Blood Will Out

1

It had been a hectic day for Jack, careering from one side of London to the other, delivering messages, collecting and depositing packages, visiting embassies and clubs. Not that Jack was ever invited into any of these swanky places. He rarely progressed beyond their vestibules (as he'd learned to call them). In fact, he was more commonly shown the tradesman's entrance.

Now, back at his lodgings, Jack and his fellow errand boys were enjoying a juicy stew provided by Mrs Jade, their landlady. They were comparing notes on the day. As she brought in a plate of bread and butter and a pot of steaming tea, there was a knock at the front door. She went to answer it, returning with a cream-coloured envelope bearing a wax seal, which she ceremoniously handed to Jack.

He was dumbfounded. It was the sort of thing he delivered to others! The cursive script, spelling out his name and address, was rich with loops and flourishes. Everyone round the table looked impressed.

With his own attempt at a flourish, Jack licked clean his knife and, as he had seen others do, slit open the envelope. Inside was a letter on embossed paper from a firm of solicitors called Tumbler and Cumbersome. Jack read it aloud—the only way he knew how. The letter requested the presence of Mr John Arthur Carmel—the others cooed—at the firm's offices in Monument Street. Jack was expected to attend on the morrow at noon, "concerning a matter that should be to his advantage." They cooed louder.

"Very mysterious," said Bob, Jack's roommate. "Come into some dough, 'as we?" The others hooted while Bob started poking Jack.

#

Jack reported to the solicitor's offices in plenty of time. He had delivered the morning's messages with more than usual alacrity, thereby managing to extend his half-hour lunch break. Breathless, he sat in the firm's anteroom until invited into Mr Cumbersome's chambers. For Jack, this was progress indeed: moving beyond the vestibule into the inner sanctum.

The plush carpet slowed his progress, but it did give him time to take in the opulence of his surroundings: the book-lined walls, the silk drapes and glass cabinets; and, right in the centre, the biggest desk Jack had ever seen, behind which sat one of the smallest men Jack had ever encountered.

As Jack let the atmosphere soak in, Mr Cumbersome reached across the desk to shake Jack's hand. Jack had to stretch considerably. The secretary, who had shown Jack into the room, returned to his own, much smaller desk just inside the door.

"Well, Mr John Arthur Carmel," began Mr Cumbersome, steepling his hands in front of his chest, "I presume you are wondering what this is all about." Jack nodded vigorously. "Perhaps if I start with your full name."

"You just did, Mr Cumbersome," said Jack.

"Ah, well. In point of fact, no," responded Mr Cumbersome, confirming Jack's view of how he'd always imagined lawyers speaking. "In truth, it's John Arthur Carmello, isn't it?"

"How d'you know that sir?" Jack was impressed.

"Your grandfather decided to change the family name when he fled from his home country, Italy, in the 1860s, didn't he?"

Jack had heard this story before but never been too sure of its accuracy, although he knew he was of Italian stock: his complexion and slight build gave him away.

"Let me cut to the chase, my lad," said Cumbersome, sounding quite avuncular. "You, apparently, are one of the last surviving descendants of an Italian aristocrat, Count Enrico Giuliani. You are not a legitimate descendant but, as the Italians express it, a bastardo. That is, you—or rather your father—was born, as they say, the wrong side of the blanket."

"My late father," added Jack. "He died a while back."

Mr Cumbersome nodded sympathetically, indicating that he was aware of this. What the solicitor was saying certainly chimed with tales Jack had heard from his grandparents. However, the more Mr Cumbersome talked, the more outlandish the story became. It sounded like something from one of Jack's penny dreadfuls.

Over the last few generations, Mr Cumbersome explained, the Giuliani family had suffered a number of tragic losses, "reputedly associated with the family curse." Despite uttering this final word with some disdain, he continued using it, as though it were an acceptable legal term.

Apparently, a great aunt had recently died. But Alfonso, who was due to inherit (he would be the next count when he came of age), had disappeared, which is how Jack came to be involved. For, amongst the great aunt's papers, it mentioned the "Carmello connection."

Jack, said Mr Cumbersome, could be a benefactor of the estate.

The aunt was to be entombed at the Giuliani mausoleum, located on a hillside outside Verona, in ten days' time, when there would also be a formal reading of the will. Mr Cumbersome, whose practice had, for a long time, represented the Italian family's English interests, suggested that he accompany Jack across the continent in order to attend the proceedings.

Jack was dumbstruck, but managed a nod of agreement. Given such news, many people would not have returned to work. Jack, however, went back to delivering packages. The work made him feel secure as his mind struggled to come to terms with this potential change to his circumstances. "Count Jack Carmel," or even "Count Jack Carmello." He liked the sound of that!

#

While Jack worked his week's notice, Mr Cumbersome made the necessary arrangements: obtaining a passport and visa for Jack, booking their passage on the Dover train, the ferry across to Calais and, finally, the Continental express to Verona Porto Nuova.

On the journey, Jack gradually adjusted to this new way of life: remembering to hand his bags to porters rather than carrying them himself, remembering not to stand aside for others and, especially, remembering not to bow and scrape to those he had always considered his betters. Mr Cumbersome was a great help in building Jack's confidence, especially when it came to dining. He introduced Jack to the various bits of cutlery and glassware that crowded a dinner table, explaining how each was deployed. He also showed Jack how food was conveyed to the mouth, chewed, then swallowed.

By the time the Italian border was reached, Jack was feeling reasonably self-assured. And, when the two of them eventually arrived at the Stazione di Verona hotel, Jack thought himself quite the gentleman. He even enjoyed being fitted for a suit specially tailored for him. His measurements had been taken in London and conveyed to a local outfitter, who came to the hotel to oversee the fitting.

But all Mr Cumbersome's careful preparations were upset just before the two of them were due to board a horse-drawn carriage for the Giuliani mausoleum. A much larger man with a pencil-line moustache approached Mr Cumbersome. Jack, assuming it was a local, was surprised to hear a deep English voice declare: "I'll take over now, Cumbersome."

Jack looked to his solicitor, expecting him to protest but, after a few seconds, his face settled into a smile. "Of course," he acceded. Turning to Jack, he introduced the new figure: "I don't believe you've met my partner, Mr Tumbler."

"Senior partner," muttered the latter, loosening his grip on Mr Cumbersome's arm and offering his hand to Jack.

