“Laurent gave it to me last night,” said I, shocked by her implication.
“How could he, when it has been gone these ten years? As I recall it, Lady Fanchone wished to bequeath it to her only son and heir—and could not, for it had vanished!”
I thought Laurent would come to my defense, but when I raised my tear-filled eyes to meet his, I saw only cruelty there.
“Indeed, it had long been my desire to have that ornament turned into a cravat-pin—and here you are, possessed of it! My, my…Camilla! I never thought you would be the sort of girl around whom I should have to count the silver! To discover the woman I thought to make my bride is actually a low thief—and a thief so bold as to wear her ill-gotten possessions around those who might miss them!”
I know it does not speak to my honesty to confess here that I bolted from the table then, thinking to leave The Beeches on foot. But I ask you, dearest reader, what hope I had of protesting my innocence when Laurent—he whom I had thought devoted to me—was speaking such dreadful falsehoods? You, my friend, know that I am innocent, that I would never steal, but I was apprehended by the handyman before I had taken ten steps out the front door. I screamed and beat his breast with my fists, demanding he release me, but he was far stronger than I, and restrained me easily. Then a policeman was called, and the matter seemed more and more hopeless. My character is no longer known in these parts, after all, and so it was the easiest thing to conclude I was a thief!
To keep me from fleeing before my trial, I was locked into the tower with only a meager supply of candles to keep me from the grim darkness at night.
It seems a century past, but it was less than a fortnight ago that I was found guilty of the crime of stealing the cameo necklace, and tomorrow I shall be hanged for it. The town being so small I was locked back into the tower at The Beeches for safekeeping; they bring me my meals fairly regularly, but already my dress hangs off my body, so hungry, cold, and lonely am I. Woe is me! I asked my jailers for paper and pencil so I could write my story; this, as it is my last request, they have given me. Thus I have recorded all that transpired during my fateful journey to my home county, where, instead of love, I have found only death. My only conclusion is that Laurent always intended to cast me aside, and gave me the necklace to have a good reason to do so.
I have no regrets but one as to my actions in life, the things I have enjoyed and done—but trusting such a knave as Laurent and his hateful staff was a greater mistake than any of my amorous encounters. Would that I had taken Mr. Milliner up on his offer to elope with him! I am sure I should be happier than here, alone, in the darkness, awaiting my death.
That should do; I shall copy it out now.
Date unknown, time of day uncertain, languishing in the crypt—My plan has not worked, all hope has left me. I must conclude that either my dear editrix Susan did not perceive the cipher I painstakingly included in the handwritten conclusion I composed for “A Camilla Among the Beeches,” or it has not been sent to her was promised. I suspect the latter; given the extent of the treachery I have experienced, I cannot believe in human kindness any longer.
Here I shall record what actually befell me more than a fortnight ago, if my sense of time has not been too much disturbed by living as I have been, in the Calipash family crypt. (I have counted meals, but they have been thrown down to me at strange intervals with no difference between breakfast and dinner, as I can no longer stomach much.) It pains me to write about my misfortunes, for this honors a hideous request, but at the very least I know this document will live on in the Private Library—which I have found out was never burnt, and exists today, and now one book richer. I suppose it is every writer’s wish to compose something that others might enjoy, and though future Calipash heirs may take pleasure in the real account which inspired ‘A Camilla Among the Beeches’ more for my suffering than any greatness of prose, such is life.
I went down to dinner in my most modest gown, for when I was dressing for dinner I saw how brown and mottled my skin had become. I thought then it was from too much sun during my earlier walk; I know better now. Regardless, Orlando, sweet boy, remarked upon my dress favorably, and we enjoyed our meal.
But when Lizzie came in with our dessert, I reached for the decanter of wine upon the table—and the jade tortoise pendant fell from my décolletage. Then all was confusion!
“My God, it is my father’s necklace!” cried Orlando, pointing at the glowing object dangling before my bosom. “How has it come into your possession, Chelone?”
“It is the potent thing itself!” cried Lizzie, dropping the tray of blancmange. “Bill!” she screeched at the top of her lungs. “Brother! Come! I have discovered it! It is not lost!”
“What?” said I, backing away quickly from the table. “Orlando! Tell them you gave it to me late last night!”
“I did not give it to you, nor did I see you after you left this room!” he exclaimed. “I drank and drank, then went down into the crypt after Bill came to me and told me he had forgotten to strip the pendant from my father’s body. I went to get it—and there was my father’s corpse, cold on the marble slab where Bill had put him, but the necklace was gone! And then there was a strange sound…and I startled away from the body—and hit my head—and woke up in my own bed!”
“Indeed,” said Bill, coming into the room, “I think I have an explanation for that, dearest Lizzie. I’ve just had a visit with Rosemary’s golem.”
“The golem!” exclaimed Lizzie. “Well, I never!”
“Explain yourselves,” demanded Orlando. He was standing between myself and Lizzie and Bill. “Tell me what is happening here!”
At this, Bill backhanded Orlando across the mouth, and the young Lord fell to the carpet, howling and clutching his mouth.
“Silence, churl,” said Bill, and spat on his master. “You speak unto your rightful lord! I am William Fitzroy, Lord Calipash, and you are nothing but a lesser man’s son, thou shameful usurper!”
It was such a strange scene—and my confusion so great—that I made to run away from the room; indeed, I wished to quit the house entirely, but Lizzie stuck out her foot and tripped me. After I fell to the ground with a cry, I tried to claw my way to the door with my hands, but she lifted up her skirts and sat upon my chest to hold me hostage. When I cried out she punched me in the side so hard I wept for the pain.
“Dearest William,” said she, “why is it you suspect the golem?”
“He told me—or rather, I had him write it all down for me,” said Bill. “When I saw how fit and healthy Orlando looked when he came down to dinner, I knew his earlier indisposition must be from some other source than the necklace’s transformative properties. Looking upon Chelone, how dreadful her skin appears now, I suspected some trickery, and went to the crypt for insight. And look at this!”
He held up a scrap of paper before Lizzie’s eyes, and I caught a glimpse of it—the note was in my guardian’s own handwriting!
“It wrote to her,” said Bill. “It apparently saw her as a girl and took a fancy to her, and in the confusion over our brother’s decline it thought it could safely invite her back and have some sport with her. It’s smarter than I ever realized, and it does look rather like Orlando—if one doesn’t peer too closely. Thus it was able to sneak down to the village and send her the note that called her hither! It wants a bride, dear sister. Just like the legends about it! Imagine that—the peasants knew something we didn’t!”
“It seems from this note that they had quite a wedding night,” said Lizzie, looking up from the parchment to leer at me.