The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier
Molly looked at the rows of rusted canisters. “You sure this isn’t just about makin’ a giant explosion?” she said.
Kip grinned. “That, too.”
By late afternoon, the family was packed and ready to go. Bags and trunks lined the foyer. The last step was Mistress Windsor. Constance had regained consciousness but was still too weak to move on her own.
Molly entered the bedroom with Master Windsor and Alistair to find Constance clutching her breast, panic on her face. “Bertrand!” She sat up. “My ring!”
Master Windsor rushed to her, clutching her hand. “No, my love. No more rings.” He stroked her brittle hair. “We’re getting you out of here. We’re going someplace safe.”
Molly saw Alistair out of the corner of her eye. He was watching his parents, and his usually scornful look had given way to something more complicated. He bit the inside of his cheek, as if calculating some difficult sum. Molly glanced out the window. The red sun hung just above the crest of the valley. She put a gentle hand on Bertrand’s shoulder. “It’s nearly sundown.”
Master Windsor let go of his wife and stood. The bed frame was too wide to fit through the doorway, and so they decided to carry Mistress Windsor separately from her mattress, which would have to be turned on one side. He carefully lifted her into his arms, while Molly and Alistair dragged the heavy feather mattress out into the hall.
Master Windsor walked behind them, whispering to his wife as one might whisper to a child. By the time they reached the foyer, she seemed to have fallen unconscious once more. Bertrand gingerly lowered her onto the mattress, which Molly and Alistair had placed in front of the stairs. Molly helped Bertrand wrap blankets around his wife’s frame. “If she doesn’t make it …,” he said, touching her sleeping face.
Molly heard the sound of a horse approaching on the drive. “That’ll be Kip with the wagon.”
Bertrand stood up, a suitcase in his hand. He lingered in the middle of the foyer, his eyes drifting from the walls to the windows to the ceiling—one final look at the house he had grown up in.
“I don’t think I’ll miss it,” he said.
“You’d be surprised,” Molly said. But then she added, “That still don’t mean you should stay.”
Bertrand walked to the front door, took the handle, and opened it—
“Evenin’, guvnor!”
Bertrand let out a small shriek of alarm, dropping his suitcase. Molly looked up to see two men propped against the doorway—one improbably tall, the other unusually squat—both reeking with the unmistakable odor of the city. Mister Fig and Mister Stubbs stepped into the house, eyeing the shocked family.
Stubbs grinned. “Goin’ somewhere?”
olly lay on the foyer floor. Her feet and hands were tied with coarse rope, which cut like sandpaper against her skin. She struggled against the binds, trying to find a loose spot to slip her hand through, but none would reveal itself. The room around her was now a wasteland of overturned suitcases and torn curtains and broken furniture.
“Molly, I’m scared,” said a voice in her ear. It was Penny, tied up like the rest of them. Her glasses had fallen off her face and were lying on the floor.
“Hush, love.” Molly forced a smile. “You’ll be fine.” A sort of cascading crash hit her ears. It sounded as if one of the men were pulling books down from the shelves in the study. Unlike on their previous visit, Fig and Stubbs had wasted no time with threats and ultimatums. They had tied up the family almost immediately and begun ransacking the house.
“Sounds like they’re having fun,” Kip muttered from her other side. He had, at first, tried to hide in the stables, but Fig had found him and put him next to Molly. This, at least, allowed them to talk openly without startling the others.
“We have to get outta here,” Molly whispered, too quietly for Penny to hear. “When that sun goes down, the Night Gardener’ll be here. And somethin’ tells me he’ll still be angry.” She craned her neck, looking through the open front door. The sun over the trees was a boiling red—the last gasps of daylight quickly draining from the sky.
“So much for our simple plan,” Kip said.
Fig and Stubbs wandered back into the foyer with a casual, almost friendly air. Long splinters and bits of cushion fluff clung to their shabby coats. Fig had the Windsor portrait in his hands, holes punched into the canvas. “Lookit this, Stubbs!” He pushed his head through a hole above Constance’s body. “Ain’t I pretty?” he said, making kissing sounds.
“Well—that does it for the study,” Stubbs said, wiping his hands. “Next stop: the bedrooms.” He looked at Master Windsor, who had blood on his face from where they had struck him. “’Less you just want to save us the trouble?”
“I already t-t-told you, I have nothing!” Bertrand sputtered.
Stubbs cocked his head to one side. “An’ I tuh-tuh-told you: a man don’t leave his house without squirrelin’ away a few earthly possessions.”
Fig pulled something from Constance’s open trunk. “How’s these for earthly possessions?” He waved a pair of stockings over his head.
“This wasn’t our agreement,” Bertrand said. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow!”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Stubbs said, scratching his head. “When you been in this business long as me and Fig, you learn a few things. Like how folks tend to disappear right when they’re expectin’ you. So we like to pop in a day or two early.” He propped a foot on one of the suitcases. “Which, I think you’ll agree, is a wise precaution.”
