Countess Bathory was, to say the least, an extremely elusive figure. Even for the locals, what was known about her was more likely just a myriad of carefully cultivated rumours and perceptions the Lady herself had crafted over the years. She was fierce as a tiger, they said; as clever as a crone and as magnanimous as a mother when the mood took her. If she looked into your eyes, there was no lie she could not see through and no crime she would not find out about despite dabbling in crime herself. When she did, her justice was swift and brutal. Her favourites were, of course, the claims that her beauty alone could make stone weep like men and men crack like stone. Those rumours she let spread like wildfire.
Delicately featured as he was, the man who opened the door was certainly not she. The hunched shoulders and the crest on the suit were that of a servant’s, as was the lanky bow he gave. And like any good servant, if he was surprised to see the spidery contraption in the yard, he did not show it as he waved the guest through. “This way, Professor. The Lady awaits.”
The man led him through the house, winding his way along the corridors and through to a study. This opened out to an outside gallery where a dark-haired woman read at a table, engrossed in the papers she had spread across it. There was a frown across her face and her fingers tapped in thought. It was only when the manservant coughed that she looked up. When she did, the relief was evident in her smile.
“Professor Langsdale. Thank you so much for coming, and all this way as well. It’s an honour to play host to someone Her Majesty holds in such esteem.” The woman stood in welcome and gestured to the chair opposite, inviting him to join her in the morning sun. She bent over the table, pouring tea into a cup she had already had set out for him.
“An honour,” Elizabeth Bathory repeated, a little more solemnly this time, “and doubly so if you should lend a hand in this horrible time.”
Once upon a time he would have been in awe at the beautiful and winding house he found himself in. That was the old Jack, the one who decided to finally leave home and venture around the country, the one who had yet to settle down in Goodwill, which had felt like a home only days after he had set foot inside the town’s boundaries. The new Jack – this one, who walked through these halls on detective duty, who tried to resemble some kind of picture of positivity regardless of the circumstances – had friends in high places, merely by coincidence, mind you, and not to try and make himself important, and was no longer fazed by the extravagance of homes.
He had never met the Countess, only ever having heard the rumours of her. Jack tried not to take rumours to heart; it was best to judge somebody’s character for one’s self after getting to know them. Even so, the moment he saw her, Jack realised that there was some truth to them.
Countess Bathory was a beautiful woman, who held herself proud and tall, and even looked to be the kind of person that held themselves in high esteem. There was nothing wrong with any of these things; those in positions of power had to have some kind of belief in themselves, if only for the wellbeing of their people.
Jack had to bite his tongue at first; there were people that the royal family held in higher regards, but those were people that were required around the palace for little secrets that weren’t revealed to the general public, though Jack could have a pretty decent guess.
‘I feel honoured to have been chosen for this task,’ Jack responded. He took the seat with a gentle smile that looked to say thank you. ‘And it’s such an honour to meet you, Lady Elizabeth, although I think the matter at hand is more important than pleasantries. If you wouldn’t mind telling me more about what’s been happening-?’
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