I intend to post draft copies of my work here for my fans to comment, and will remove all but the first chapter when I publish. All rights reserved, no copying of any portion of my writing without permission. Copyright Sarah J Waldock.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HQYL128B
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HQYL128B
I'm updating the Felicia and Robin series as well, but though Kindle say I can make unlimited upgrades, apparently I am still limited by the only publish two books a week rule.
the third of the three books in the 'War of the Blood Moon' trilogy is now live - a lovely long read for the holidays with the other two.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HPBCS194
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HPBCS194
"She will live forever and desire Death." A prophecy to daunt anyone, most of all an ex slave turned warrior whose spirit is bigger than her body...
first of an epic trilogy, The War of the Blood Moon which I'll be releasing over the next month or so.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HM9FH6QJ
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HM9FH6QJ
I wrote this little illustrated book with reading age 7-8 which I hope will also interest slow readers of up to about 11 - just putting in two of many illustrations
An ordinary, little brown mouse lived in an ordinary, big brown tree, in a very special wood.
He did not have a name, because he was an ordinary mouse who did not need a name.
One day, he heard music, and came out to see what was going on.
There were fairies dancing, because it was a magical wood!
The fairies were celebrating. They threw around a lot of fairy dust, and giggled. Fairies often giggle.
Some of the fairy dust fell on the mouse, and he felt very strange.
“My name is Monty,” he said to himself. “My back is sore!”
Suddenly, Monty realised he had grown fairy wings.
“The fairies will be angry,” he thought. “They were careless and their queen will punish them.”
“I will fly away,” thought Monty. “How useful my wings are!” He smiled.
Monty found that he could do fairy magic, too, and he used it to help people.
One day, he came to an old cottage where there was an orange cat, who looked sad.
“I am Monty, the fairy mouse. Who are you, and why are you sad?” asked Monty.
“I am Cecil; my human has died and I have nobody to look after me,” said Cecil.
“Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do,” said Monty.
“I wish I had wings, like you,” said Cecil.
“Let me see what I can do,” said Monty. “Oh!” his magic made little wings all around Cecil’s neck.
“Never mind,” said Cecil. “You tried.”
“I can do better,” said Monty. And this time, Cecil shrank to be a bit bigger than Monty, and grew wings.
“I can fly!” said Cecil.
“Do you mind that you are small?” asked Monty.
“No, I like it. We can be friends properly,” purred Cecil.
So they were.
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1
The solicitor cleared his throat.
His name was Montgomery Lacklove Death, and he looked as if he had earned it.
“The will of the late Hugh Fenwick, having died without issue, but with the interested parties being his nephew, Luke, and his niece, Lucy, offspring of his brothers; and Henry Jermyn, distant cousin, being in descent of the family progenitor, Lucius, also known as Lucifer, Fenwick, sometime sea captain with Walter Raleigh and pirate.”
He looked over his glasses at the three young people gathered in his office.
“I don’t know why Henry is here,” said Luke, pugnaciously.
“Because I was invited,” said Henry, mildly.
“It’s lovely to see you again,” said Lucy, late of a lady’s seminary. The three, as children, had been playmates, and Lucy had leaned towards spending time with Henry, a gentler character than her rather rough cousin, Luke.
“It will become clear in time,” said Mr. Death. “Let me see... ‘This is the last will and testament of Lucius Frederick Walter Fenwick, being of sound mind, and knowing it, before any of my legatees try to question it, I have been examined by an alienist who has declared me not merely sane but frighteningly shrewd, which I took as a compliment.’”
“He would,” said Henry, appreciatively. “The old man had his eccentricities, but not when it came to business or family.”
“This is the man who flew the Jolly Roger at his house’s flagpole,” said Luke, snidely.
“To honour our ancestor; nothing wrong with that,” said Lucy. “At least he didn’t have an obsessive interest in snakes, like old Lucifer, who had them all over in the woodwork.”
“Hem!” said Mr. Death. “‘To Lucy, free and clear, and regardless of any other outcome, the watercolour which I made of Fenwick Lodge, and an admonition to remind her of discussions we had about secrets.’”
“Well, that’s sweet, but not very helpful, poor Lucy; I’ll give you a little of the old man’s money,” said Luke, condescendingly.
“I hadn’t finished,” said Mr. Death. “Don’t count your inheritance until you get it, Mr. Fenwick. The will goes on, ‘I require Lucy to live in Fenwick Lodge from the nineteenth of the coming December, over Christmas to the twenty-eighth. She may bring one servant, and there are the live-in caretakers, but nobody not employed on the estate is permitted to stay with her. If she can stay the full time, whatever ghostly or other vicissitudes there are, she inherits the house and its contents, and half my money, which is divided between her and Luke, save for a thousand pounds to Henry Jermyn, my neighbour and distant relative. If Lucy leaves before the time is up, she will receive one thousand pounds for every day she stayed, the rest to be divided equally between her and Luke, the house to go to Luke. If Luke and Lucy should marry to overcome this will, then the house and contents revert to Henry Jermyn, and the money divided three ways. I disapprove of cousin marriage.’ And that concludes the last will and testament of Mr. Lucius Fenwick save for some small legacies to servants.”