"Mr Tumbler didn't expect to be needed in Verona for this event," added Mr Cumbersome, "but then something came up and, well … the Giulianis are his clients really, so I'll leave you in his, ah, capable hands."

They were certainly very large hands. Jack had watched with concern as his small fingers disappeared into Tumbler's capacious fist.

The next thing Jack was aware of was Mr Cumbersome's receding figure as their carriage picked up pace, moving through Verona's streets.

Not another word was spoken. The carriage was too noisy to conduct any meaningful conversation, but Jack had expected a few pleasantries at least. Mr Cumbersome had drilled him in such small talk, and Jack was keen to exercise his new accomplishment. Mr Tumbler's taciturn form, however, deterred interaction of any sort. He filled the seat opposite Jack. The longer Jack sat there, the more he felt like a mere errand boy again, all Mr Cumbersome's careful preparations undone.

Jack contented himself by attending to the landscape, watching the carriage slowly climb out of Verona up into the scented air and surrounding hills. Now and again, Jack thought he could hear another carriage behind them, but decided it must be their own vehicle echoing through the hills. Had he been with Mr Cumbersome, he would have sought clarification. Not from this man, though, whose eyes were closed, his posture stiff.

Eventually they reached a clearing where the carriage came to a halt amongst other vehicles, their drivers gathered under a tree. They had arrived at the mausoleum, an imposing, once-white structure that stood majestically on a rocky outcrop. A few other, smartly dressed figures were just emerging from the impressive wooden doors, amongst whom Jack spotted a priest in vestments.

"Good," pronounced Mr Tumbler, speaking for almost the first time. "The service has finished. Just the will, then."

They went inside where, under the guidance of an official, a number of people were arranging themselves around a trestle table that had just been erected in the main chamber. Jack had not been introduced to anyone and was unsure what was going on, as the entire proceedings were conducted in Italian. However, as Mr Tumbler was looking after Jack's interests, he didn't really mind. He took a seat alongside the lawyer and studied the disparate group who had come together in these bizarre surroundings.

It was an intimidating space, with the various nooks and crannies causing the candles to cast elaborate, eerie shadows, as though the whole interior was pulsing with incipient life. There were urns, coffins, caskets and funeral plaques everywhere, with two, more elaborate recesses—separate chambers—leading off the main vaulted space. No doubt, thought Jack, these were where the more illustrious family members were housed.

The omnipresence of death made Jack shudder. It was not a place he'd like to be left alone in. But worse than the monuments themselves was a frieze that ran along one of the outer walls, from floor to Jack's eye level, about five feet high. The carvings depicted images of hell: warnings of the torments that would be inflicted on the unprepared. It was obviously a message to the living rather than those housed within, for whom it was too late.

Jack was fascinated by the grimacing faces with their vacant eye sockets, toothy grins, and snakelike hair. One carving, of a man with a malevolent sneer, especially drew Jack's eye. Despite the absence of eyeballs, the figure seemed to be returning Jack's stare. Like portals opening onto an endless nothingness, the sightless sockets seemed to draw Jack in.

He had little awareness of how long he sat there, watching papers being shuffled, listening to the incomprehensible voices echoing round the vault. But suddenly, the reading seemed to be over, and people were coming up to him, shaking him by the hand and saying a few words before filing out.

Jack found himself alone in the vault with Mr Tumbler, while a few functionaries collapsed the table and removed chairs and candles. Mr Tumbler was gathering his papers, taciturn as ever. Jack presumed that he would be informed of the outcome shortly. In the meantime, he took a closer look at the interior, keen to show an interest, even if he was only a bastardo.

As Jack approached the casket of the most recent addition, reputedly his great aunt, he suddenly found himself plunged into darkness. Someone had closed the entrance doors. Jack called out to Mr Tumbler, but he too seemed to have disappeared. Only one candle remained, wanly flickering. Jack started to panic. Where had the doorway gone?

Sweat began to trickle down his back as a nightmare from his boyhood surfaced; something he hadn't thought about in years. In this dream, a spectral hand would systematically extinguish the lights of the family home, until Jack found himself stumbling around in the dark, calling for his parents. Then, just as he thought he was going to suffocate, his mother's voice would finally find his ear. "It's alright, Jack," she would say, and he would wake to find her bending over him, stroking his face.

Smoothing down his hair, Jack realised he was trying to recreate her comforting touch. He made his way across to the lone, flickering candle and removed it from its sconce, careful not to disturb the wan flame. Stumbling round the chamber, he tried to locate the doorway.

Being left in this space, alone, was terrifying enough, but then, more chillingly, he realised he was far from alone. Albeit in differing stages of decomposition, many others were present, including his recently departed great aunt. Moreover, because he shared their blood, he also realised that, in some strange way, this might be where he belonged.

With mounting panic, Jack clawed his way along the wall until he encountered the stone frieze, which, as he remembered, ran along the outer wall. In one direction, he knew it had to lead to the door. He moved his hand over the immobile figures as he stumbled along, hoping to discover the entranceway. These carved beings had been hideous enough to gaze upon, but their touch, rough beneath his hand, was worse. They felt more substantial and real.

Jack's probing hand involuntarily withdrew as he realised he'd encountered the man with the sneer. His fingers had been tracing the wormlike lips, curling back from the granular teeth that encircled the mouth cavity before he comprehended who it was. Tentatively, he reached out again, thinking he'd moved beyond this figure. But somehow it was still beneath his touch: the slightly upturned nose leading into those hungry eye sockets, which seemed to swallow Jack's probing fingers. They felt bottomless. He hastily withdrew his hand, for his touch seemed to have aroused the figure. Unlike the rest of the frieze, it now felt warm, as though it had come alive within the stonework. Jack envisaged this granular figure as having once been human and, somehow, had become trapped within the frieze.

At this disturbing thought, Jack tried to push himself away from the ravening frieze, but his left hand was suddenly arrested, stone fingers clamping his wrist. He was momentarily petrified as he imagined himself experiencing the very fate he'd just been picturing. But, as he then realised, rather than trying to drag him into the stone, this figure seemed to be using Jack's arm for leverage, as though seeking to work itself free of the stone. Jack felt the creature's thumb over his pulse, envious, perhaps, of his animated condition.

