The Inheritance

THE INHERITANCE

'Christ!' Bec snapped giving a start. Before her stood a tall man in a butler’s suit. His lips curled and he lifted a sardonic brow as he gave a small mocking bow. Her eyes moved from his oddly fat feet up his short, sturdy legs, where the tail of his coat hung below his knees and moved back and forth in the slight breeze. His hips were narrow, but his long body widened into a thick paunch then his chinless head squatted on shoulders no wider than his girth. His long, thin nose occupied his face. 'You frightened the b'jesus out of me. Who the hell are you?' she asked. 

Who is this and why is he inside my aunt's house? And why is he dressed in a black suit straight from the early 20th century?

His smile widened into a toothy grin. 'Falstaff, the butler, at your service Ma’am.’ His hooded eyes blinked slowly and he bowed again.

The man was repulsive to look at, but Bec was drawn into the dark depths of his strange eyes. With an effort she broke their gaze.

Auntie had a butler? She never said. Over the years, Bec had kept in contact via letters —Aunt Bess didn't own a computer. And now Auntie was gone, presumed dead. That’s what the police said. It was obvious to Bec that they had given up hope of finding her great-aunt.

Falstaff cleared his throat to reclaim her wandering attention. The left side of his upper lip curled in a smile. Or was that a snarl? 

'I think, if you check, you will find mention of me in Bess's will. She and I became very close. She was alone.' He paused. 'And lonely.'

What the hell is this guy insinuating? 

'Auntie allowed you to call her Bess?' She swallowed hard. Surely not.

'As I said, she was lonely…She felt deserted. She loved me.' His lips opened over his large teeth in an approximation of a cheeky grin. 'Like a son. She wanted to change her will, but before she could she…disappeared.'

'It's not true,' Bec gasped. 'She would never. She loved me. I loved her. I'm her niece.'

'Grand-niece.'

'Whatever.'

'Who never visited her.'

'I was overseas. If it's any business of yours.' Why was she defending herself against the hired help? What he was saying was preposterous. Bec gritted her teeth. 'I'm her niece. I'm blood.'

'Yes, blood.' Falstaff blinked slowly. Was he goading her? 'Blood, so much thicker than water.' He licked his lips. 'As you say, whatever. The will was not changed and I remain — Falstaff the butler, at your service Ma'am.' He clicked his heels and gave another little bow, stepped back and gestured for her to enter. She ignored him. She didn't need his invitation. 

'I was hoping to re-visit the old place alone, so you can go back to…wherever butlers go and I’ll look after myself.' A wry smile tugged at her mouth. I sound just like Great Aunt Bess at her autocratic best. An apology automatically rose to her lips. To hell with that. Just who does this guy think he is? Freakin' creep.

Why am I so jittery? Her tongue flicked out over her red lips but she kept her gaze steady. The house is mine!

Falstaff's smile disappeared, his nostrils flared, and his coal-black, unblinking eyes stared down his long nose.

Bec lifted her chin and stared back. Prick! With head and back stiff, he turned on his heel into the gloomy interior.

'What’s with the fancy-dress costume?' she demanded.

He turned around, the movement a slither of insolence. 'Oh, just something our Aunt Bess liked to do for guests,' he replied.

How dare he! Our Aunt Bess, indeed?

'She liked to relive history. It gave our visitors a bit of a thrill. Tourists are stupid.' There it was again, that infuriating superiority and mockery. 'We could, and did, frighten the fools with tall tales of hauntings, and death. Aunt Bess and I enjoyed the game.'

Solid, sensible Aunt Bess playing dress-up? Surely not.

‘I want to be alone.'

Falstaff bowed smartly as he replied, 'Perhaps Madam would like me to bring her bags in. Shall I put them in the master bedroom?'

'Sure… why not?' She tossed him the car keys, which he snapped up with his left hand in a strangely smooth and agile movement for someone who looked so awkward in his own skin. 

