by Lisa Mangum
Dupin scratched his chin. “I spoke with Mr. Metzger this afternoon. He is as fastidiously well-kept a man as I have ever met, far too tidy in his shop and appearance to call on a lady with the mess of work still on his person. Nor do I believe he would have returned to your home after his first encounter with you. So you see, he doesn’t fit. Doesn’t fit at all.”
Dupin tapped at the buttons on his jacket. “What does fit, Mrs. Pearcey, is that after May confided in you the contents of her letter, an argument ensued between the two of you. What sordid things did you accuse her of in your anger? That she would show interest in a Jewish butcher, or that she was interested in a man at all? By your own admission, you are not a fan of foreigners or men. Not after being abandoned by your husband. Did Mr. Pearcey till the hatred in your heart, I wonder, or is it all your own?”
Mrs. Pearcey spat on the floor.
Dupin nodded. “Keep your secrets if you like. I already know the biggest of them all. I suspect that, in a fit of rage, you threw that fine cut of meat onto the porch. You later retrieved it and attempted to wipe it clean, where it left its mark on your apron. I admit at first I believed those marks to be simple soot and household dust, but it wasn’t. It was ordinary dirt, trailed onto your porch from the front garden. You tried to put the kitchen back together, didn’t you? After you crept up behind her and strangled May Holmes to death.”
The hard lines of Mrs. Pearcey’s face fell. Her shoulders slumped. She tugged up the hem of her housecoat and covered her eyes. “I wadn’t blessed with children,” she wailed. “Bad enough some women leave their own behind.” She glared at Mrs. Watson. “But worse when they bring one along, make you care for ’em an’ open your heart to ’em. Then in comes one bad post and off they go.”
True tears leaked from her eyes—her only real sorrow. Her color paled from red to gray, and the volume of her voice fell until her words were whispers.
“They all leave in the end, an’ I just couldn’t …” Her head shook. “Couldn’t take another one leaving me, is all.”
The boy buried his face in Mrs. Watson’s coat.
“I’m sorry, child,” Mrs. Pearcey said. She took a step toward Mrs. Watson and the boy, holding out her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. She wouldn’t listen, is all. Wouldn’t listen to reason!”
“Reason?” Dupin said. “Reason does not live in your mind. It does, however, live in mine.” He nodded at the officer. “Mrs. Pearcey, under order of the Crown, I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Mrs. May Holmes.”
The officer pulled out his irons and snapped them around Mrs. Pearcey’s wrists—a final statement on reason. The old woman winced under their weight.
As the officer took hold of her arms, moving her toward the cells at the back of the station, she yelled, “Ain’t no way to raise a child, I tell you. Ain’t right to take him from a loving place. It was her fault!”
The officer marched her from the room.
Dupin kneeled and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He turned from Mrs. Watson’s coat to face the detective. His face was puckered and wet.
“I’m sorry, son, for what happened to your mum, and to you.” Dupin’s face twisted as the emotion in his chest beat at his ribs. The boy’s chin sunk. Dupin lifted it up to look him in the eye. “Your mum is not here in body, but she is in here.” He tapped the boy’s chest, directly over his heart. “She will always be with you.”
“Nanna,” the boy said. “She really can’t come?”
“Not now, but I have spoken with Mrs. Watson. She’s told me all about you, and has offered to take you with her for a time.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Watson said. “The detective and I worked it all out. We’re going to my house in Cornwall. My husband will be home soon, and I’ve earned enough to keep us fed until then.”
“Would that be all right with you?” Dupin asked the boy.
The boy looked up at him, his eyes still leaking, and nodded.
Dupin smiled. “Have I kept my word to you, then? I found who done it, yes? Now I’ll see to it she’s put away for good.”
The boy stayed still, his eyes on Dupin’s. The detective waited, letting the boy work his way through it at his own pace, in his own time.
“Detective?” Mrs. Watson said. “The train will be along soon. We must be going.” She took the child’s hand in her own.
“Yes, of course,” Dupin said. He made to stand.
The boy thrust the detective’s pipe, still clutched in his small fist, into Dupin’s hand.