Several things then happened simultaneously. Jack moved the candlestick so that he could view his manacled wrist more clearly. As he did so, hot wax guttered onto it. The pain nearly made him drop the candle but, somehow, he managed to sustain the quivering flame. But, as he could now more clearly see, it was not just hot wax that pained him. Blood was oozing from his wrist, albeit staunched by the hand that clamped him, providing an effective tourniquet.

Jack initially thought he might have inflicted this wound on himself, gashing his wrist when he'd jerked his hand away from the wax. But he then realised he'd been bitten! And with that recognition came a fear of vampirism. At the time, Dracula was all the rage in London, and Jack and Bob often pretended to be members of the undead, standing in front of the mirror comparing canines.

However, though Jack now braced himself for some real bloodletting, nothing else happened. The hand released his wrist and, in that instant, the figure appeared to slump back into the frieze.

With a gust of wind, the doors of the mausoleum sprang open. Light flooded in. Jack's eyes, once they had adjusted to the brightness, looked at the frieze once again. The stone figure was, without a doubt, lifeless, such that Jack felt confident enough to prod it. It now felt cold, and yet, on its teeth, was that not blood he could see?

Jack tarried no longer. He scurried out into the sunshine in search of other living beings—even Mr Tumbler's presence would have been welcome! To his surprise, though, the place was deserted: no people, no carriages, nothing. He had been abandoned.

Jack sat on the rocks a while. From his breast pocket, he pulled out a white, folded handkerchief—the final accessory provided by the tailor—and spent some time fastening it round his injured wrist. He didn't want blood on his new suit.

As he sat there, basking on a rocky outcrop in the sunshine, he began to feel drowsy and soon fell into a doze. Almost immediately, he began to dream. He dreamt he was back in the mausoleum, trapped within the frieze, vainly struggling to pull himself free. But the more he struggled, the tighter the stone seemed to hold him, until he could scarcely move at all. He woke in a sweat, to find he'd slipped between two boulders. Back in the land of the living, he relaxed and soon freed himself.

Looking back towards the mausoleum, he could see that the doors were now shut. Had it all been a bad dream, he wondered. But a throbbing at his wrist made him realise it had not. After another few minutes, lying in the sun, recollecting the morning's strange events, he realised that he had little option but to make his own way back to Verona.

Stumbling along the hot dusty track, he reflected on the irony of his situation. He might have just inherited a fortune, yet here he was, tramping the countryside like a beggar. Certainly, Mr Tumbler had told him nothing about his current situation, or explained why he'd gone off without saying a word to his client. Why had Mr Cumbersome abandoned him?

As he continued on his way back to Verona, he came to the conclusion that he was not cut out for this sort of life. Delivering messages had been a far simpler existence. However, just as he was beginning to feel completely forsaken, an oxcart pulled alongside him and, through sign language, Jack realised he was being offered a ride. The man took him all the way to the city gate, restoring Jack's faith in humanity. "Grazie, grazie," intoned Jack, embarrassed that he could not say more.

Somehow, he found his way from the gate to his hotel. He took himself straight to his room and, after discarding his suit, collapsed into bed. Once again, he found himself dreaming that he was trapped within the frieze. This time, when he woke, he found that he'd managed to twist himself within his bedclothes. His wrist was again throbbing.

Jack got up and took a bath (a rare treat) before changing into some fresh clothes and going down to the lobby. Here, someone caught site of his wrist and insisted on dressing it properly. Another member of the staff then passed Jack a note. He was delighted to see that it was from Mr Cumbersome, asking Jack to meet him at a nearby taverna at six o'clock, which was just half an hour away. Jack asked directions and set off for their rendezvous.

He found Mr Cumbersome hidden away in an alcove. "My dear fellow, I feared the worst," he said, greeting Jack like a long-lost friend. He indicated the seat opposite and poured Jack a glass of wine. "Oh, and your wrist! What have you done?"

Jack dismissed the wound as a mere scratch from scuffing the mausoleum stonework.

"I cannot apologise enough for this morning's events," continued Cumbersome. "Abandoning you like that! You must think me very rude."

"It certainly wasn't youwho abandoned me," said Jack, with some passion.

"And where did you get to?" enquired Cumbersome. "My partner said you'd disappeared. He thought you'd returned with the others."

Jack bridled at this, becoming quite tearful as he told Cumbersome how he'd been left at the mausoleum, but he omitted any mention of his spooky encounter. Cumbersome was particularly surprised to hear that Jack knew nothing about his inheritance. So, when Jack was informed that he was to receive £150 immediately, he was all smiles. For an errand boy, it sounded a fortune.

They then paused while some antipasti were ordered: salami, mortadella, prosciutto, bread, cheese, and olives. Only when they were into their second glass of wine did Cumbersome elaborate on events. The rest of the inheritance, he explained to Jack, might now go to Alfonso Giuliani, the legitimate heir, who had suddenly reappeared.

"When Mr Tumbler returned earlier today, I initially thought it was you sitting with him, but … it was not. It was Alfonso."

"Well, that's alright," said Jack. "With £150, I can buy myself a barrow and sell fruit. I'll be set up."

Cumbersome smiled indulgently. "Are you a Bible reader, Jack?" he asked. The lad shrugged. "Deuteronomy 5," went on the solicitor: " 'For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, and on the third and the fourth generations.' Ever heard that before?" Jack nodded, recalling Sunday school. "Well, Mr Alfonso is, indeed, of the fourth generation."

"Fourth generation since what?"

"Since your great-grandfather, Arturo Carmello, was murdered by the Giuliani family."

"Murdered!"

"Unfortunately so. The Giulianis were not an honourable lot. The reason they approached an English firm to oversee their affairs was to avoid the scrutiny of their countrymen."

Mr Cumbersome paused as the food appeared. For a while, they ate in silence, Jack scrupulously following Cumbersome's culinary example. Eventually, the lawyer poured more wine and continued.

"The Giulianis were part of an unpleasant cult that sought to purify the race. I don't really understand much of it, but the long and the short is, your great-grandfather was sacrificed in some primitive ritual."

Jack almost choked.

"At first, the Giuliani family pretended your ancestor had met with an accident. But then their misfortunes began. The firstborn sons of the next two generations died before reaching their majority. The son was killed when his 'spooked' horse crushed him. As for the grandson, he was out on a wild boar hunt and somehow managed to fall from a rocky ledge, although he knew the terrain well. Both suffered similar, fatal injuries: multiple broken bones. The grandson was just ten at the time."

