one turn deserves another
Uncle Ivor was my favourite when I was growing up. I had not seen him for quite a bit; therein lies the rub.
My cousins were not amused when Ivor’s will was read. They felt upset and much confused; their faces turning red.
Ivor’s mansion was left to me, provided I move there. Cousin Horace held up a key: “come get it, if you dare.”
The house was not as I recall; not kept in good repair. I’d need to have it overhauled, if I’m to move in there.
Poison ivy and barred windows; even suspicious traps. But I need not be a hero, with keys under the mat.
Pitch dark inside. I felt no switch, although there were strange lumps. One might turn on a light, but which? One must be more than bump.
I pushed a large and heavy door; it creaked like a cliché. Then the crackle of fire’s roar. I pushed the door halfway.
Peering inside at the fireplace; stoked, so someone’s here. But not behind any bookcase. How could they disappear?
One book leaned out from the shelf, I went to push it back. There was a shriek from someone else; dead silence after that.
A secret door! I pulled the book; a whooshing sound, then light. Of course I’d have to take a look—this offers some insight.
Servants used narrow corridors in generations past, so I slipped through the tiny door and felt a chilly draft.
I heard a tea cart rambling, and slipped into the shadows. The person pushing was grumbling “get his—come tomorrow.”
Cousin Horace, dressed as a maid, and cart of fancy cakes. Poison in a bottle displayed: one sip is all it takes.
Wish I’d read that before the tart; my head started to swim.I’d sneak it back onto the cart, but then the room went dim.
I found myself upon a rack, when consciousness returned. Someone wearing a hood of black; Horace had tied my arms.
A blade swinging above my head, a rack and pendulum. Stretched out upon a torture bed, I heard a buzz or hum.
“Aren’t you going to answer your phone and say your’re all tied up?” His snort cut short into a moan, by rack’s spoke-handle club.
It catches him across the chin, down and out for the count. The blade lands where the ropes had been; I find my own way out.
Cousin Horace now flips pancakes as part of social service. He’s seen the light, admits mistakes, so maybe he deserves this.
I tidied up Ivor’s mansion; it’s now a B and B. Horace serves brunch on odd weekends; a rack of sweet pastries.
