Impulsively, I stand and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for making the suggestion.” He pats the back of my hand, and then I go to the kitchen to tell Maddy of my good fortune. As soon as I enter the room, she holds something out to me.
“Here’s yer money, miss.”
I stare down at the banknotes in her hand. “What am I to do with it?”
“In yer armoire hangs a cloak with a pocket. It’s nothin’ fancy, but it will do. Put the money in there to bring with you.”
I nod and take the money. “Will you help me? So I don’t spend too much? I don’t want Father to think that I’m careless with what he has given me.”
“Of course, miss.” She grins at my excitement. “But the first step is yer cloak.”
“You’re right. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I return to my room and find a dark green cloak hanging in the armoire just as Maddy said. I carefully place the money inside the pocket, humming softly as I pull the cloak on and readjust my scarf. I can hardly believe how much Father’s opinion of me has changed. Mother would be so happy.
With my thoughts on the memory of her, I cross over to the bed and pull out the zodiac book to place inside the cloak pocket. I shall carry her with me today.
When I return downstairs, Maddy is waiting by the front door. “Would you like to walk to the market?” she says. “It’s not far, but I can have Jasper fetch the carriage if you prefer.”
“Let’s walk. I’d love some fresh air.”
Maddy starts to wrinkle her nose but catches herself. “Breathe it in by the house, miss. When we get to the market, it won’t be so fresh.”
I laugh and hook my arm through hers as if we are sisters. “I shall heed your advice, Maddy.”
She glances down shyly and gives me another crooked grin. “Off we go, then.”
We step outside and she leads me past rows of grand houses that look very much like Father’s. Each one is connected with a private courtyard and a set of alleyways. Tall and majestic, they appear to touch the very sky, with carved details that rival what I’d always imagined castles to look like.
“Do you ever feel lost, Maddy? I don’t think I’d ever be able to find my way back to Father’s house without you. There are so many houses.”
“I know these streets well. I was born near here. On the other side of town, of course. Nothing so grand as this. Just a tiny flat that I shared with my brothers an’ sisters. I won’t let you get lost, miss.”
“You have siblings?”
She nods proudly. “I was the oldest. I have three brothers an’ two sisters. They’re all gone into service, just like me.”
“I’ve always wanted to have brothers and sisters,” I say wistfully. “I’m sure that your mother is very proud of you.”
“She was. But that was before—”
“Before? Have you lost your mother as well?”
“Not in the same way as you have, miss. Here we are now.” She points to our left. “The market is just over there.”
Maddy was right about it smelling crisp and clean by the house. Here by the marketplace, the scent of rotten fruit and spoiling meat is enough to make me choke. A river of muddy water flows down a shallow trench in front of us and I nudge her arm and then wrinkle my nose. She laughs.
A buzz of voices fills the air as we draw closer. Tents crowd in, one on top of the other, and vendors shout to be heard. I look around me to take it all in. Baskets and crates and long wooden shelves display their colorful wares, and although the people and the goods they have to sell look different from those in Siam, it reminds me very much of the market there. It reminds me of home.
Maddy steers me toward a yellow building and points to a symbol on a door. She explains that it represents an apothecary, and we go inside. The room is filled with large glass cases that hold colored bottles of all sizes. Maddy steps up to the counter and introduces me to the shopkeeper, Mr. Williams.
“Ah, yes,” he says, “you are Dr. Lee’s daughter?”
I blush. It still sounds so strange to hear Father’s name. “I am.”
“Welcome to Philadelphia, Miss Lee.” He bobs his head. “May you make many wonderful memories here.”
I thank him for his kindness, and Maddy asks for some licorice root and cinnamon. As he fills her order, I glance over at the shelf closest to us. I’m startled by the flesh-colored fingerlike tubes of a plant from Siam. “Excuse me,” I say, “is that khing?”
The shopkeeper gives me a shrewd look. “You are familiar with the regional name?”