Again, Cumbersome took a breather while they finished their antipasti, washed down with yet more wine.

"Old Giuliani, who survived this carnage, was devastated. After the initial death of his son under his horse, the old man attempted to divert the curse by encouraging a liaison between his nephew and your paternal grandmother. But then, when your father—the bastardo in question—grew up in rude health, the old count was incensed. And, of course, he dared not harm any more Carmellos! So, he paid to be rid of them, securing their emigration to England. He perhaps thought that a good deed might appease the curse.

"It did not. Only one of the dead grandson's sisters produced a boy and he, too, never reached adulthood. A bizarre fall from the roof of the family villa finished him. We then come to the fourth generation, with Alfonso's birth. He was the only child of Count Giuliani's granddaughter, who died giving birth to him. From day one, Alfonso was swaddled in cotton wool."

Cumbersome reached for the recently delivered coffee pot and poured for the two of them. "Which brings me to your involvement." He looked sharply at Jack. "When the Giulianis heard about your father's death, their hopes were raised. Perhaps, after all, the curse had been passed on (though your father was almost fifty at the time!). So, with the death of Alfonso's great aunt, the old count's sister, it was agreed that the young man would go into hiding, and you would be summoned."

"You mean," Jack stirred in his chair, "if there was to be a fourth-generation victim, they hoped it would be me?"

Cumbersome nodded. "I'd like to emphasise that I had no knowledge of this plan until my colleague, Mr Tumbler, enlightened me."

Eventually, they walked back to the hotel, the lawyer protectively taking Jack by the arm.

Jack went immediately to bed, still worn out after the day's events. He enjoyed several hours sleep before something woke him. He wasn't sure what. At first, he thought it was his wrist, now throbbing painfully. But then he heard banging overhead. Someone seemed to be slinging furniture around. Was it a domestic row? Jack wondered. Then, after a final, climactic clatter, silence resumed. The throbbing in his wrist also ceased and, once again, Jack fell into a slumber.

The next morning, Jack was coming out of the lift when Mr Tumbler pushed by him without a word. The lawyer was followed by a porter, laden with luggage, scurrying after him. They both left the hotel as the police entered.

Now that Jack looked around, he could see that the whole hotel was in disarray with staff appearing distracted. The breakfast room was in similar turmoil. However, Jack was pleased to see Mr Cumbersome looking as unflustered as ever.

"I just saw Mr Tumbler leave the hotel," began Jack.

"Your last sight of him, I suspect," said Cumbersome. "Do have some breakfast, then I suggest we go somewhere quieter."

They ate in companionable silence while the waiters moved uneasily around the tables. As Cumbersome had suggested, they then relocated to their previous rendezvous, the taverna. Once settled, they ordered coffee and Cumbersome updated Jack, revealing some information that he, himself, had only recently gleaned.

According to Tumbler, the plan had been for Alfonso to lie low, protecting himself—as they'd already discussed. But the boy had been too eager to pursue his inheritance, which was why Tumbler had so suddenly raced over from England, to keep him out of the limelight. Alfonso, though—a hot-headed youth—had been unable to resist going to the mausoleum. "Tumbler had brought him back, as you know, and hidden him in the hotel."

"Alfonso was there?"

"Was is the right word," said Cumbersome. "Brace yourself, my boy. The curse has finally claimed its fourth-generation victim: Alfonso Giuliani is dead."

Jack almost dropped his coffee cup.

"He was found this morning, his body—bizarrely—exhibiting the same signs of morbidity as his ancestors'. That is, a number of bones had been broken, as if he'd been crushed by something—a horse, possibly—or fallen from a great height …" Cumbersome poured more coffee. "Except that, he can only have fallen out of bed!"

Jack recalled the bangs and bumps he'd heard, then Mr Tumbler's hasty departure, the strange behaviour of the hotel staff, the arrival of the police. It all now fitted together, although Jack would like to have dismissed his thoughts as fanciful. It really was like one of his penny dreadful serials. However, the memory of that leering stone figure cleaved his tongue. Somehow, Jack was convinced, that creature was responsible for Alfonso's death and, perhaps, the deaths of others, too. Would it now come looking for him?

With this thought, Jack managed to siphon his last mouthful of coffee down his nose and started to choke.

Oh my goodness!" Cumbersome was on his feet, slapping Jack on the back. "Don't croak on us now, old chap!"

When the two returned to the hotel, the police were still there. Although Jack could hardly have been capable of causing Alfonso's injuries, the authorities were duty-bound to interview him, given that he might now be the main beneficiary of the Giuliani estate, with a vested interest in Alfonso's demise.

The interview was an ordeal, especially as it had to be conducted through an interpreter (fortunately, Cumbersome obliged). But Jack found it less intimidating than what he was asked to do afterwards, for the police had tracked down the man who had driven Alfonso to the mausoleum (in the carriage that Jack had thought he'd heard).

Accordingly, the driver, along with Jack, the priest, and some of the others present at the mausoleum, had been requested to attend a reconstruction of the events leading to Alfonso's bizarre death. The police had really wanted Mr Tumbler there, but he, of course, was unavailable.

Eventually, the moment came when Jack was asked to re-enact his time alone in the mausoleum. He was panicky: they were asking him to replay his worst nightmare! However, he soon realised it would not be as before, for not only would the chief of police have to be present but, because of the language barrier, Mr Cumbersome too. Aside from that, the whole interior now looked different, ablaze with candlelight.

Standing in front of the frieze, Jack tried to show them how he had cut his wrist on the stone figure's teeth, except that this action proved impossible, for the teeth curved inward. Jack realised he was making little sense. Fortunately, Mr Cumbersome seemed to be conveying a more convincing story to the police chief, who nodded appreciatively.

While they talked, Jack summoned the courage to look more directly at the sneering figure. But the sneer had gone. Jack smiled as it dawned on him what the figure had really been doing yesterday. It had been establishing his blood line and discovered, presumably, that he was not related to the Giulianis after all. That, Jack surmised, must have been a rumour spread by the family in order to outwit the curse. But the curse knew better—and it had now run its course … or so Jack hoped.

Needless to say, Jack shared none of these thoughts with the police, nor with Mr Cumbersome. He looked again at the stone figure. It would be fanciful to say that they exchanged a look, but somehow, Jack felt he had a confidant. That sneer now appeared to be on the verge of a grin.

