Puppets of the Dark Goddess , livre ebook

Puppets of the Dark Goddess
Peyton Fletcher



Chapter 1
It is often said that good things come in small packages. But then, so do bad ones and this, the worst I ever encountered, first arrived in the form of a mere blind notice in the society pages.
For readers unfamiliar with these scurrilous little swine droppings, a blind notice is a brief newspaper item neither signed by its author nor mentioning any names in its text, which always consists of some vile slur hurled at a prominent member of society. Wildly inaccurate when not entirely fabricated, its purpose is to titillate the reader while providing absolutely no factual information.
But, to those of us in society, it is an easy cypher to solve and the source of mild amusement or equally mild annoyance, roughly on the level of a cloud of gnats, depending on whether one is observer or participant.
The one which so aroused my ire read, in its entirety, “ We wonder which rising young Lord was seen gobbling the big oysters with Nancy at that well-known seafood house. We hope he can bear the tariff. We also hope that for his most notably charitable wife, virtue truly does begin home.”
That its target was Matthew, my beloved husband, was perfectly plain from the linking of “rising young Lord,” which he certainly was, with “tariff,” his particular expertise. The rest had him sucking the cocks of the pretty young men who dress in women’s clothing to sing salacious songs at that infamous music hall, The Oyster. The “most notably charitable wife,” was a mere pointless dig at me.
On its first appearance, I merely swatted it aside and carried on, but I grew increasingly incensed and concerned as the identical item appeared in paper after paper until I could contain myself no longer.
“Matthew. Read this.”
He pulled his nose from The Times , but left his fingers dipping a toast point in his egg until obliged to take the paper I thrust forward.
The usual tripe,” he said without much interest.
“You think so, darling? Read here.” I slapped another paper down. “And here. And here.”
He caught on at once. “Every paper?”
“Every one. And what is more, each worded exactly like the next. Right down to the last comma.”
“Hmm. Bit odd, but still-”
“No, no, darling. There is a hidden truth here.”
“Surely, you don’t think that I-”
“Of course not,” I snapped. “I know precisely who and where you suck. Don’t I, pet?”
He blushed and lowered his gaze. So lovely to see the abashed schoolboy suddenly appear on that handsome, mature face that both my heart and purse set to pounding.
“Now listen closely, dearest.
“Such items are typically supplied by waiters, doormen, domestics and such. These would deliver their reports in person to ensure payment and therefore, deliver them orally. As a consequence, every item that appears in more than one paper is written differently. ‘Oysters with Nancy,’ in one, ‘steamed clams and lark song’ in another. Two identical notices is unheard of. Six is unthinkable.
“It follows then that someone has troubled themselves to provide not one, but six - six -written accounts and, moreover, to give instructions to print them without change - newspapers do love to put their own stamp on things. This would naturally involve some payment to ensure compliance. Surely, this cannot not the work of a servant, whose goal must always be to obtain money, not spend it.
“Finally, consider that little thorn pressed into my own side. It has no bearing on the story and even the lowest rag considers it bad form to drag family members into political barbs. So, clearly this is not the work of some disgruntled footman and harried reporter.
“Who, then, remains, Matthew?”
He pondered and I grew impatient. Of late, the poor fellow had so lost himself in the arcane minutiae of trade and tariffs that I feared he was losing his quickness of mind. “Come, come. There can be but one answer.”
“Well, I suppose it might be one of the fellers havin’ a go.”
“No, dearest. This is not some harmless prank. This is the work of a serious enemy.”
“I say-”
“Some rival - some unseen foe - has taken considerable trouble to smear you with the most vile sort of mud - the sort that sticks - and to ensure that it is spread as far and wide as possible. And he will not stop there.”
“That’s a bit steep.”
“Another word, darling, and you will repent in the scold’s bridle.” He was instantly contrite - a most endearing trait. I do not actually own that infamously cruel device, but Matthew doesn’t know that. He does know, however, that I am a woman of my word and do not shirk from harsh punishment.
