butler. “Reginald, Lord Blackstone is awake. Bring the wheelchair.”

“My whiskey.” Lord Blackstone wheezed. “Can’t start the day without it.” He took the ready crystal tumbler in stiff hands. She had to help him sip it down.

“You know you shouldn’t, my love. It’s your worst vice.”

“All old men need vices.” Lord Blackstone flashed his gold teeth, then closed his eyes in pain as his lungs shot through with agonising needles of fire. Whiskey burnt away sleep.

“Good morning, my Lord,” said Reginald. The wrinkled butler, older than the stones of the castle, wheeled in a chair that creaked with every turn of the oak wheels. “Good Morning, Lady Blackstone.”

“Good morning, Reginald,” she said. Together they helped the gnarled old man into his chair. The butler insisted on pushing him to the dining room.

Above the table hung a painting of a hanging family entitled Justice Will Be Served. Gemma had commissioned the painting to remind her of her mission. Algernon Blackstone had her entire family executed for theft when she was just a girl. Gemma had escaped only because she’d been out on an errand when her mother, father, brother, and sister were sent to the gallows. Only her father had stolen, and only enough food to feed the children. The standard punishment had been the loss of a hand, an acceptable risk for a man who wanted to feed his loved ones. Instead the Lord of Blackstone Castle had chosen to make an example of the whole Fisher family. High on her stool on the gallows Gemma’s mother had caught her eye. Before her footing was kicked away from her, Angela Fisher mouthed the words live, live for us. Tears in Angela’s eyes were the last things Gemma saw before the rope snapped taught and the quartet of condemned began kicking, faces twisted in horror.

The painted faces looked little like her family but the painter had captured the terror of the doomed. Gemma was grateful that the likeness of the painting was off. There was no chance anyone would connect her and her blue eyes to the brown eyed quartet kicking above the banquet table.

Justice will be served, Gemma promised herself as she did whenever she ate. Revenge had hardened her, but it was slow. Years of practicing her accent, her manners, which utensils to use, had honed her for the mission. A lord with a grudge against Algernon Blackstone had presented her to the widower as a cousin. Lecherous Lord Blackstone hadn’t wasted a week before wedding himself to the teenaged Gemma.

“The cook will be finished with breakfast shortly. Can I cut you some bread and spread it for you?” Reginald asked. The eighty year old butler’s perfect posture contrasted the bent back of Lord Blackstone.

“Yes please,” Gemma nodded.

Fresh bread, hot from the oven, steamed as the bread knife sawed through it. The wedge shaped slice belied distraction as the butler watched the dining room door expectantly. Normally his every cut was perfect.

“Something on your mind, Reginald?” Algernon Blackstone asked, raising a greying eyebrow.

“Just an anniversary of sorts Lord Blackstone.” Glowing life Gemma had never seen sparkled in Reginald’s red veined eyes. His smile unnerved her. Watching the door, she gripped a butter knife with white knuckles. What are you up to?

The ancient doors whined on hinges that needed to be oiled as the cook entered with a covered tray. Walking down the table Camila set the tray down at the end. The silver dome revealed two matchlock pistols. Both were loaded and ready to fire.

“Reginald? Camila? What is this?” Lord Blackstone’s voice was outraged. He tried to stand, shaking, but broke into a fit of coughing.

The butler and cook began laughing. Camila took both pistols, handed one to Reginald and aimed hers at Gemma.

“Do you remember the girl you had drowned for spilling soup in your lap?” asked Camila. She waited for recognition in the lord’s eyes. “You don’t, do you?” Victory morphed into outrage on the cook’s face. “Was my daughter’s life so forgettable to you?”

“I don’t-” Lord Algernon began.

“Soup!” Reginald yelled. “Spilled soup.” He leveled his pistol at Lord Blackstone. “You could have beaten her. You could have locked her in the stocks. You could have simply fired her. No! You killed her. Our beautiful girl drowned over fucking soup!” Reginald’s forever grey face was red. Veins throbbed in his forehead.

“She was your daughter?” Algernon asked, looking from the butler to the cook to Lady Blackstone.

“Our only daughter.” Camila nodded. “Who you killed twenty years ago today.”

“Twenty years?” Gemma asked, unable to stop herself. “You waited twenty years? He killed my family seven years ago and I was nearly done with him.” Camila’s gun aimed at her heart as she pointed at the painting above the table.

“You commissioned that painting yourself,” Reginald said. He waved his free hand at Justice Will Be Served.