Dupin chuckled. He ran a thumb across the worn wood of his favorite Calabash pipe. “You know, my landlady has been on me for some time to give this up. Doesn’t like the smell of it, I presume. How about you keep it for me?” He handed the pipe back to the boy.
Fresh emotion fell from the boy’s eyes. He placed the pipe carefully into his trouser pocket, then pulled his hand from Mrs. Watson’s and wrapped both arms around Dupin.
“When I grow up, I want to be a detective, just like you,” he whispered against Dupin’s neck.
Detective Inspector Dupin, afraid his voice would betray him, hugged the boy back, tight enough to feel the child’s heart beating against his own chest. It was calmer now, inspired perhaps.
When the boy pulled away, Dupin took his hand. “Here’s a secret, just for you. Keep your eyes open, Sherlock Holmes. That’s how you will see the things no one else wants to see. Keep them open and see the world.”
Sherlock offered a shy smile to the detective, then took Mrs. Watson’s hand again.
The woman led him away, chattering all the while. “I’ve got a boy at home, you know. He’s about your age.”
“Neat,” Sherlock said. “What’s his name?”
“John,” she said. “John Watson, after his father. Oh, I think you two will get along just famously. You’ll see.”
About the Author
Alicia Cay grew up on her dad’s collection of classic sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. She has a BFA in Interior Architecture and worked as a 911 dispatcher for twelve years.
Her short fiction has appeared in WhimsyCon’s Wit & Whimsy—Volume 2 and MileHiCon’s Adventures in Zookeeping.
She’s had a loyal love affair with books since she could read, collects quotes, and suffers from wanderlust. She currently lives in Denver with a corgi, a kitty, and a lot of fur.
Visit her at aliciacay.com.
Mi Jaculpo
October K Santerelli
Jaculpo sat up with the fluid grace of a peacock, all sinuous bends and golden skin beneath tumbling curls the color of sunlight. Leonardo couldn’t help but reach out and run his fingers down the other’s back, tracing the goldsmith’s spine. It made Jaculpo shiver. The artist liked to watch him shiver, liked the delightful twitch of muscles and the faint wrinkle of his nose.
The goldsmith turned, annoyance fading as his brown eyes traced the lines of Leonardo’s body until the blanket hid him from view. “You are tempting, as always,” he said, voice warm as amber honey.
“Come back to bed,” Leonardo entreated, fingers tangling in the other’s.
“Haven’t you got work to do today, Leonardo, son of Piero? You can’t avoid it by hiding up here with me,” Jaculpo said, a sharp edge to his words. Despite that, he did lean over to drape himself over the painter. His weight was comforting. “What was it your father said when he sent you here? ‘You are a bastard child. You will never amount to anything unless you impress Ser Verrocchio!’”
Leonardo sighed, curling his arm around the goldsmith’s shoulders. “And today is my best chance, I know. I know.” He leaned in, nose tracing the smooth line of Jaculpo’s jaw.
“Then tell me, Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci. What has you so afraid?” The low words rumbled between their chests like a roll of thunder in the distance.
Leonardo took a deep breath, pushing a hand through long hair the color of nutmeg, dark eyes fixing on Jaculpo’s. Of course he knew. He always knew. “What if I a
m not good enough?” he answered, voice barely above a whisper. It would carry no further than the confines of the wooden bed frame with its feather-packed mattress and tangled bedclothes.
“What if you are? What if you are to become the greatest painter in the entire history of the world? The greatest sculptor? The greatest tinker?” Jaculpo asked, heat in his voice.
Leonardo laughed. “Inventor, my bird. The word is inventor.”
Jaculpo rolled over and pushed himself upright, stooping to grab his shirt off the floor and pull the plain white linen over his head.
The artist propped himself up on his elbows, drinking in the sight. “It is a shame to hide away such beauty. Will you be back in my bed tonight?” he asked.
“No, another calls for me, and you have to focus. If I were to come back tonight, you would not try as hard,” Jaculpo said airily, hunting for his trews upon the worn wooden floor.