“I never saw any ghosts when I was staying there as a child; I cannot see a problem,” said Lucy.
“What, you never heard any of the groans of the victims of old Lucifer?” said Luke. “I am surprised.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Lucy.
“I believe in dirty tricks,” murmured Henry to Lucy. “Mrs. Henderson was Luke’s nursemaid before she married Henderson and became housekeeper.”
Lucy nodded.
“I accept the challenge,” she said.
Luke looked furious.
“You won’t last until Christmas,” he snarled.
Mr. Death cleared his throat.
“Here is the watercolour for Miss Fenwick, and for both of you, a copy of a poem Mr. Fenwick believed to be a clue to the supposed treasure hidden by the old pirate. Personally, I consider it to be spurious, but I am sure you will have fun looking. I must warn you, however, that Lucifer Fenwick was...” he cleared his throat delicately, “... A man of his time, and the clue is couched, hrr’m, in the terms of metaphysical poetry, and is decidedly... indelicate.”
“Why, Lucy must not look at such; I will not permit it,” said Luke.
“You have no say in the matter,” said Mr. Death, handing a sheet of paper to each.
Lucy looked up from her examination of the watercolour of the Elizabethan mansion, with Flemish gables, a prominent brick porch, above which was a wall-mounted sundial, its gnomen modelled as a ship’s figurehead and bowsprit.
“Thank you,” said Lucy.
She looked at the poem.
A ship must come at last to rest, though its bowsprit still keen
To penetrate the hidden treasure, found therein unseen;
On shortest day, its thin and aged length
Still finds the well of dreams at day’s best strength.
Ascend the dizzying heights if you aspire
To reach the hidden stream born of desire.
“I do not see how this is indelicate,” said Lucy, puzzled.
“Ah, your thoughts are too pure to understand its hidden meaning, I hoped that might be so,” said Mr. Death. Lucy’s smile was brittle at his condescension.
oOoOo
Lucy was not destitute; she had to watch every penny, but she lived quietly alone but for her old governess and their maid, in an apartment above a milliner’s shop where she also did piece work in lieu of rent, and had the use of the stables for a gig and a horse, in return for taking care of deliveries. The shop and apartment were owned by her former governess, who had saved her pay to be able to retire with dignity, having made her meagre wardrobe last longer with her clever fingers.
“Oh, Arabella, I am wildly excited, and I wish I could take you,” said Lucy. “Molly is a good girl, but I fear she would succumb to fear over ghosts, which will be no such thing, just Luke being Luke.”
Arabella Bellington, who preferred her one-time charge to use her name over the usual expedient of mangling her surname to something like ‘Belly’ and had gone as ‘Belle’as a governess anyway, sniffed and managed to make it sound ladylike.
“That Luke!” she said.
Unlike many ladies of uncertain years, who succumbed to the charms of Luke Fenwick, there was no indulgence in her tone, only disapproval.
“Oh, Arabella, I know you are the only person outside of Uncle Lucius who does not fall under Luke’s charm of manner,” said Lucy.
“He has as much charm for me as any other slimy creature which crawls out from under a rock,” said Arabella. “But the answer is quite simple, my dear; you draw up a contract for me to work for you as dresser during your sojourn at this place, and you fulfil the requirements of taking only a servant.”
“But how demeaning for you! And is it ethical?”
Arabella embraced her.
“My sweet Lucy, who thinks first of it being demeaning for me! Is it ethical? Dubious. But the wording was very careful. And will Luke be ethical?”
“No,” said Lucy. “I know Lucius did not like Luke; I wonder why he did not just leave it to me, if he wanted me to succeed?”
“Because Luke, as male descendent, has good grounds to get the will overturned,” said Arabella. “Now, what did you discuss with him about secrets with regards to that pretty, but not very distinguished painting?”
“I love the painting,” said Lucy. “It reminds me of happy childhood holidays.”
“Yes, my love, but what did you discuss?”
“Hiding documents between backing paper and paintings,” said Lucy. “I’ll put a kettle on the fire to steam up the glue.”
Shortly thereafter, Lucy was reading a letter in her late uncle’s forceful hand.