2

On the journey back to London, Mr Cumbersome had made Jack consider his future carefully, advising him that, when his inheritance was finalised, he should acquire some property, investing his capital in something solid and worthwhile. He might, for example, consider buying a smart house for his family.

However, as Jack had anticipated, his mother refused to leave the East End. She was quite happy, she said, living where she was, together with some Russian refugees they'd recently taken in.

Cumbersome had also suggested that Jack buy a place for himself and, of course, give up being an errand boy. Jack, though, couldn't contemplate being on his own—especially after his recent experiences. He was quite content, he told Cumbersome, to stay on at Mrs Jade's, even if he wasn't running errands all day.

In the event, though, Jack found his new life very strange and unsatisfactory. He would still join his pals for the morning rush, getting up at 6.30 and poking down his breakfast with them. However, they'd then scurry off to work, leaving him at a loss. He would wander the capital, supposedly exploring London's sights (another suggestion of Mr Cumbersome's).

More often than not, though, Jack would end up in a teashop drinking endless cuppas. In the evenings, he'd re-join his pals for an evening meal and listen enviously to the day's events.

Jack was only too aware that his friends knew about his elevated status. He tried his best to share his good fortune with them, funding outings—like a trip to the new picture palace and treating the lads to gobstoppers, wine gums and fizzy pop. But a gulf was opening between them, as Jack was aware. Cumbersome had been right: it had been a mistake trying to hold on to his old life. Even with his best friend Bob, some of the magic had gone.

#

Three weeks after Jack's return, a small package was delivered to Mrs Jade's, all the way from Italy. The lads had gone off to work, so she was the only one to see Jack open it. Inside the brown paper and corrugated cardboard, Jack uncovered a small box and a letter. He opened the latter and read it through, pleased with his new accomplishment of reading silently. The letter, dated 3 ^rd June 1910, was from Mr Tumbler, someone Jack had never expected to hear from again.

The lawyer expressed his regrets at the way events had unfolded. It was, he said, beyond his control. He also apologised for the length of time it was taking to sort out Jack's inheritance. But, as the lawyer explained, there were many interested parties involved in the estate. However, as Tumbler went on, as he was also responsible for sorting out Alfonso Giuliani's affairs, he could pass on the Giuliani ring, which was traditionally passed to the next, eligible male relative.

Jack was honoured, though surprised to receive this news from Tumbler rather than Cumbersome. Jack opened the box and gazed at the heavy gold ring with a crest on the top.

"That's some ring!" exclaimed Mrs Jade.

Jack's initial reaction, though, was one of revulsion. He really didn't want anything more to do with that despicable family, regardless of how well off they might eventually make him. They had, after all, murdered his grandfather. He decided, therefore, to put the ring away.

However, as he made his way upstairs, he slipped the ring onto his finger, just to see how it looked. It was certainly impressive and fitted him perfectly. Standing before the bedroom mirror, he felt an inward glow. What a toff he was becoming!

#

Mr Cumbersome was certainly surprised to hear Jack's news. Having heard nothing since his partner's hasty departure, Cumbersome presumed the man had been incarcerated by the Italian authorities. Certainly, as Cumbersome frequently complained, Tumbler's disappearance had burdened him with a great deal of extra work.

After admiring the ring, Cumbersome showed Jack how it functioned. He melted some wax in a metal container then dropped a blob of the hot liquid onto some paper before getting Jack to imprint the crest of the ring in the solidifying wax. Jack was impressed. There was the Giuliani crest: twin greyhounds, head to toe, between which stood a bundle of sticks wrapped around an axe head.

"It's a signet ring—allowing you to leave your official signet-ure," said Cumbersome, smiling at his wordplay. "However, it is easier to use such a ring when it's worn on the little finger," he added.

Jack swapped it immediately, and both were surprised to see how well it seemed to adapt to the smaller digit. But more surprising to Jack was the feeling he'd experienced when he'd plucked the band from his ring finger. It was as if the thing didn't want to let go. And, when he'd finally detached it, Jack had felt strangely bereft, a feeling that persisted until the ring was snug on his little finger.

That evening, Jack showed the ring to the others. "Proper count now, aren't we?" said Tom, a relative newcomer to Mrs Jade's. Jack thought the lad was a bit out of order, especially given the way he mispronounced "count," but Jack said nothing. He was relieved when it was time for bed and he and Bob bade the others goodnight.

" 'Bunny hoppy'?" queried Bob as they climbed the stairs. Jack looked perplexed. "That foreign stuff you was spouting at them," clarified Bob.

"Buona notte?" Jack suggested. "Did I say that?"

"Right little Eyetalian you're becoming," said Bob, "and you don't even know it!"

In the morning, he and Bob managed to bag the bathroom first. They stood alongside each other, shaving. Neither really needed to, but it was a marker of manhood that each was keen to cultivate.

Jack had had a particularly disturbing night, the stone figure—a not infrequent nocturnal visitor—pervading his dreams. So perhaps he wasn't concentrating enough, for his razor suddenly skidded over his cheek and down across his outstretched throat. Despite swiftly arresting the blade's momentum, Jack still managed to nick his flesh.

Bob took a step back. "Cor! Not called a cutthroat for nothing," he joked.

Jack, dripping blood, tried to staunch the flow with cold water and soap. The two watched as the lather in the bowl turned from pink to a deeper red. At this point, Jack made the mistake of looking his reflection in the eye. His cutthroat clattered into the basin, splashing Bob.

"Blimey, Jack! You's a clumsy article today!"

"Scusi," Jack muttered.

"You what?" said Bob. He flicked the lather off his own cutthroat, splattering Jack's reflection in the mirror. "You don't even know you're doing it, do you?" said Bob, this time flicking the residue of lather directly at Jack. "Anyway," said Bob, making his way out the door, "Some of us 'as work to go to!"

#

Jack said hardly anything during breakfast. He watched enviously as his pals bustled around before heading off on their daily errands. Life had been so simple until recently: go here, deliver this; go there, deliver that. Now he felt rudderless.

He returned to his room and put on his jacket, hat, and the new ring. After Tom's comment the night before, he'd resisted wearing it at breakfast, though it had proved a struggle.

Outside, it was sunny and warm—more like Verona weather, in fact—and Jack immediately felt better. He wandered idly—something he did most days—and soon found himself in Hyde Park. Following the crowds, he ended up at Speakers' Corner.