Leonardo let his gaze drift. The room above Verrochio’s workshop was small, but a window set below the slope of the hipped roof let in a stream of warm golden light that pooled on the floor. Morning sun haloed the blond as he sat at the foot of the bed, tossing his curls with a frustrated huff.
“Have you seen my pants?” he asked.
“Yes, last night,” Leonardo answered lightly, an impish note to his words. The goldsmith tossed his hair and huffed, the way he always did when irritated, his features painted in shadows and his hair aglow like a flame.
“What exactly did Verrocchio want from you? Remind me,” he said. A soft “Aha” followed, and he rose triumphantly with his trews in hand.
Leonardo sighed in defeat, sitting up at last. “He said he was going to have me work on one of his projects today. I don’t know which one. We’ll be collaborating—for the first time.” He swung his legs to the floor, watching the goldsmith as he hopped before him, trying to free his left foot from the confines of a pant leg.
It would be bittersweet to return to the narrow wooden bed when it did not hold the warm promise of Jaculpo, but that was the way of things. The time he spent with others was a way for the blond to supplement his meager commission and let him afford his silk doublets and fine wines.
Leonardo rose to help Jaculpo tighten the laces of his burnished orange doublet, their foreheads a scant hair’s breadth away. They toyed with one another’s fingers. The artist reveled in the smile that played around Jaculpo’s lips. He couldn’t resist leaning in to kiss him. It lingered on, sweet with milk and honey from the night before. In the end, Jaculpo pulled away to find his boots and pull them on.
“You ought to get dressed,” the blond said, fussing with his curls in the small polished metal mirror above the washbasin. “Hurry now. You can’t avoid him forever.”
“Help me?” Leonardo pleaded.
“You are not so helpless, are you?” Jaculpo chided. Despite his words, he bent to find the artist’s tunic, which had gotten kicked partway beneath the bed in their haste to undress last night.
The sight of the young man kneeling at his feet stirred a hunger in Leonardo’s heart and kindled a heat beneath his skin. Jaculpo sat up on his knees, and the artist traced a finger along his jaw.
The goldsmith leaned into the touch, expression softening. Even still, he rose and dumped the tunic into Leonardo’s arms. “You cannot tempt me. Off to work with you, Leonardo da Vinci,” Jaculpo scolded, swatting at a hip as he passed. “I will see you in a few days.”
“Jaculpo.”
The young man stopped at the top of the stairs. He turned, a brow arched expectantly.
“I am the poorest of those you spend time with, the least of them in status, and yet you come to me most often,” Leonardo began, heart pounding in his chest like a bird desperate to take wing. “Dare I hope …” He could not say the words out loud.
A smile curved Jaculpo’s lips. “A few days, Leonardo,” he said, descending out of sight.
He stared at the door long after the goldsmith had disappeared before rising to dress. His mind wandered. He had come to Florence nine years past, when he’d been fourteen, to learn to paint and draw and sculpt by the grace of his father and the kindness of Master Verrocchio. Until the past year, he had thrown himself into that work with all the dedication he could muster.
Then, he had met Jaculpo.
It had been a delightful sort of madness, falling for him. Leonardo had made trips to the goldsmith’s jewelry stand when he’d had no need for trinkets, lying about needing a reference for this or that drawing. Long afternoons had been spent in the sunny marketplace, drawing and trading witticisms and stealing glances at one another.
It turned out that the beautiful blond lined his pockets with extra gold from men who fell for and slept with him, something he admitted to Leonardo with challenge in his gaze. Leonardo decided it didn’t matter to him nearly as much as Jaculpo did.
The first time they had kissed had been the night they had stolen apples from a lady’s garden. Jaculpo had been invited to a party by one of the rich men who called upon him, and Leonardo had snuck in over the garden wall to meet him. It had been thrilling to do something that felt so dangerous. The kiss had been born of elation and success and tasted of the stolen fruit. Beneath the tree’s rustling boughs and the moonlight, their relationship had begun.
Months passed spent in pleasant company. They had picnics in the sunlit gardens of Verrocchio’s workshop. They napped in the hayloft above the inn’s stable. They attended masquerades and snuck away to dance with one another in abandoned corridors. Every stolen moment was treasured, for both knew that should the wrong eyes see them their story would end in tragedy. Once they had tried to stay away from one another. They could not. Together, they had more adventures in a single year than the artist had ever dreamed of having.
