The Englishman
by WhyTK
The Englishman was in New York for business and pleasure. He was shocked to discover a connection to Collinsport, Maine.
Angelique, Rachel Drummond, OCs Jane and the Englishman
The Englishman met Jane in the summer of 1971, while he was in Miami on an assignment. She was just his type. She was beautiful. She was married. She was dissatisfied enough with her husband to act on her attraction to the Englishman, but content enough with her marriage that she would not make a row by deciding to leave her husband for a younger and more attractive man.
Jane never called him by his name. She always used terms of endearment, such as "Darling ... Sweetheart ... Baby ..." He asked her why once, and she said, "So I don't call my husband by the wrong name on one of the rare occasions when he has me so excited I can't think straight."
The Englishman replied, "That's a very practical approach to the situation."
America was full of people called Snowbirds, who spent their winters in Florida and their summers in New York or other Northerly places. By their standards, Jane was a bit mad. She lived in Miami all year, but spent two or three weeks in New York in the winter. And she went to New York City, not to the ski country "Upstate." She did a lot of shopping, saw some shows, and went to auctions to do shopping that was even more expensive.
The Englishman had taken a winter holiday to spend part of January 1972 with Jane in New York. It had mostly been grand. Now it was January 1973, and he was in New York on an assignment. Which meant the "firm" paid his airfare and expenses this time. He did the job, then he went on holiday to spend some time with Jane, and then he would fly back on the firm's tab. He checked into the same hotel as Jane, but they had separate rooms and did all their lovemaking in his room.
The tryst started well enough. They shared an Afternoon Delight— as a popular song three and a half years later would call it—in his hotel room, on the first day of his holiday and they had dinner at a splendid restaurant. Then Jane insisted on going to an auction. The last time the Englishman had been to an auction had been during an assignment. He had to sit through two hours of other junk being auctioned off just to see who bid on a bloody Fabergé egg.
This promised to be much worse. The auction house was auctioning off certain items from the estate of a madwoman named Angelique Bouchard. According to Jane, the woman was responsible for 18 murders for hire, two acts of arson, and seven counts of attempted murder by arson in the small town of Collinsport, Maine. Now, in accordance with her will, certain of her possessions were being sold at auction to benefit a charity the Englishman has never heard of. Talking in bed before going to dinner, he asked Jane why she was suddenly so interested in the relics of the criminally insane.
Jane replied, "Because of you, my love."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You carry a gun. I discovered that the first time we undressed each other. When
I asked you about it, you implied you had some kind of legal authority to carry it.
"But I have been reading up on guns since then. Guns and Ammo, Military Small Arms of the 20th Century, the Law Enforcement Handgun Digest, and other things.
I have learned that American policemen carry revolvers, either .38 Specials or .357 Magnums. The one big exception is the Illinois State Police, who carry Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter automatics. An undercover cop might carry a small, foreign automatic like yours, but not in a shoulder holster. That would not fit in with the people he is trying to infiltrate. And when you killed that mugger with your bare hands last year, you refused to call the police about it."
"I didn't kill him, I just 'roughed him up' as you Yanks would put it."
Jane was a Southerner. He liked to tease her by referring to all Americans as Yanks.
"Bullshit. He was not in the papers the next day. I guess he missed the deadline, pun intended. But he was in them the day after that. Far in the back pages. The headline did not read Two-Bit Career Criminal found dead in alley, but it might as well have. New York is not my town, but I have money, which means I can make connections anywhere I choose to seek them. I made some discrete inquiries. The man's arm and neck were broken. And the police attitude was good riddance."
A gun was a tool for punching holes in an object at a distance. The bloody fool of a robber was nearly within arm's length when he pulled his gun (a Beretta
.25 automatic, but a newer model than the Beretta one of the Englishman's predecessors had favored) on Jane and the Englishman. At that distance, the Englishman decided it would be faster to deal with him with his bare hands rather than trying to draw his pistol from its shoulder holster. He pretended to be so frightened that he dropped his wallet while trying to give it to the robber. The robber's eyes reflexively followed the wallet. Less than a second later, the robber's gun was hitting the sidewalk and his mouth was screaming. A blow to the back of his neck cut off the scream.
He dragged the fool back into the alley from whence he had come. He returned to the sidewalk to find Jane with his wallet in one hand and the other hand reaching for the robber's gun.
"No!" he said firmly. He picked up the gun with his handkerchief and dropped it
in the first storm drain they came across.
When they got back to the hotel, it was all he could do to keep Jane from stripping
him in the elevator. Lying in bed afterwards, she asked, "You have always paid for meals and taxis with a wallet you carry inside your jacket. Why do you carry a second wallet in your hip pocket? Just for guys like that mugger?"
"Exactly. There are 10 one-dollar bills in it. I've carried it for years, but this was the first time I had to use it. I must say it worked splendidly."