My dear Lucy,
If you are reading this, I am dead, and I cannot leave my house to you free and clear or Luke would use the law to usurp my will. By making it a challenge, once he accepts that challenge, he can no longer legally contest the will. I know you will succeed, whatever Luke tries – and he will try. I do not rule out my increasing weakness being due to some poison introduced, probably with Mrs. Henderson told that she is given something to make me stronger. I have been better since I told her that the medicine was bad for my constitution but I think the damage is done. She is not a wicked woman, but she is not clever, and Luke has her wrapped around his little finger. You should pension off the Hendersons; there is money set aside for that, and a small cottage. But have whoever you bring as a servant oversee any meal preparation.
Now that the serious bit is over, let me tell you all that I have found about our pirate ancestor. You will have read a poem, which is not as full of innuendo as some which he wrote, but it is suggestive. Ignore that, as it also, I think, speaks directly of his intent. I found the commonplace book he kept and a bag of eight reale pieces – pieces of eight, as they are known. But a dozen does not constitute a treasure hinted of as being in gold and jewels.
You will remember all the carved snakes in the woodwork; bear in mind that some, at least of those snakes are carvings cleverly jointed to be openings to secret passages, stairs, and cavities. The cavity of the commonplace book is over the fireplace in the library. You know, with the Garden of Eden and a most evil-looking snake leering at Eve in the panel. The whole panel swings out. Now! The commonplace book is full of very frisky poetry and drawings, which is why I have put it back in there; you may find it a little shocking, but please do not destroy it if you do, because it is a valuable document, which should eventually go in the muniments room with all the other family history. As to the pieces of eight, one of them was false. Seven were silver pieces of eight, as might be expected; now these are large coins, my dear, as big as an old twopenny piece of the late 1700s, about an inch and a half across, and a full ounce of silver. The fake one is steel. It has a short ring handle on one side, and what I can only describe as wards, like the wards of a key, on the other side. I have abstracted that, and hidden it in my mother’s sewing box in the boudoir where you loved to sit and read.
So, the passageways I know about.
Do not stay in the master bedroom. There is a secret stair into the cupboard in the corner, from what appears to be no more than a recessed cache for gardening tools; it is lined with wood and the back panel slides when you find and move the snake carving.
As well as the cloakroom under the stairs, where I have installed one of the several Bramah closets, one of the stair treads lifts via a cunningly hidden snake looking like no more than a carved edge to the tread. There is a priest’s hole below, which goes below the floor of the vestibule, and has a tunnel out of it which emerges into the antechamber of the ice house.
“There’s an ice house? What an extravagance,” said Arabella.
“I don’t know if Uncle Lucius had it restocked lately,” said Lucy. “As to the passage to the master chamber, I will lock the door, and occupy the room I used to have before, over the boudoir. And we might think about leaving some traps to upset unwary ghosts.”
“We must take some equipment which might be useful, like wax to plug peep holes, string and rope, nails, and a hammer,” said Arabella. “Read on, my dear,” she added
A panel on the gallery around the vestibule opens to reveal a ladder down to the porch. I have to say, Lucifer was fond of his bolt-holes; it makes me wonder how many enemies he may have had, to build a house with ways out, no matter which part of the house you might be in. There are several panels leading to spaces no bigger than cupboards in the thickness of the walls in the servants’ quarters, I assume to wait in for an opportunity to reach a better way out; and one entire section of filing drawers in the muniments room swings away to reveal an entrance into the kitchen chimney, with rungs set in the wall to climb down. A nervous exit, but there was probably only rarely a huge fire in there. That one is found by the decorative board with his motto, ‘Serpens Sapienti Sat’, ‘The serpent is enough for the wise’; his ship was known as ‘The Black Snake’ and the figurehead, which is mounted opposite the stairs, over the entrance, is a representation of a snake-woman. In truth, it’s in the way of using the gallery as a short cut from one wing to the other, unless you duck under it. I tried to take it down, once, in order to move it to a more convenient place, but the thing is well and truly embedded in the wall. He wanted his saucy snake girl winking at people on their way to bed!
“I am sure it inconveniences the servants, but they can go along the landing gallery on the other side, and off which bedrooms open,” said Lucy. “Speaking of which, I wonder if Mrs. Henderson knows the last stairway he mentions?”
The last secret I have found is in the excessively extravagant strap-and-jewel work around and above the big fireplace in the vestibule, which has a stairway directly up to the linen closet which is between two of the bedrooms; you know, it also shares a chimney in the corner with the great chimney, with ovens for irons beside the door in, which looks a less than convenient arrangement, but hides the thickness of the wall for the stair, which exits into a corner cupboard the other side of the door supposedly for hanging clothes. The clothes hooks are iron snakes, and the door is opened the other way by pulling one.
My dear, I hope you do not mind me spoiling your fun in hunting for passages, but knowing them might save your life.
Good luck,
And may you find Lucifer’s treasure.
Your affectionate uncle, Lucius.