Yet in all that time, Jaculpo had never taken a single lira from Leonardo.
He draped his paint-spattered smock over his clothing and pulled on his short boots. The artist descended into the workshop proper, the steps creaking softly beneath him.
Stones in various states of sculpting rested on wooden pedestals, the dust and detritus they shed littered across the floor. Easels stood where the light would catch them just so through the broad open windows. The smell of paint and plaster filled the air in a way that reminded Leonardo of home more than his mother’s house ever had.
“Aha! The young gallant finds his way down to us before the sun begins to fall. I am impressed,” Verrocchio boomed in a voice like an ox.
Despite his age, the white-haired Master of the Arts stood straight and tall. The only sign of his heavy years was carried in the swollen knuckles of his hands and an ache in his wrists that he complained of often.
“I saw your Jaculpo leaving. Early for him, isn’t it?” His jest was good-natured. He had long ago accepted Leonardo’s fondness for the goldsmith, aided by Jaculpo’s charm and charisma.
“Is it not yet noon? Excuse me, Master, I find a sudden longing for my bed,” Leonardo teased in return, turning on a heel as if to return upstairs.
“As you wish, as you wish!” Verrocchio waved a hand dismissively. “The Baptism of Christ can be completed without your hand, worry not.” His voice was light.
Leonardo stopped short, wasting no more time playing. The Baptism of Christ was going to be a masterpiece. The brushwork was already beautiful, and something in the composition made the eye linger. He turned toward the wooden plank in the corner. “Do not be so hasty, Master. I am here.”
“Come, then, and look upon it. Tell me what you see.”
Rough charcoal lines covered the wood, and three figures had already been painted. Jesus stood in the center, garbed only in a brightly striped cloth while John the Baptist poured water over His head. A dove flew down from God’s own hands to bless His Son. A young angel knelt in the corner, looking skyward in fervent adoration. The background was composed of a river dotted with stones, its curved bank, and a broad swath of sky—all unpainted.
It wasn’t quite r
ight, but Leonardo couldn’t put his finger on why. The background was balanced, the expressions were poignant, but he still could not help but feel the painting was … hollow. Empty.
“I see …” Leonardo began, only to stop. Would his Master accept such criticism on his work? Verrocchio rarely painted in the first place, preferring stone to tempera.
“Speak, Leonardo. I know your eye is well suited to this. I have watched it grow. Say what is on your mind,” the old man said. If he had not sounded genuinely interested, the apprentice may not have said a word—but he did.
“It is missing something, Master—beyond the unfinished background. There is something about the composition, in the way all of the figures interact.” He paced before the painting, brow furrowed.
Verrocchio remained silent for a few minutes as Leonardo tried to find the key to solving the puzzle. When the Master rose, it was with a creak like a gnarled tree in a breeze, crackling and popping as he stretched. He halted Leonardo’s pacing by clasping the artist’s shoulders in his hands and guiding him to stand in front of the wooden plank.
“Your task, my boy, is to fix it.” He put a clean brush between his apprentice’s fingers and pushed him to sit upon the stool. “Call for me when you have it!” he boomed as he walked away.
Such trust was a measure of great respect. Leonardo had not anticipated being asked to fix his Master’s greatest work to date. He had suspected he would be chiseling at stone, despite it being his weakest field of study. An overwhelming sense of panic descended as he stared at the unfinished work.
The breeze tickled at the nape of his neck and the ends of his short beard. A bee droned lazily, bumbling from painted flower to painted flower in the hopes that one held nectar. A bird trilled brightly somewhere outside.
Nothing. Nothing was coming to mind. Years of study culminating in this one task, this chance to prove himself, and now he could not even begin.
Dust danced in the air in a swirling sarabande. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the scrape of a garzone boy sweeping the floor. Sunlight warmed Leonardo’s back, sinking beneath his clothes and into his body like Jaculpo’s warmth did when they curled up together in bed.