“Yes. I lived in Siam for many years.”
“How interesting. It came in with our last shipment. It’s called ginger here.”
“How much would one piece cost?”
He looks in his ledger and then quotes me a price that is as much as Maddy is paying for the cinnamon and licorice root combined.
“Is that a fair price?” I whisper to her.
“I don’t know, miss,” she whispers back. “What’s it used fer?”
“Fresh kh—ginger is used in tea, lentil dishes, soups, pastes.… It’s very good for the digestion. Mother and I used it every day in Siam.” At her nod, I say, “I shall take it, along with some rosewater and lemon juice, please.” I withdraw the money Father gave to me and she shows me how much to hand over.
“We usually get a small assortment of herbs and flowers from Siam in our shipments,” the shopkeeper tells me as he prepares two small packages. “You’re quite welcome to come back.”
“Thank you. I shall remember that for next time.” Instead of curtsying, I bow to him. He returns the gesture.
On our way out of the apothecary, I ask Maddy if we can visit the butcher’s shop next to order the mincemeat pies for Father. She agrees, and as we walk, we come upon a stand selling lace handkerchiefs. They are very beautiful, and the quality of workmanship is exceedingly fine. Maddy cannot tear her gaze away.
“Would you like to stop to look?” I suggest. “I don’t mind.”
“Oh, no, miss. Best not to stop an’ want what I can’t have.”
The butcher’s tent is not far from the handkerchief stand. His name is Mr. Higgins, and after introductions are made, I place my order for two pies. He asks about Maddy’s brothers and sisters, and as soon as they are caught up in conversation, I slip away to return to the handkerchief vendor. Purchasing the handkerchief Maddy admired will be the perfect way to express my gratitude for her kindness in telling Madame LaFleur that I could not remove my scarf during my wardrobe fitting.
Choosing the one that caught Maddy’s eye, I ask for her initials to be embroidered on it. The handkerchief vendor gives me a strange look when I tell her my name, but then she says that I may return tomorrow to pick it up. I hand her some money and then find my way back to the butcher’s tent. He and Maddy are talking in low, urgent tones and she gestures wildly with her hands.
“There you are, miss,” Maddy says. Her eyes are large and scared, and her face has grown pale. “I didn’t know where you had gone. It’s not safe to wander.”
“Forgive me. I thought I would be gone for only a moment. Is something wrong?”
A sudden commotion comes from the tent next to us and a woman leans in to whisper to another woman, who cries out, and then covers her mouth with her hand in shock. She pulls the child beside her close to her skirts. My stomach twists into a knot. “What is it, Maddy? What’s happened?”
She shakes her head. “We just heard.… There’s been another murder.”
Ten
Word of the murder passes quickly through the marketplace, and the mood turns somber. Maddy confers with the butcher again and then passes me the pies wrapped in newspaper. Our return to Father’s house is not as leisurely as our original walk to the market.
I try to keep my anxious thoughts to myself as we hurry back. I don’t want to frighten Maddy with my tumultuous feelings. But finally, I ask her the one thing I must know. “We shall be safe at Father’s house, righ
t? You did say it was not very close to Rittenhouse Square, and since that’s where the murders have been happening—”
“It didn’t happen at the square, miss. It happened in the marketplace. Sometime last night.”
“At the marketplace?”
She nods and fear courses through me. I glance down at the meat pies in my hand. Even the happy thought of having tea with Father cannot chase away my worry.
“They say the victim was Mr. Durham,” she continues. “He used to stop by the house. He knew yer father.”
I don’t know what to say, so I merely nod my head. “I shall have to offer Father my condolences.”
We walk the rest of the way to the house without another word, and I follow Maddy into the kitchen. Cook takes the mincemeat pies from me and puts them in the larder while I examine Johanna’s wound again. It has become infected, as I feared it would. I place a warm compress on it to draw out the inflammation while I make the stinging nettle and licorice root salve. When the salve is ready, I apply a thick covering to the wound and put on a fresh dressing.