It was providential. The speaker seemed to be addressing Jack's personal concerns directly. According to Mr Mancaster, the speaker—a posh-sounding man in a check suit, sporting a fine pair of moustaches—an increasing number of English people felt displaced, as though they didn't belong anymore. Thanks to a foreign invasion, English customs and values were being lost, with immigrants stealing Englishmen's jobs.

"England for the English!" went up the cry, and Jack was soon chanting alongside the others in the swelling audience.

After the meeting, many in the crowd made their way to the East End. Jack tagged along. When they came across a street market, some of the lads started upsetting the stacked goods on the stalls and pinching items. A woman who challenged them had her cart overturned. They ran off, laughing. Jack realised he also needed to run, or risk arrest. As he charged down the street with them, he pictured himself as Spring-heeled Jack, the penny dreadful hero. It was a name that Bob sometimes conferred on him. Jack felt energised, his blood pounding through him.

When the police appeared, the lads scattered. Jack, most familiar with the neighbourhood, led the way. They were quite near his parents' house. He had thought of hiding out there with a few of his new acquaintances, but then remembered his grandparents, who still looked and sounded Italian; and then there were the Russian immigrants! Jack led them elsewhere, quickly outpacing their flatfooted pursuers.

#

Over time, Jack became more involved with this rebellious bunch, known as The Brotherhood. At first, he'd tried to conceal his Italian background, but one day, while they were in a bar listening to Mancaster speak, Jack had let slip the provenance of his ring. He knew he shouldn't wear such a valuable thing so openly, but he couldn't bear to take it off.

To Jack's surprise, Mr Mancaster expressed a respect for Italy's "rediscovery of its glorious Roman past. Even now, it is seeking to recover its historical territories through a policy of irridentism." Although Jack was not sure what "irridentism" meant, he began to view his Italian heritage more positively. Before long, he realised he actually thought of himself as a Giuliani, not a Carmello, despite the fact that, if he had been one of them, the curse would have exterminated him by now! Once again, Jack recalled the granular hold of that stone figure, and shuddered.

It was only a few days after this that "Jacko," as he now liked to be known, received another communication from Mr Tumbler. The man apologised for the delay in finalising the conditions of the will: tying up loose ends, unpicking the intricacies of tenancies and leaseholds, establishing ownership and stewardship of the various farms, vineyards, and other properties. Jack had heard Mr Cumbersome say similar things, although there were hints that he held his partner responsible for the delays.

However, Tumbler's letter did suggest a way forward, given that Jack's legitimacy (or official status as bastardo) was one of the main bones of contention. Tumbler recommended that Jack appear in Verona in person. As he read these words, Jack's face lit up. It was as though some unconscious plan he'd been formulating was finally coming to fruition. Bizarrely, Jack saw it in terms of returning to his fatherland.

The letter concluded by requesting a swift response from Jack, while cautioning him—"at the risk of jeopardising your inheritance"—against sharing this plan with Cumbersome. Jack was shocked. The latter was his mentor, the one who'd seen him through so many scrapes. Even now, though they disagreed on many things (like Jack's association with The Brotherhood), the man—unlike Tumbler—was his ally. This said, the opportunity to return to Italy burned in Jack's mind such that it soon overrode all other considerations. Besides which, Jack thought he might be able to slip away and return without Cumbersome even noticing his absence.

Jack thus accepted Tumbler's invitation and, shortly thereafter, tickets and other official documents were couriered to him. As he received the documents from the errand boy, Jack found himself chuckling. Only a short while ago, he would have been the courier. He tipped the boy generously.

#

This trip to Verona formed a marked contrast to his last one. Jack felt so much more confident. The idea that he was going back to the fatherland—rather than leaving it behind—had lodged itself in his mind. And the closer he came to Verona, with its distinctive landscape, smells, and sounds, the stronger grew this notion of homecoming. The stronger, too, grew Jack's command of Italian, which had previously been rudimentary.

Jack didn't expect Tumbler to meet him at the train station and, sure enough, the man was absent. Before long, though, Jack was approached by a man with a cart who had been sent to escort Jack to the hotel. Jack was buoyant at his ability to journey across Europe on his own. However, as the Hotel Stazione di Verona loomed ahead, his confidence waned.

The hideous sounds of Alfonso's murder suddenly rang in his head. Moreover, although it had all taken place in the room above him, the memory was so visceral that Jack pictured himself experiencing the crushing grip of the stone figure, his bruised bones finally cracking and splintering, his lungs puncturing and then … that awful choking sensation as blood bubbled in his windpipe.

"Hey!" shouted a voice. It released Jack from that dreadful memory. The driver, he realised, was shouting at him for, unwittingly, Jack had hold of his arm. As Jack once again took in his surroundings, he saw that they had now moved beyond the Stazione to their destination. Jack let out the breath he'd been holding. He was a Carmello, he reassured himself, not a Giuliani. Hence, he was still alive.

As Jack checked in, he was handed a note from Tumbler. It suggested a meeting the following morning, at eleven, on the hotel terrace.

Exhausted, Jack unpacked his essentials and, although it was still early, readied himself for bed. Brushing his teeth in front of the small mirror beside his jug and ewer, though, Jack had another disturbing experience. His features suddenly appeared alien. His lips looked fuller, redder; his nose more prominent and aquiline; his brows thicker and his complexion darker, showing the distinct shadow of stubble. In another second, his face was back to normal, leaving aside his gaping mouth with a drool of white tooth powder bubbling down his chin.

Ever since that earlier experience with the cutthroat razor, Jack had been wary of mirrors, but he tried not to dwell on that now. "I need some rest!" he told himself, not even noticing that he'd spoken in Italian.

Unfortunately, his dreams offered little respite, The stone man was there again, lying across Jack's chest, suffocating him. Jack had tried in vain to throw him off. After what seemed an age, he finally woke, gasping for air. As he became more conscious of his surroundings, he realised that he was lying, not on his back, but on his chest. The immoveable object against which he had been pushing so fruitlessly, was the mattress beneath him.

Jack gave up on sleep. It was now early morning. He dressed and went out for some fresh air. Despite everything, he loved Verona, and in this pale, early morning light, it looked spectacular. Apart from a few road cleaners, he encountered no one until he came across a group of young men performing gymnastics in a park. Jack stopped to admire their muscular, tanned bodies before eventually returning to the hotel for breakfast.