The grandfather clock, which had been opened but not overturned, rang seven times. Bertrand exchanged a look with Molly to show that he, too, understood the importance of getting out of the house before nightfall. He turned back to the men, putting on a smile that might have passed for charm in another circumstance. “My good sirs. I owe you both an apology. You’ve come all the way out here, and I’ve been incredibly rude. Take everything—furniture, clothes, the whole house. Only please: Let us go.”
Stubbs stood over him, his belly protruding from his coat. “You’re awful eager to go ridin’ out in the dusky fog.” He drew a handkerchief from his vest, and Molly caught a glimpse of the large knife at his belt. “You know, Fig,” he said, polishing his monocle, “I heard that some rich folks sew money right into their clothes—to hide it from robbers and brigands and the like.”
Fig stood up, joining his stout companion. “Now that you mention it, I think I heard that, too.”
“Well, then,” Stubbs said, replacing his monocle, “perhaps this merits a more thorough search.” He drew the knife from his belt and handed it to Fig as one might pass a brush to a painter.
Fig took the knife, flipping it casually in his large hand. He paced the length of the room, pointing the blade at each person as he passed. “Duck … duck … duck … goose.”
He had stopped at Constance. The woman, who was only barely conscious, stared at the man towering over her. “B-B-Bertie?”
“No!” Master Windsor pulled against his binds. “Not her! She’s ill!”
“Then she won’t put up a fight,” Fig said, kneeling. With a flourish he removed the blanket from over her body and cut a slice along the side of her mattress—feathers spilled onto the floor. “Tell me when I’m gettin’ warm,” he said and thrust a hand inside her mattress, searching for hidden valuables. Constance recoiled, closing her eyes.
Bertrand thrashed like a madman. “Get away from her!” he screamed.
“Temper, temper!” Stubbs swung a boot, hitting him square in the face.
Bertrand’s head snapped back, and when Molly saw his face again, there was blood coming from his nose. “Please …,” he whimpered.
Molly studied the expressions of the two men, at once gleeful and grim. They looked like they would be more than happy to do this all night. And Molly did not have all night. She searched the floor for a bit of broken glass or a stray nail—anything that she might use to cut the rope. She again noticed th
“Had enough?” Stubbs said, striking Bertrand again. “’Cause I could go all night.”
“Hit him all you want,” Molly called over the din. “He ain’t gonna tell you a thing. These rich folks’d rather die than lose a penny to those beneath ’em.”
Silence fell over the room and she felt every person look at her.
“You want to take his place?” Stubbs said, turning.
Molly raised a coy brow, as if to imply she might enjoy such attentions. “You and me ain’t like the Windsors,” she said, a hint of song in her voice. “I could tell it the first time we met. We wasn’t born with silver spoons in our mouths. We gotta take what we can, however we can, and hang the rest.” At this, Stubbs gave an involuntary nod. Molly fought back a smile—it was working. “Take me with you, and I’ll show you the money myself. How does that sound?”
Stubbs screwed up his mouth, clearly at war with his instincts. “What would a little maid know about secret loot?”
Molly tilted her head back, a defiant smirk on her face. “Servants know everythin’ about a house—especially the secrets. This here’s my fifth maid’s job. I work long enough to get the lay o’ things and then cut loose with all the cash I can carry. Now I’m thinkin’ it’s time I got myself some business partners—maybe take up work cleanin’ a bank in the city?”
“Molls, what’re you doin’?” Kip hissed.
Molly ignored him and continued. “The Windsors never cared about me, an’ I don’t care about them.” She tried not to imagine the look on Penny’s face as she said this. “The way I see it, you two are the comeuppance they got comin‘.”
Stubbs grinned, as if the idea of being the arm of cosmic justice appealed to him.
“There’s a little key in Master Windsor’s waistcoat,” she said. “It unlocks the closet at the top of the stairs. Inside there is everythin’ you could ever want.” She held Stubbs’s gaze in her own. “Everythin’ you deserve.” She cast out this last word like a fishhook on the sea.
Stubbs blinked at her, half-hypnotized. The monocle had slipped from his eye and was dangling from a chain on his lapel. He swallowed and nodded to Fig. “Might as well check his coat, eh?”
Fig left Constance and searched Bertrand. “Looks like she was telling the truth,” he said, pulling a key from his pocket.
“You’ll come with us, pet.” Stubbs grabbed Molly’s arm, pulling her up to her feet. “And if it turns out you’re lying … it’ll be cadavers we search next.”
“You gonna carry me up?” she said, indicating her bound ankles. Stubbs rolled his eyes and nodded to Fig to cut her feet free. Molly felt a rush of circulation as the rope fell from her legs. She watched closely as Fig slid the knife back into his belt—only a few inches away from her hands.
The two men led Molly up the staircase. She truly did not know what would be waiting for them inside the room, but she hoped it would be enough to distract them at least for a moment.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Stubbs took the key and slid it into the lock. “After you.” He tipped his hat and swung the door wide.