“Leave this on for three days,” I instruct her. “Then we shall change it. I’m sure everything will be just fine, but you must continue to rest your finger as much as possible. I’ll look at it again once the skin has fully closed.”
“I will. Thank you, miss.”
She looks relieved, and I put the remainder of the salve into a pot so that it may be used again another day. Since there are still several hours until tea with Father, I retire to my room to look through The Anatomy of Humane Bodies and study the section on the makeup of the hand and finger. With a wound as deep as Johanna’s, there could be permanent damage to the muscle. I want to be sure there is not more I should be doing. Eventually, Maddy brings me a lunch tray, but I am lost in my studies and eat very little.
When three o’clock finally draws near, I put my book aside and hurry to the looking glass propped up on the desk to see if I am presentable. My eyes are wide, and spread too far apart for my liking. A slight ring of amber circles the dark brown irises. No amount of wishing will change their color from the dull brown of a muddy river to a deep chocolate like the mahogany sheen of my desk, but I still hope for it anyway. Wisps of loose tendrils stray from the curls that Maddy set this morning, and I carefully smooth them back into place. “Hopefully, Father’s good mood will prevail and he shall find no fault in you,” I whisper to my reflection.
I’m pulled out of my contemplations as the hallway clock chimes three. Touching my scarf for reassurance, I straighten the edges of my cuffs and hurry downstairs. Cook is waiting outside the sitting room with a tea tray.
“May I carry that in?” I ask.
She looks taken back. “It’s my job, miss.”
“My hands are feeling restless and I would be ever so grateful to have something to occupy them. My nerves are getting the better of me.”
“You’ll do just fine, miss,” she reassures me. “But if it will make you feel better …?”
“It will.”
With a cheerful smile, she hands me the tray, and I carry it carefully inside the room. Two wingback chairs are sitting next to a small table, and I set the tray down between them. Long minutes pass as I wait for Father. When the door finally opens, I stand to give him a curtsy. He doesn’t seem to notice as he comes to take a seat beside me.
“How was your morning, Father?” I ask, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach.
“It was rather busy.”
I intend to pour us some tea, but he does not wait, filling his own cup and adding two cubes of sugar. He does not pour a cup of tea for me. After a moment of waiting for him to offer, I pour some for myself and gesture toward the tray. “I met with the butcher at the market to buy the mincemeat pies as you suggested.”
He picks one up and takes a bite. Then he puts the other on a small plate and holds it out to me. “They are quite fresh.”
I have no idea what a fresh mincemeat pie should taste like, but the flavor is moist and rich. A cross between a meat pie and spiced cake. Desperate to not lose his attention, I say, “The market was quite lovely. I saw so many beautiful things. Although I learned of the untimely death of one of your acquaintances; you have my condolences.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I can hear Mrs. Tusk’s voice in my head, scolding me. A proper young woman does not speak of such things.
He looks up sharply. “Who told you this? What did you hear?”
“I only know that a murder occurred at the marketplace last night.”
“Yet you also know who the victim was. You say I knew him?”
“Yes.” My voice is a whisper.
“Well? Who was it?”
“Mr. Durham.”
“And how is it you were made aware that he was an acquaintance of mine?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat and pick at the edge of my pie. I do not wish to see Maddy get in trouble for what she has said. “I heard of it in passing,” I say slowly. “And then Maddy told me—”
“I see. So it was nothing more than idle gossip.”
“Oh, no, Father. Truly, we were not gossiping about such things. She told me so that I might offer my condolences to you.”
“I was not aware that the staff cared so much for my feelings,” he says drily. “Rest assured, though, Mr. Durham was no friend of mine. He stole something very dear to me. If this was to be his comeuppance, then so be it. Perhaps he should not have been engaged in whatever activity it was that caused him to be murdered.” Pulling out his pocket watch, Father glances at it. “I need to return to my work now. I have wasted too much valuable time already.”