He moved forward. She back-pedalled as he passed, surprised and confused by a fleeting apprehension. 

Shaking herself she stepped onto the black and white marble tiles of the foyer. Automatically, her hand reached to the right and flicked the switch. The brassy brightness of electric light pushed the shadows back. The old, Dutch lamp still hung above the entrance, but an ugly black cord snaked through the decorative fretwork and into the base where it connected to a bulb.

Instead of the genteel neglect of her memory, the harsh electricity showed dilapidated antique furniture and fading décor. She threw her red bag onto the armchair, making a bloody splash against the faded green velvet. She kicked off her red stilettos making a matching puddle on the floor. She noticed a dimmer switch and twisted the knob.

‘That’s better.’ 

A smile curved Bec’s mouth as she gazed around. Her mother had brought eight-year old Becky here to live—’Just for a few weeks, until after the divorce.’ 

Becky ended up staying for thirty-six months during which, under the generous care of her forthright great aunt, she blossomed. Aunt Bess taught her that you could love without anger, manipulation and shouting. 

Bec bit her lip to prevent the tears. Be sensible. Auntie was very old. She had a good innings. Bec heard the old lady’s rusty voice— ‘Buck up, girlie. That’s life. Look to the future.’

Yeuch! Bec wrinkled her nose. What was that disagreeable, swampy smell? She spun slowly around. A veil of dust made everything appear out of focus. Hang on! I thought that guy said he was the butler. Why is everything so dusty?Moving further down the hall, she said aloud, ‘Lazy bastard! He is so gone when I get settled.’

Thud, thump…thud, thump…thud, thump.

Bec froze, heart pulsing painfully in her throat.

She turned and saw the butler’s legs disappear around the curve of the stairwell. Had he heard her? Too bad, perhaps it will improve his attitude. His tread thudded resentfully into the dusty carpet as the back corner of the valise thumped the stair — Thud, thump…

Bec laughed and returned to exploring her surroundings. ‘Bet the bossy old broad’s turning in her grave,’ she murmured, running a well-manicured finger tipped in blood over the arm of the settee.

A photograph of the fabulous old tartar, looking her imperious best, glared down at Bec from high on the wall. She always appeared fearsome until you got to know her, Bec thought with affection. She squinted at the picture in the golden gloom.

Good grief! It could be me, she thought. The Aunt Bess in the picture was younger than when Bec knew her— straight-backed, strong and indomitable in her khaki riding habit. She held a rifle over her left shoulder and rested one leather-booted foot on the head of a dead lion.

‘I was so happy here,’ Bec said, addressing the portrait. ‘I did love you, you know. I’m so sorry if you felt I neglected you. She swallowed back her tears. ‘Where did you disappear to, Auntie? I’ll find you I promise. Or die trying.’ Her eyes moved down the hall.

Instead of snarling from the wall by the side of the photo, a once beautiful lion’s head stared up at the ceiling from atop a glass-fronted credenza. Just another tattered remnant of the past, fierce eyes now dull with dusty cataracts, its roar inaudible.

Back then, timid as Becky was, she had been fascinated by the ferocious head, mesmerized by such a powerfully alive image of death. 

***

'Come on, touch her, child,' Aunt Bess said. 'I killed her myself, while Gunter and I were on safari. Must be fifteen years ago. She won’t bite, I promise.' Her great aunt placed Becky’s small hand on the coarse, furry head.

'Ohhh!' Becky breathed. 'A real lion.'

'Lioness. Magnificent isn’t she?' Aunt Bess’s stern face lit up and her smoky laughter boomed through the house. 

***

To the left of the credenza stood the same hall-table Bec remembered from her childhood, topped by the same glass tank containing the same dead reptiles. A baby crocodile and two stumpy tailed bluetongue lizards still lurked in the semi-dark. 

At eight she had no knowledge of anything other than the small, untidy city unit where she and her parents lived. How exciting this strange house had seemed to her. What wonders it held.