“To remind me of the mother, father, sister, and brother he had hanged.” Palms raised, Gemma pushed herself out of the gilded chair she’d been sitting in three times a day for years.

“Your maiden name was Sinclair,” Camila snarled. “I was here when Lord William Sinclair delivered you to Lord Blackstone.” With every word Gemma saw the old woman working herself up to shooting Gemma. To him she was as guilty as Lord Blackstone.

“He hated Algernon. I told Lord Sinclair my marriage to Lord Blackstone would be his downfall. William was only too happy to help.”

“I’ll have you all hanged,” said Lord Blackstone. He slammed a gnarled first into the table and winced. Convulsing, he clutched at his chest.

“You’ll never hurt anyone again,” Gemma told him. “I’ve been seeing to that for months.” She turned to Reginald. “I’ve been poisoning his morning whiskey.”

“What?” said Lord Blackstone, the butler and the cook as one.

“It’s no coincidence he can barely move,” said Gemma, looking from Reginald to Camila. “It’s the poison.”

“You told me you believed in justice,” wheezed Algernon Blackstone.

“I do,” said Gemma. Her face releasing all of the anger she’d held in for years. “Justice for my mother Angela. For my father David. For my sister Alice. For my brother Darren. All murdered so that you could make a point.” She prodded his chest. His hand moved to catch her finger at a snail’s pace. There’s poison in my Janelle Number Five perfume. I’ve been adding a drop to your whiskey since I bought the rat killer from a farmer at last year’s summer fair.”

“He stole from me. I had to set an example,” said Lord Blackstone of her father. “Do you know how many one handed thieves there were walking about in the town? Making a mockery of justice, of the law.” He looked at the painting, unrepentant. He gathered his resolve.

“Then you should have whipped him. Locked him in the stocks. Banished him.” Gemma’s voice was colder than the iron bars on Blackstone Castle’s windows in midwinter.

“I have a responsibility to uphold the law of the land. A liar like you could never understand. Lords maintain order. Otherwise there would be chaos.” He caught his wife’s eye, imploring. “It was nothing personal, Gemma. I didn’t know you.”

“That’s the problem, Algernon. It’s never personal. Life means nothing to you. Their daughter meant nothing to you.” Lady Blackstone waved a hand at the butler and the cook. “It’s personal for us and everyone who’s had their life destroyed by your twisted vision of justice.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Reginald asked. “Camila, take the gun. I have to know.” He handed his pistol to the woman who had prepared every meal Algernon had eaten for twenty years. His coattails flicked as he flitted through the dining hall door. His footsteps retreated, clattering along the flagstones.

“Gemma,” said Lord Blackstone. Desperation was writ large in his bulging eyes. “You’ve been my wife for five wonderful years. I’ve loved you with all my heart. I’ve had the hard task of keeping the peace in these parts but I’ve never meant you harm. Gemma I love you. Please, don’t do this.” He pressed his palms together. “In the name of God, spare me.”

“God?” Gemma scoffed. “Love?” She slapped the table, giving Algernon and Camila a fright. “You would have hung me with the rest of my family if I hadn’t been checking the family crab traps. I returned to find my entire family on the gallows on your order. I watched them hang because you had decreed it.” Tears of anger ran through her powder makeup. “God may have said thou shalt not steal, but I’m sure he gave precedence to thou shalt not kill. You have a lot of blood on your hands Lord Blackstone.” At his title Gemma turned on the stately accent which had been slipping as she told her story.

“Don’t think I trust you,” said the cook to Lady Blackstone. “I’ve watched you playing the doting wife for years. I’ve seen you fawning over this monster. I’ve heard you praise his firm hand for the law.” The grey hair of the old woman was slick with sweat that beaded on her forehead.

“That’s all it was, Camila. An act. You must have known my mother Angela. And me. My name is Jenny. Jenny Fisher. I lived in Blackstone until the day he hung my family. I ran to Windshore to escape. I learnt to copy Lord Sinclair, working in his kitchen. I learnt the way the gardener poisoned foxes and rats. I formed a plan. I convinced Lord Sinclair to pass me off as his own to spite Lord Blackstone.” Jenny Fisher took a deep breath before her next admission. “Then I killed Lord Sinclair.”

“What?” Algernon turned to look at her. “A murderess in my bed all these years.”

“I was in good company as far as that goes,” Jenny said coldly. “The lesser of two evils. Lord Sinclair was no saint himself.” She chewed her nail as the sound of Reginald’s perfectly shined shoes returned.