His disbelief gave me no surprise, for this was his very first election. It had not yet been formally called, but that was merely a matter of time - and short time, at that. The current Prime Minister stood with one foot in the grave and the other on a live eel and whichever member the party next elected as leader would inherit the mantle of Prime Minister.
Surely, a prize worth taking and I had long since decided that Matthew would have it, for it would make me the most powerful person in England - man or woman - save only Victoria herself.
I would brook no obstacle. Certainly not this unseen foe, whose opening salvo - so crudely extravagant - signalled both his existence and his deadly purpose. I silently vowed then to run him to earth and see him grovel before me and beg for the mercy of death.
I saw no great challenge in this, merely a matter of stuffing my purse with fivers and visiting newspaper offices until I got a name, then following it up the chain of command until I had the ultimate enemy in my grasp.
This would doubtless require both mesmerism and harsh questioning, two activities which could be counted on to bring me great pleasure at the least and, at the most, a profound ecstasy of body, mind and spirit.
These, in turn, would require a quiet, secret place in which to conduct my business and I was lounging in the sun room, considering my choices when Walter and Elinor, known to the world as Lord and Lady Basinbridge, popped round for lunch, as they usually do on Tuesdays.
They, too, had spotted the offending item and found it most exciting, but had seen it in a rather different light. To their eyes, it confirmed that Matthew ran very near to the front of the pack. That somebody wanted him out of the race was plain, but the degree of determination implicit in the word-for word repetition breezed right past them and so they pooh-poohed my thoughts on the subject.
Since Walter, whose own distinguished political career stretches back over 40 years, is a long-time friend of Matthew and lately something of a mentor, I forbore to press my views, but did not change my opinion or my plans.
As to the identity of the culprit, we all agreed that it was most likely one of the other front-runners - five, excluding Matthew - but could come to no consensus as to which, though I again held my own opinions on that subject.
On that, the men retired to the study to mull over the details of tariffs and whether Matthew might have put a foot wrong.
Elinor and I had become quite chummy once Walter and Matthew sealed their bond and, like her husband, she took on the mentor’s role, which lent to her voice a patronising tone which she otherwise did not possess - irritating, but not unendurably so.
With the men gone, she got right to the point.
“Your first election. This will mature you, my dear.”
“How do you mean,” I inquired, showing more than mere polite interest, but not much more.
“You are well-acquainted with the duties of the politician’s wife and perform them well. Now. imagine them multiplied tenfold, with the interesting bits held unchanged at their original proportion. Now, further imagine those duties performed on a battlefield swarming with enemies.”
“Surely not that bad.”
“Worse. Like your husband, you will be subject to smear campaigns whose source can never be traced. Waste no time in trying. Instead, remain ever on the alert and be prepared to crush the least slight, no matter who delivers it.
“And do not always stay on the defensive. Launch your own attacks on whomever you perceive as a rival and take no particular care to spare the innocent. Every woman has a hidden streak of ruthlessness. You must let yours shine.”
“You paint a dreadful picture,” I breathed, giving my best impression of rapt innocence.
“It is war and before it is over, you will find yourself awash in horrors beyond measure. Some women simply cannot take it.” With that, she placed her long hand over mine.” Queer gesture, more suggestive of consolation than encouragement.
“Oh, my,” I said, looking duly impressed as Elinor launched into a campaign tale of terror to rival any of Mr. Poe’s.
Privately, I thought Elinor’s advice not of the first water. To follow it would have me seen as arrogant and secretly afraid - not the desired impression, I think. And when punishment is required, I much prefer the unseen stiletto to the all too visible iron fist.
Looking back over the murders and malignant spirits that attended both my courtship and my adventures with the odious Mr. Beecham, I thought myself well-prepared for anything a mere political bun fight might throw up.
All failings aside, though, I greatly valued the friendship of Elinor and Walter, for it carried decided advantages to all four parties, not least being the strong impression we made when seen together at one function or another.
Walter’s full head of snow-white hair, clear blue eyes and upright posture made him every inch the elder statesman, survivor of a long political career and holder of several elevated posts, including a stint as Home Secretary. Everybody knew his history and revered him for it.
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