Molly took a breath and stepped into the room.
ip watched his sister disappear behind the green door, the two thugs right behind her. The door swung shut with a violent slam. He didn’t know why she was showing those men the tree room, but he could tell from her face that she had a plan—it was the same look she got when telling a story.
“Did she mean those things?” Penny said. “About not caring for us?”
“My sister cares more than you’ll ever know.” Kip smiled at her, trying to ignore the pain shooting up his left side. When the men had tied him up, they had been especially rough on his leg. “We just have to trust her.”
Master Windsor had managed to move next to his wife and was now holding her hand, whispering things in a calming tone. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “Because the moment those two learn about that tree—what it does—there’ll be nothing to stop them from killing us all.”
Kip looked at the quickly darkening sky outside. “Even if they don’t, when the Night Gardener gets here, we’ll all be done for.”
“What do you think they’re all doing up there?” Alistair said, adjusting his weight. “Why is it so quiet?”
Kip stared at the closed door. “I don’t know. Maybe the tree’s not workin’ because there’s three of ’em inside—”
He was cut off by the sound of screams.
Kip could not tell at first if they were screams of pain or joy. Then the door burst open, and the fat one appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching little sheets of white paper. “Promissory notes!” he shouted, raining them down over the banister. “Hundreds of ’em!” He jabbed a finger in Master Windsor’s direction. “Broke indeed, you old cad!” He gave a whoop of joy and ran back into the room.
“What’s promissory notes?” Kip said.
Alistair stared at the papers scattered across the floor. “It’s money.” He peered at the nearest crumpled sheet. “A lot of money.”
“I want to see.” Penny scooted herself toward one of the fallen slips of paper—
“Don’t touch it, either of you!” The command came from Master Windsor. “We’re done taking things from the tree.”
Kip listened to the men whooping and laughing like children inside the room. Whatever his sister was planning, she had better do it fast.
The two men appeared on the stairs, arms overflowing with more money. They were nearly skipping as they raced outside, a trail of notes in their wake.
Kip watched through the open front door as they stuffed the notes into the cart and ran back into the foyer, breathless with exhilaration. The fat one grabbed an overturned trunk and emptied its contents on the floor. “Last one upstairs is a rotten egg!” They thundered up the staircase, pushing and shoving to get to the room first.
Kip watched the tall one taking the stairs three at a time. A smile crept across his face. “Molly, you little sneak.”
“I don’t see how this is funny,” Master Windsor said.
“Then you weren’t lookin’ close enough.” Kip nodded toward the room. “His knife was missin’.”
olly wrapped her fingers around the handle of the stolen knife, pressing the blade up against her ropes. She knew she would have to act carefully. The rope was thick, and she could only make the smallest sawing motions without being detected. Fig and Stubbs ran around her, raking heaps of paper out of the knothole, to fill a trunk they had brought from downstairs.
“Is that the last of it?” Fig said when the knothole had been emptied.
“Can’t see the bottom.” Stubbs reached an arm into the hole, plumbing its depths. “I reckon there might be more down in there, but I can’t reach …”
Molly ignored them, concentrating on cutting the rope. Even with a weapon, she knew she couldn’t overpower the men. But if she could just get to the hall with her hands free, she might be able to lock them inside the room—giving her enough time to free everyone and make a run for the main road.
Fig clapped his hands together. “I got an idea!” He said this with the excitement of someone for whom an idea was a very rare thing. “I’ll be right back.” He ran out the door and thumped downstairs.
Stubbs, meanwhile, busied himself with collecting stray notes from the floor. What couldn’t fit inside the trunk, he stuffed into his own pockets. “Soon as we’ve gotten the last scraps outta this here tree, we’ll be off,” he said by way of conversation. “Though not before puttin’ old Windsor and the rest out to pasture.”
Molly felt her heart lurch. “You … you’re gonna kill ’em?”
He shrugged. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. We wouldn’t want anyone tell
The door swung open. “Look what I found in the stables!” It was Fig, and he was holding something in both hands.
Molly’s entire body went cold. “What’s that?” she said.
“What’s it look like? An axe!” He hefted the blade in his hand. “We can hack open the hole and crawl right inside!”
Molly watched as he stomped toward the tree, axe raised over his head. “N-n-no! Listen to me!” she cried. “You canna hurt the tree! If you hurt the tree—”
Whack!
The axe head sank deep into the wood surrounding the knothole. Fig jerked the blade free. Black sap ran down the trunk, as thick as molasses.
Molly heard a low wind rising over the grounds. The whole house creaked as the air slid through cracks in the walls. “You have to stop—now!” she said. “You don’t know what you’re doin’!”
“Oh, don’t I?” Fig raised the axe over his head and brought it down again—
This time the axe did not strike the wood.
Instead, it was stopped just above the tree by a pale, thin hand.
A hand connected to an arm clothed in tattered black rags.
An arm stretching out from deep inside the tree.
Fig let go of the handle. The axe remained where it was, held in place by the spectral hand.
“Wh-wh-what is it?” Stubbs said, inching behind Fig.
“Somethin’ wicked,” Molly said. She sawed furiously at the final strands of rope—almost free.