He gets to his feet and walks out of the room without even a second glance. His tea has not been touched.
Stunned by his words, I drink the rest of my own tea in silence. No one, no matter what they have done, deserves to come to such an end. That Father can be so callous toward Mr. Durham’s death chills me to my very soul.
I dream that night of Father looming over a faceless body in the dark. I try to scream for help, but no sound escapes my lips. He mumbles about comeuppance and punishments fitting crimes as he paces back and forth, but I am trapped, cornered. I cannot scream for help. My corset laces grow tighter and tighter, choking the very air from my lungs, until my vision goes dark and I collapse. Then I hear Edgar’s words in my head: “Sleep well, Annabel.”
When I wake, the room is as dark as pitch. There is no moon overhead and the fire has gone out. A loud crack of thunder splits the air and shakes the house. I sit upright, clutching my scarf tightly around my neck.
Gradually, I become aware of a scratching sound coming from the window. I tilt my head toward it to listen more closely. Something is out there. Fumbling with the covers, I pull them back and feel my way over to the window ledge. The sound has grown more urgent. I press my face against the glass. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness.
And then I realize I’m staring into a beady, black eye.
I scream and stumble backward. Feathers explode in a quick beating of wings, and a large black bird taps against the glass. It’s a raven.
A sense of unease comes over me. In Siam, seeing a raven was considered a bad sign. A portent of secrets being kept. He cocks his head to one side and ruffles his feathers, staring at me. He taps again, and the sound echoes loudly in the quiet space. I bang on the glass to try to make him leave. “Go. Shoo. You are not welcome here.”
But he merely turns his head to look at me once more.
“What is it?” I whisper. I stare back at him and he hops to one side. I follow his movements and see a light down below. Two figures are in the courtyard. The lantern they hold dips and wavers as they struggle with a large bag they’re carrying. They move closer to the kitchen door, and the light disappears as they enter the house.
I wait for the light to reappear, but it does not.
My thoughts turn to dark things. Who would be down there? Was it Father again? Does t
his have anything to do with Mrs. Tusk?
I know Grand-père said not to wander, but my curiosity is too great. I light a candle and creep slowly downstairs. Holding my breath, I push the door to the kitchen open just a hair. The room appears much like the other night. Dough is rising, freshly scoured pots are drying on the worktable, and nothing has been disturbed.
But the door to the courtyard is standing open.
Hastily, I move toward it, remembering only moments before I step outside to extinguish my light. Allowing my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness surrounding me, I find it’s surprisingly easy to make out the shapes of the animal bushes, and the bench where Maddy and I had our picnic.
I crouch next to one of the lions and wait for the lantern light to appear again. It does not take long until the pitch of low voices draws my attention to the doorway leading beyond the courtyard.
“Don’t drop it now,” someone says. “He pays to have ’em delivered near perfect as possible. We don’t want no bruises.”
I cannot place the voice.
“Aw, you try liftin’ the side with the head then. It’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to keep thinkin’ it’s going to wake up an’ start looking at you!”
“Quit blabbering. I didn’t bring you on to talk my ear off.”
I strain in the darkness to see the faces of the two men crossing the courtyard. Another large burlap sack is held between them. The lantern wavers, and I cannot see clearly.
“Don’t know why he can’t just get it himself,” the unhappy man grumbles. “It’s not hard to find a cemetery unguarded. He just doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, an’ leaves—”
A dull thud echoes the man’s words and he grunts in pain. “Blasted bench! I walked right into it. My leg’s goin’ to be black as rotten horse meat tomorrow.”
“That’s what you get for blatherin’ on. Now quit yer complaining. One more word outta you, an’ I’m keeping yer cut.”
The man falls silent and they carry their delivery into the house. I wait for several long moments until they reappear at the kitchen door. Money is quickly exchanged, and then they both set off across the courtyard again. One of them limping slightly.
Of Monsters and Madness Page 7