“I don’t know what’s in this bottle,” said the butter holding up the exquisite green glass. “But it’s not perfume. It’s certainly not Janelle Number Five.”

“None of it touched you, did it?” Jenny asked. “A drop is dangerous. Three is death.”

“She’s telling the truth?” Camila asked. The gun aimed at Lady Blackstone lowered from Jenny’s heart to her stomach. “This is too much.”

“Lord Blackstone has no shortage of enemies. That’s no secret.” Reginald took a gun from his wife and sat heavily five seats down from the lord and lady of the castle.

“How can we know for sure she’s telling the truth?” Camila asked. “We’ve waited all these years. I’m not letting revenge slip away after all that time. I want to see the light leave his eyes. I want to watch his soul leave this husk on the way to Hell.”

“Camila, please.” Algernon’s lip quivered.

“You shut your murderous mouth, Lord Blackstone. I want nothing but death from you.” Camila stretched her arm from point black until the barrel was one chair from the wretch who’d brought them all together.

“Let me do what I was planning to do.” Jenny tilted her head as her mother had when she’d haggled with sellers. “He drinks from that bottle. As much as he likes. We can all watch justice be done. That way you’ll know.”

“GEMMA!” Algernon Blackstone tried to stand and coughed up mucus and blood for his futile efforts.

“My name is Jenny. Jenny Fisher. Always was. Always will be. Daughter of Angela and David. Sister to Alice and Darren. I want you to know that as you die.” Her dress, green silk and cotton, fluffed her out to twice the size as she stood by his side. “We have glasses. Let me serve him.”

“No. I’m not drinking anything you give me,” Lord Blackstone said with steel in his voice.

“Then let them shoot you. I’m sure that hurts more,” said Jenny with a cruel smile. “Whether you die isn’t up for debate, husband. Your choice now is how you want to go.” Reaching across the long table she took an empty glass and opened her hand, waiting for the green bottle in Reginald’s grip. When he handed her the former perfume container she poured a shot of it into the waiting glass and handed it to Lord Blackstone.

Silence took a seat beside them at the table and waited patiently. Harsh winds from across the sea could scarcely be heard over the sound of the host’s labored breathing.

Algernon Blackstone stared at the clear liquid in the glass, pure as water. His hand trembled. “I can’t smell it,” said the lord of Blackstone Castle.

“That was the point, husband.” The woman he’d known as Gemma for years watched him expectantly.

“This or a gun wound?” He asked, raising the glass of death.

“You could jump from the battlements onto the rocks if you like,” said Camila. “I’ve dreamed of pushing you off them for years.”

“Justice will be served,” said Lord Algernon. His shoulders sank. “Is it too late to say that I’m sorry?” He looked from one executioner to another.

“No,” said Reginald. “But it’s far too late for an apology to get you out of this.”

Algernon coughed. Closing his eyes he nodded. “Well I’m sorry anyway. I tried to see the world in black and white. It was easier that way.” He swirled his doom in the glass. “It tasted fine in whiskey. If I’m to go, can it be in bed? One last sleep?”

“What do you think?” Reginald asked Camila.

“As long as it’s done.” The cook nodded.

“Back to bed then, Lord Blackstone.” The butler took the glass from Algernon’s shaking hands, gave it to his wife then wheeled his master away.

Jenny walked behind Reginald with Camila’s gun aimed at her back. The butler helped the lord into his four poster bed. Jenny filled the rest of the glass with amber alcohol and handed it to her husband.

“Looks delicious,” said Lord Blackstone. He gave them all a vicious smile. “I forgive you for murdering me. Hopefully you can all find peace together, knowing what you did. What you are.” Laughing through a cough, he drank down his whiskey.

“Trying to divide us with your last words?” Jenny sat by Lord Algernon’s side. “How you. Just remember my family as you die.” She took his hand, already immobile.

“And our daughter,” said Camila.

“He can’t talk,” said Jenny. “He’s not breathing. This is the end.” She looked into Algernon’s bulging eyes. “Justice is served.”

Lord Blackstone’s chest stopped moving. He twitched weakly then ceased.

“Is he dead?” Reginald asked.

“No. Not yet. But it is inevitable now.” Jenny closed the liver spotted eyelids of her husband. His skin was cold. Her fingers on his neck felt the beat of his heart slowing to a stop. “It’s done.” 

“I thought I would feel something.” Camila looked at Reginald. “I thought I would feel some peace at last.”

“What now?” Reginald asked.

“Breakfast?” Lady Blackstone suggested. The day had not gone as planned. She had two loose ends to tie off and always planned better on a full stomach.