And then Jane asked him to show her his gun, the metal one that is. What caliber was it, what did all the markings on it mean, how did the controls work. He obliged her, as much as he could in a hotel room where they could not do any target shooting.
what must have been some sort of bottomless pit. But with one important difference—the end, frighteningly, never came.
One moment, only a short while after Vicki left 18th century Collinwood for what she believed would be the final time, she reunited at last with her destiny, for that had to be what Jeff Clark, no Peter Bradford MUST be...
Then she said, "If you are some kind of criminal, then you are MY criminal. And you are nothing like either the late, unlamented Angelique Bouchard or the even less lamented fool from the alley. But Bouchard interests me because she had so much and threw it all away, including her life, for mad, personal reasons.
"And I have bought some guns for myself, to find out what all the fuss is about. The man at the gun store said it was best to start with a .22, so I bought a Colt Woodsman. After I got the hang of the .22, I bought a gun just like yours, so I would know how to use yours if there was some desperate emergency and I had to use yours to save us both. I had to buy it used because of the 'bloody' Gun Control Act of 1968. And, a month ago, I bought a real American classic—a Colt .45 automatic. It's just as heavy as its reputation claims, but it does not kick nearly as hard as its reputation would have you believe."
The Englishman looked at Jane with new respect.
They went to the auction. The Englishman liked most of the Americans he had met during his assignments in the States. But he was disgusted to see that the auction house, in the heart of New York City, fancied itself English. The good news was they had a bar.
Jane went through the catalogue, while the Englishman got a drink. Jane never drank at an auction, she liked to shop with a perfectly clear head. Jane went through the catalogue page by page. Each item in the auction had a two-page spread devoted to it. The right- hand page was a full-page photo of the item, and the left-hand page gave the description and history of the item. Jane thought some of Angelique's jewelry and furniture looked interesting.
The last six items were the paintings of Angie the Mad (as the people of Collinsport now called her) and her five ancestors, all of whom had hung in the boardroom of the Angel Bay Seafood Company.
Jane said, "Look, darling. If Angelique had been married, she would have been just your type." She held up the catalogue to show him the painting of the last Angelique Bouchard.
"Jesus Christ!" The Englishman's drink shattered on the floor as he snatched the catalogue out of Jane's hand. He stared at the painting of the late Angelique Bouchard, with his hands shaking and his face sweating.
Jane was shocked. Last year, the Englishman had killed the mugger without breaking a drop of sweat, or getting a hair out of place. Now he looked on the verge of fainting. "Darling, what is it? What's wrong?"
He went back to the bar and ordered a vodka on the rocks. He preferred his vodka in a martini (like the one at present mixed with broken glass on the floor), but he was in a hurry.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Please tell me."
"I once knew a woman who looked exactly like this, except her hair was black.
I mean, she looked EXACTLY like this." He shook the catalogue.
"Black hair? Three of the Angeliques Bouchard had black hair. And except for hair color, three of them blonde and three with black hair, all six Angeliques looked EXACTLY alike. Look at the pages before that one."
The Englishman stared at Jane for a moment, and then looked at the preceding pages. He said, "This is unnatural. It's one thing for mother and daughter to look alike, but six generations who all looked exactly the same, as if their fathers had no effect except hair color? And none of them took their fathers name? And all six exactly like the woman I once knew?"
An auction flunky, responding to the broken glass and the Englishman's obvious agitation, approached them. "Excuse me, madam, sir, is anything wrong? May I be of assistance?"
"Yes," the Englishman replied, getting a grip on himself, and taking a big sip of his new drink. "Is the executor of the late Miss Bouchard's estate here tonight? Or some other representative of her estate?"
"No, sir."
"Then I would like to speak to whomever dealt with the executor."
"That would be Mr. North, sir. You may speak to him at the pre-auction viewing, which is taking place right now."
"Thank you, I'll do that. I apologize for disturbing you and your guests."
"That's quite all right, sir." The flunky left, grateful that the disturbance turned out to be no worse than this. He signaled a lower ranking flunky to move in and clean up the glass.
The Englishman moped his brow. He took another big sip, then put the glass back on the bar. He assumed, correctly, that drinks were not allowed at the pre-auction viewing. Then he smiled, took Jane's arm and said, "Let's go in and have a look, dear."
"Are you sure? You look like hell. Forget the auction, let's go back to the hotel."
"No. I want to find out more about this woman."
"Read the catalogue. It describes her things, the ones being auctioned that is, and what she did."
When they went into the pre-auction viewing, they learned that Mr. North was talking to other customers. The Englishman looked at the paintings of the six Angeliques while waiting for a crack at Mr. North. Jane found the look on his face disturbing.
And when the Englishman finally spoke to Mr. North, he was not much help. The executor had called and asked him to come to Collinsport at the estate's expense. He had catalogued and appraised Miss Bouchard's possessions, and arranged the shipment to New York of the items to be auctioned. He had enquired only about the kinds of things he thought his customers would like to know, and all those things were in the catalogue.
The Englishman asked him for the name of the executor, and where Mr. North stayed in Collinsport. Mr. North told him. The Englishman shook his hand and said, "Thank you."