***

'What are they?' Becky asked. Her Great Aunt took some pains with her explanations enjoying the chance to educate. Becky's attention wandered as her eyes explored the other photos and memorabilia on the walls.

'Come with me.' Aunt Bess grabbed the little girl's hand and led her to a door hidden behind the staircase. 'Open it!' she commanded. Becky looked up. 'Go ahead,' her aunt encouraged, her eyes promising excitement and adventure.

Becky's hand turned the large metal knob and pulled the door's heaviness wide. They descended into the cool cellar. Along with the root-vegetables and pantry shelves loaded with preserves and pickles, stood a long, glass case containing an enormous saltwater crocodile, caught mid-snap.

'That’s the croc that got my Gunter. I plugged the bastard right between the eyes, I did.' Auntie said. 'Too late to save Gunter, though.' She paused. 'In the end, I couldn't bear to have the horrid creature on display upstairs. But, neither can I get rid of him. He is my last contact with my darling Gunter. They are one.'

The creature was repulsively fascinating. He had a long snout, hooded eyes in a wide head jammed onto his body, which widened out around his middle and tapered down to a long tail.

Becky squatted down near the huge reptile’s head. Its open maw was full of vicious looking teeth. His eyes looked alive. He was hungry. He was angry. He wanted revenge.

'Aaargh!' Becky jumped up and hid her face in Aunt Bess's skirt.

'What on earth's got into you, child?'

'He's alive. He wants to eat me.'

Her aunt wrapped her in a warm embrace and gave a laugh. 'You silly goose. He is quite dead, I assure you. Come on, time for cordial and cake.'

***

Bec could hear her Aunt’s deep laughter and booming voice echoing up from the past. A shiver of apprehensive excitement tingled her spine. Is the beast still down there? She turned to her left.

 ‘Hunh!’ Bec sucked air, felt her bladder contract. Falstaff stood in the doorway, watching her. He raised his eyebrows in benign enquiry. She ignored him.

The cellar door opened easily this time. She flicked on the light. A single bare bulb dangling from the cobwebbed ceiling struggled to throw off the gloom. It moved in the slight breeze, creating weird, moving shadows. Musty air spiralled up to her, redolent with memories — the rough, strong feel of Aunt Bess’s hand; the smell of earthy vegetables; the sharpness of pickling vinegar and the sight of that amazing creature — so dangerous, so dead.

With a dry mouth, Bec ducked her head and thudded down the dusty, wooden stairs.

The glass case was empty. The lid hung to one side. The outline of the creature was clear in the dust as though he had only recently vacated his glass coffin. Where had he gone? 

Bec’s nostrils flared, assailed by a fetid, swampy miasma. She searched the shadows, half-expecting to find the reptile hiding in their depths. Idiot! She mocked herself. A noise rustled behind her. She swung to face the stairs.

A shadow stepped forward. 

'Jesus, Falstaff!’ She clenched her hands and spoke through her teeth. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

'I am sorry I startled you.' Falstaff’s oily obsequiousness belied the glint in his dark orbs. He gave a snort. Showed his teeth.

Bec stared into the reptilian black of his expressionless, hooded eyes…her pupils dilated…she found herself unable to move…unable to think.

He stepped closer…brought up his hand…cool leather caressed her face.

The cobwebbed light flickered, giving his movements a jerky surreal effect.

She smelled the earthy, overpowering maleness of him…her senses reeled.

Time held its breath.

'What…you…want?' Bec forced the words from her constricted throat.

'Just you,' he grunted. 'My Becky.'

She moved her head from side to side. 'No.'

'You've always known. You, the last remnant of Bess,' Falstaff hissed.

He lifted his other hand…placed it at the base of her throat where her carotid pounded irregularly…his grip tightened.

Goose flesh prickled Bec's spine…her heart fluttered in its bony cage…she couldn’t withdraw her gaze, couldn’t move.

He brought ice-cold lips down…his fetid breath entered her lungs.

The flickering light snapped off.