Pipistrello

By Gab Doquile

Set in 1908 in a stately home in the lush English countryside, Pipistrello is a gothic tale of murder and mayhem.

It follows the fortunes of the Chester family: the Italian countess Eleanora, her husband Sir Peregrine, their daughters Allegra and Elodie, and the loyal staff who serve them.

At its heart is a set of tarot cards which divine the future. Full of dark omens, ghosts, lust and tragedy, the story travels to the glittering shores of the Italian Riviera and back as the lives of the inhabitants of Chichester Hall are transformed in unexpected and unimaginable ways.

Pipistrello takes a glimpse into the intricacies of motherhood, the different seasons within a marriage and the desire for metamorphosis that lies within us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398491946

Gab Doquile

Gab Doquile lives in a sleepy seaside village. She has two grown-up sons who are her greatest teachers. She has worked as a lawyer, performance auditor and English tutor in the past but now works in the world’s cutest bookstore. She has had articles published in ‘The Age newspaper’ and been recognised for her poetry. This is her first very short novel.

Book preview

Pipistrello

Gab Doquile

Austin Macauley Publishers

Pipistrello

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

About the Author

Gab Doquile lives in a sleepy seaside village. She has two grown-up sons who are her greatest teachers. She has worked as a lawyer, performance auditor and English tutor in the past but now works in the world’s cutest bookstore. She has had articles published in ‘The Age newspaper’ and been recognised for her poetry. This is her first very short novel.

Dedication

For the unconventional

Copyright Information ©

Gab Doquile 2024

The right of Gab Doquile to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398491939 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398491946 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Many thanks to my early readers; Jenny Hobbs and Joanna Meagher.

Your encouragement was invaluable.

The Contessa never arose before noon.

She liked to wake slowly, and linger in bed.

This morning, however, a sharp bang shocked her awake and drew her to the window. She drew back the heavy curtains. There in the early morning gloom on the pristine lawn below lay a dead black raven in a crumple of feathers.

She stood for a moment checking the sky and the trees, and then made a decision.

There would be no riding today.

***

The Contessa’s name was Eleanora, but no one called her that. Peregrine called her Ellie; the children called her Mama and the household staff called her Ma’am or The Contessa.

She rang the bell, then got back into bed, released her long, black hair from its braid and settled herself against the embroidered velvet cushions. She lay with her hands on her belly and made some calculations. Soon she would start to bleed.

There was a soft rap on the door and the Contessa called out, ‘Come.’ The maid entered the room with red eyes. She placed the tea tray on the bed and began to move about the room, picking up garments from the floor.

‘Would you like your riding costume this morning, ma’am?’

‘No, I’ve changed my mind. I’m staying in today. And tell Barker to clean up the west lawn. Leave all that,’ she said.

The young woman left the room hurriedly, her arms full of clothes.

It was hard to find good staff in England. Lucie was coming along well but that was understandable because she was French.

The Contessa poured herself a cup of tea. The English did few things well, but tea was one of them.

Later, she would read the cards.

***

Sir Peregrine Chester of Chichester Hall, Buckinghamshire, had been told by his manservant that there was to be no riding today. Barker had raised his eyebrows as he passed on this information, but Peregrine had studiously ignored him. He knew that Barker viewed his wife as spoiled and indulged and that he was suspicious of all foreigners, especially Italians. Nonetheless, Peregrine forgave him. Barker had been with him since he was a boy and was fiercely loyal.

He was disappointed. The energy in him was unbounded. He was like one of his dogs, only happy when completely exhausted. ‘Right!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m going walking instead. Barker, I’m getting changed,’ he said, propelling himself out of the chair and throwing down his paper on the side table as he strode past him towards the door of the drawing room. Barker and the two hounds hurried along behind him.

***

Upstairs, Lady Allegra and her younger sister Lady Elodie were in the schoolroom receiving their lessons. Their elderly Italian governess Signora Valletta was looking out of the window as she dictated a passage in Latin to her students.

While Elodie’s pen scratched away diligently, Allegra’s mind wandered. The night before, she had had a strange dream. She was in the woods. The sky was an orange hue and the trees were dark and shadowy. All of a sudden, she heard a woman laughing merrily in the distance, and as she turned her head towards the source of the sound, the trees exploded with bats – bats streaming through the air, screeching chaotically, their wings flapping in a frenzy. She covered her ears and…

‘Allegra!’ Signora Valletta slammed the ruler on the desk in front of her. ‘Why are you not writing?’ She spoke English with a strong accent, even though she had been with the family for six years. No other member of staff would dare to call them by their Christian name.

‘I wasn’t listening, Signora,’ she said defiantly. Signora Valletta gave a surprised cough, as though she had swallowed a pin. Allegra stared at the older woman defiantly until she turned away. Elodie surveyed her older sister with concern.

***

Downstairs, the maid Lucie stood in the kitchen doorway absently fingering the small silver crucifix around her neck. The cook looked up. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s work, Lucie. Come and help me with these scones.’

The kitchen was warm and cosy, and the heat from the fire began to work on Lucie like a tonic. She had barely slept the night before. As she pressed the dough into rounds and laid them on a tray, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. Mrs Foster looked up from the pudding she was stirring briskly and gave a tsk of impatience. ‘Quick sticks, we’ll be here all day at the pace you’re going.’ Then taking a closer look at Lucie’s face, she softened and nudged her aside. ‘I’ll finish these. Go and lie down,’ she said, ‘I’ll wake you in an hour.’

There had been nothing but trouble since the young groom arrived.

***

The groom, Matteo, was mucking out hay in the stables while swearing enthusiastically under his breath.

Things had not worked out as he had planned.

Chased from his hometown in Sicily by a group of angry fathers whose daughters he had seduced, he had arrived in England intending to focus solely on his work and to repay his father his hard-earned savings.

He had always been proud of his ability not to get attached to women, but here he was behaving like a fool. Idiota! What kind of madman left his heartland and travelled to a damp and drizzling country only to become tongue-tied and bewitched by a silvery-haired maid?

In Italy, falling in love was called un colpo di fulmine – a lightning strike – and it felt like an apt description; his heart raced, his breath was short, his skin felt electric. He had never experienced this feeling before. He did not like it.

His father had warned him that this would happen. ‘I was exactly like you as a young pup! Careless! Vain! Arrogant!’ he said, waving his finger at him. ‘One day, everything will change!’

Things had changed.

The chestnut mare kicked out in the next stall.

‘I know, bellezza,’ Matteo called out in a soothing voice. ‘No one is happy today.’

***

The house went about its business, like a little train going about its track. The inhabitants moved from room to room, while outside storm clouds gathered. In the early afternoon the sky turned ominously dark and a barrage of hailstones began to hammer against the window. The Contessa felt the blood begin to seep out of her and got up to fetch some calico. She was so practiced at miscarriage by now that she no longer felt bereft. Another baby was coming, the cards had predicted it; it was not up to her to ask when.

The cards were kept wrapped in a sapphire silk cloth, stored inside a small wooden box. The box was nestled amongst some old trinkets inside a trunk at the foot of her bed.

She had bought the cards at a market in Sienna when she was nine years old. It was the Festa della Madonna, and the festival had attracted vendors from all over Europe.

She wandered slowly through the market. Her mother, who believed in the independence of children, had gone on ahead. Suddenly, a woman called out to her in an urgent voice, ‘Signorina, vieni qui, I see a bird on your