The Englishman read every word of the catalogue, starting with the descriptions of the paintings of the six Angeliques Bouchard. It was not much help either. The Englishman then told Jane, "I'm sorry to break up the party, but I'm going back to my room. And I'm leaving for Collinsport first thing tomorrow."
"For God's sake, why?"
"I have to find out what the relationship was between the Bouchards and the woman I once knew."
"The woman you once knew. Did she hurt you so badly that you can't even say her name? Is that why you can't simply call and ask her if she's related to the Bouchards?"
The Englishman looked at Jane for a long time, trying to find the gentlest words.
But he had ever been very good at gentleness. "She's dead. She died right before my eyes."
"Oh my God! I'm so sorry."
"Thank you." He kissed her. "I'm going. I'm sorry, but I have to be alone tonight. I'll be back in two days and make it up to you then. Do you want to come back to the hotel with me now, or stay for the auction?"
Jane smiled. "I'll stay. I can get back to the hotel all right alone. I was hailing cabs in New York long before I met you."
He smiled and said, "That's what I thought. But ring me when you get back."
"You're as bad as my husband, I have to call him every night." She smiled sadly.
"Have a good trip. I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Thank you." He kissed her again and left. He had declined a copy of the catalogue on his way in. Now he picked up a copy on his way out.
It was Monday night. Back at his hotel, the Englishman told the desk clerk to cancel his reservations for Tuesday and Wednesday nights, but he would be back for Thursday and Friday.
From his room, he called the Collinsport Inn, where Mr. North stayed, and made
reservations for the next two nights. Then he called a car hire firm—correction,
it's called a rent-a-car company in America—to reserve a car.
The next morning, he skipped breakfast at his hotel to be at the rent-a-car company early, and get out of New York before rush hour. The rental car turned out to be a Chevrolet Impala four-door hardtop, with a maroon body and a white vinyl top. By the Englishman's standards, it was huge and ugly, slow and un-maneuverable. But it was fast enough to keep up with American traffic. It was also anonymous, given the number of Chevys on the roads of America. And even the back roads of America were wider than the country lanes of Britain and the Continent, so the Impala's size and lack of maneuverability was not a problem on a holiday jaunt like this one.
Once he was out of the city, he stopped for breakfast at the first Howard Johnson's restaurant he saw. He first ate breakfast at Howard Johnson's during his first assignment in America. He needed food, he was short of time, and the Howard Johnson's was handy. He was pleasantly surprised at how good the breakfast was.
He was so impressed, that he gave them a go for lunch and dinner on later occasions. They were not nearly as good as breakfast. He has made a point of having breakfast at Howard Johnson's at least once on every subsequent trip to the U.S.
The sign in front of the Collinsport Inn read:
​
COLLINSPORT INN
Est. 1761
Jonathan & Rachel
Drummond
Props.
​
The Englishman arrived at the Inn at a little past noon, while the Inn's restaurant was serving lunch. Perfect timing, as he was pleasantly hungry. Rachel Drummond was behind the front desk when the Englishman came through the front door. Rachel smiled at him and said, "Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?"
Upon seeing Rachel, the Englishman's first thought was, This woman is in her sixties, possibly seventy, and she is still what the Americans call a looker. I wonder what color her hair had been before it went grey.
He smiled back at Rachel and said, "Good afternoon, ma'am." His pronunciation of ma’am sounded almost like mum. The Englishman continued, "I have a reservation. The name's Bond, James Bond."
AUTHOR’S NOTES
​
1. This story is a crossover between Dark Shadows and a second franchise that shall remain nameless for the moment. I have committed some huge timeline violations on that second franchise. But to paraphrase Mark Twain: the franchise itself got what it knows about a timeline from hearsay. So, I make no apologies for the violations that I have committed here.
​
2. Between From Russia With Love and Goldfinger, Sean Connery played the leading man in the Alfred Hitchcock movie Marnie. In one scene, Connery's character and Tippi Hedren's character stop at a Howard Johnson's restaurant.
The conversation they have in the restaurant could just as easily have taken place in Connery's car. I think the scene is one of Hitchcock's jokes: Bond, James Bond, at Howard Johnson's.
3. As I interpret Tim Burton's version of Dark Shadows, Jonathan Frid and Kathryn Leigh Scott played Jonathan and Rachel Drummond, innkeepers, in the Happening scene. This is inspired by the backstory Ms. Scott devised for her character in Burton's Shadows. You can read it on pages 35-36 of her book Dark Shadows: Return to Collinwood
[Pomegranate Press, 2012].
WhyTK has a BS in one of the basic sciences, not a mad science. He lives in the Southeast United States.
WhyTK was turned on to the original Dark Shadows by his cousins. That was during the time Julia was curing Barnabas, so he had to wait until the 1897 storyline to see Barnabas bite someone. The first vampire he actually saw on Dark Shadows was Angelique, when she was demoted from witch to vampire.