After that, he sat on the terrace, nursing a coffee, awaiting Tumbler. He hardly recognised the man who finally approached him, though, for he had changed so much. Tumbler had been a big man before, but he was now heavier than ever. This said, Jack also thought the man looked less formidable, perhaps because Jack was conscious of his flakiness.

"Good to see you again, er, Jack. Or, perhaps, Giacomo?" he said, extending his hand.

Jack took it, surprised both at the man's unexpected civility and the fact that he'd suggested an Italian version of his name. Jack didn't object. He already thought of himself as "Jacko."

"And this is Signor Ludovico Bianchi," said Tumbler, turning to the gentleman alongside him. This had been another reason why Jack didn't recognise the lawyer. He'd been looking for someone on his own. "Signor Bianchi was keen to meet a representative of the Giuliani family," said Tumbler, gesturing to the empty seats. "May we?"

Jack nodded and started to explain that he was not a proper Giuliani. However, they were not listening, busy calling over the waiter.

Bianchi was an impressive figure: taller than most Italians and with pale skin. He wore a fedora hat, perhaps to protect his clean-shaven skin. Jack put the man in his mid-thirties.

Bianchi's agenda dominated the conversation, with no mention of a meeting with the Giulianis. Bianchi, Jack gathered, was a politician of sorts, who intended to hold a rally in the Arena di Verona—a well-preserved Roman amphitheatre in the city—to launch a new political movement, one that recognised Italy as the obvious place to found a new Roman Empire.

Bianchi said he was very keen that the Giulianis—the greatest and oldest family in Venetia—were officially represented. Once again, Jack started to protest but Tumbler spoke over him.

"Giacomo," he said, "we think it would be wise if you use the Giuliani name while you are here, making your position more official."

Jack had no objection. In fact, he delighted in the idea, knowing that it would help secure his position as rightful heir, while he was also aware that he was immune to the Giuliani curse. Bianchi then gestured to a gang of youths on the far side of the terrace. They were the group Jack had admired earlier, practising their gymnastics.

"Some outstanding examples of our new Italian youth," proclaimed Bianchi, idly reaching out an arm and squeezing the bicep of the youth nearest him. "Along with others, they will give an impressive display of Italian strength and discipline in the Arena." Bianchi reached out to another of his acolytes, massaging the young man's shoulder.

Jack was surprised when Bianchi then reached over and took Jack by the arm. His grip was disturbingly reminiscent of the stone man's. "This is Giacomo Giuliani," announced Bianchi, holding up Jack's arm and pointing to the ring on his little finger. "The oldest son of our most celebrated family."

Bianchi proceeded to explain the symbolism of the bundle of sticks encompassing the axe head. "The fasces represent unity, strength in numbers, and singleness of purpose. But also," and here he indicated the protruding axe, "might and power." Letting go of Jack's arm, Bianchi interlaced his own hands and executed a scything sweep with his arms extended. He was imitating the grim reaper, of course, but in Jack's mind, the reaper was a man of stone.

Until this moment, Jack had not been sure why Bianchi had spent so long describing the fasces, but he now witnessed each member of the troupe flexing his right bicep, shirtsleeves rolled tight to display their tattoo of that symbol.

Bianchi turned again to Jack. "We are so pleased to have the blessing of the Giuliani family," he said.

Jack was not sure what was being agreed to. Permission to use the fasces symbol, or the family name? Or … did they expect Jack to donate some of his inheritance? For the moment, he just nodded approvingly.

Nico, who seemed to be the leader of the troupe, now turned to Jack, inviting him to watch them perform in the Piazza dei Signori that evening. Jack was honoured, despite being acutely conscious of how weedy a specimen he looked alongside them. Clearly, it was the Giuliani name that carried the kudos. Jack looked to Mr Tumbler, in case the lawyer had any alternative plans, but the man was ignoring him, talking animatedly to Bianchi. Jack told Nico he'd be delighted to attend.

#

It turned out to be a most eventful evening. Nico and his team demonstrated not only their gymnastic proficiency but also their skills in acrobatics, swordsmanship, boxing, and juggling. After their performance, when the crowds had dispersed, Nico suggested a few drinks. Jack was game.

Being out with the lads reminded him of nights with the The Brotherhood. Both groups enjoyed a drink, a joke—and a fight or two. But, after a few glasses of wine, Jack knew he'd had enough. He excused himself, thanking them for their companionship and—only at that moment—realising that all evening he'd been speaking Italian.

Heading back to his hotel, Jack became aware of feet thumping behind him. Initially, he thought it must be Bianchi's boys, keen to prolong the night's fun. But, as Jack turned, a fist cracked him on the temple. It was a gang of street urchins, dressed in ragged clothing, some even barefoot. What they lacked in attire, though, they made up for in weaponry. They brandished slings, catapults, sticks, and knives.

Jack was wondering why he'd been picked on. He didn't look particularly affluent. But next thing, he felt someone tugging at his hand. Of course! His ring. It always attracted attention. Jack was about to put up some resistance when he saw a blade in his attacker's hand. He was going to lose his finger! Jack quickly tugged off the ring, flinging it down the street. As it rang across the cobbles, he felt an immediate pang of loss. Even so, his finger was far more precious.

The only other thing he could do was yell. "Ladro!" he attempted to say, but the word was suddenly meaningless. "Thief!" was all he could enunciate.

He had hoped Bianchi's boys would hear him, but it was someone else who responded. Amidst the street urchins who were fighting amongst themselves for possession of the ring, another figure materialised. Suddenly, the boys in the midst of the fray were laid waste like ninepins. Jack was momentarily confused: was it the cavalry, or was it his Calvary? For there stood the stone man, whose bottomless eye sockets seemed to swallow him, and, indeed, almost everything else in the Piazza. Jack was therefore oblivious to the Bianchi Boys charging into view, pursuing the remaining street kids down passageways. Only Nico and one other stayed behind to attend to Jack.

"What did they do to you, Giacomo?" Nico was saying, but Jack couldn't understand a word. All he managed to do was waggle his little finger, showing the lighter skin where the Giuliani band no longer shone.

The Bianchi Boys carried Jack back to his hotel, making sure he was safe in his room before leaving him. Jack lay on his bed, confused. What was going on? What was he doing here? He now felt a desperate yearning to be back, safe and sound, in England. To be back with Cumbersome, Bob, his Mum, the lads …

#

It was late morning before a maid discovered Jack in his room. She thought the broken young man, sprawled across the bed, was a corpse. She informed the manager, who summoned Tumbler, his name gleaned from a booking slip.

Tumbler arrived, but only for a brief reconnaissance. Seeing Jack, lying there, Tumbler experienced an awful sense of déjà vu, recalling his earlier discovery of Alfonso's body, crushed and misshapen. Back then, Tumbler had gone to Alfonso's room to discuss some legal matters, but when he'd beheld the state of play, he'd thought it wise to take charge of the Giuliani ring. However, it turned out to be a harder task than he'd envisaged, for the ring had become embedded in Alfonso's flesh. Tumbler had taken the view that more damage to the body would make little difference. He had twisted the finger until, with a snap, both finger and ring were freed.

Looking down at Jack, though, Tumbler could see that, this time, there was no ring. Once again, as he now realised, his plans had been thwarted. Ringless, and in this condition, Jack would be of no use to Bianchi's cause, which meant that Tumbler would, once again, have to disappear.

Before he left, though, Tumbler undertook two uncharacteristic actions. He arranged for Jack to be sent to hospital and then contacted the London office of the firm that still bore his name, requesting that his partner be informed of Jack's condition and whereabouts. Cumbersome, he knew, was good at this sort of thing.

#

Less than a week later, a shocked Cumbersome appeared at the Sisters of Mercy Hospital, whence Jack had been removed. The lawyer felt partly responsible for Jack's condition and, over the next few days, spent many hours at his bedside. However, as Jack showed no signs of reviving from his trance-like state, Cumbersome eventually acquiesced to the procedure recommended by the sisters: an exorcism.

Over the next five days, the Prayer for St Michael was recited. However, nothing dramatic resulted. Had this purgation begun earlier, when Jack was still under Alfonso's spell, things might been different. But Giuliani's malevolent presence had gone with the ring. All that the hospital bed contained was Jack's bodily shell. His spirit was elsewhere, carried off by the stone man. When Jack, lying comatose, had seen that figure approaching, he'd anticipated some crushing blows, but they were not forthcoming. The creature simply carried him away, doors and walls proving no obstacle.

It was only as they journeyed out of Verona that the identity of this stone man finally dawned on Jack. It was his great-grandfather, Arturo Carmello, the man murdered by the Giulianis.

Up into the hills, the figure took Jack and, before he knew it, he once again found himself in that fearful mausoleum, except that this time Jack felt safe and secure, alongside Arturo, suspended within the frieze.

#

Back at the Sisters of Mercy Hospital, Cumbersome gazed down at Jack's inert form, not sure what more could be done. The only time that Jack had shown any signs of life was when Cumbersome had addressed him directly. But Cumbersome realised he was not close enough to Jack. That's when he recalled the boy talking about his best friend, Bob.

It was a long shot, but Cumbersome took immediate action. Jack was too ill to travel, so Bob would have to come to Verona. The lawyer arranged for one of the practice's scriveners to accompany him. As Cumbersome also needed someone to courier across documentation relating to the Giuliani estate, this suited him well (he realised he would get nothing out of Tumbler).

Eventually, an awestruck Bob arrived and Cumbersome escorted him to Jack's bedside. Bob hardly recognised the wasted figure. Jack's skin had the feel of builders' sand. Nevertheless, Bob did as he'd been bidden, chattering away to Jack about old times: their japes at Mrs Jade's, their journeys to and fro across London, delivering and collecting packages.

It was the tonic Jack needed. After several hours of Bob's unrelenting chat, Jack felt some part of himself detach from the frieze and come back to him. Shortly thereafter, the hospitalised Jack opened his eyes.

"Are you never going to shut up?" he muttered through parched lips. "We need some shut-eye before morning!" Bob grinned.

After this, Jack's recovery was dramatic. Cumbersome, freed from Jack's bedside, had managed to make some progress on the Giuliani estate and all three of them—Jack, Bob and Cumbersome—planned to return to London. Jack, however, announced that he had one more thing to do.

Cumbersome feared that it might involve attending the imminent Bianchi rally at the Arena, so was relieved when he heard Jack dismiss Bianchi and those "crazy irredentists." To Bob, it sounded as though Jack were speaking Eyetie again. His friend pictured a mob of angry dentists. It was a line that would later become a standing joke between the pals.

"I need to visit the Giuliani mausoleum," said Jack. Cumbersome was nonplussed but readily agreed.

#

Jack appeared surprisingly calm as the three of them entered the vault, each bearing a candle. Mr Cumbersome watched Jack march resolutely towards the frieze. All of a sudden, he halted in shock. Ahead of him, on a raised platform next to the great aunt, was the casket of the most recent Giuliani casualty: Alfonso. It was the more shocking for being such a small container, clearly all that was needed for Alfonso's crushed remains. Cumbersome was about to offer Jack some support when he heard the lad mutter, "Scusi." Jack moved across to the frieze.

He said only one other word before they all left the mausoleum: "Arturo." Bob and Cumbersome watched in awe as Jack reached out to the stone figure. It must have been a trick of the light, for, as Jack ran his hand over the carved features, they seemed to respond to his touch. His lawyer also watched Jack trace the faint outline of something alongside the stone man, some inchoate figure that the stonemason seemed to have abandoned.

#

Back in London, all three were in good spirits. Jack, in particular, looked more his old self. Cumbersome had bought a newspaper which carried a report on Bianchi's rally. "New Italian Renaissance dawns?" it queried. "Irredentist cause gains momentum."

What the newspaper did not mention was that an impressionable young man named Benito Mussolini had been there and, somehow, had come into possession of the Giuliani ring. At the time, it meant little, but down the years, the consequences would be seismic for both Jack and Bob, alongside millions of others.

That was the future, though. For the present, Jack looked forward to seeing his proper family once again, and rejoicing in the anonymity of Mrs Jade's boarding house, where he intended to resume his career as an errand boy. Of course, before he broke this news to Mr Cumbersome, he would choose his moment carefully.

THE END

Bio: Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing and found fulfillment. He has so far published around fifty stories. Recent works have appeared in Bandit Fiction, Bewildering Stories, The Blotter, Corner Bar Magazine, Jerry Jazz Musician, Literally Stories and Scribble

E-mail: David Rudd

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