Shadows of Madness

by Tracy L. Ward

  When Margaret walked in, the tiny bell above the door signalling her arrival, she was surprised to find a number of patrons. The young man continued his work at the window while another, an older fellow nearly Margaret’s age, stood behind the waist-high counter conversing with a female customer.

  The room itself displayed countless jars and concoctions, all lined up and on display behind the counter. The counter had a flat surface but also served as a display case for items such as shaving kits, and household items like lye and carbolic soaps. The woman at the counter nodded her thanks to the clerk and moved toward the door.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the gentleman behind the counter asked, turning his attention to Margaret.

  Wondering if she was indeed next in line, Margaret glanced to the other patrons, who seemed happy to browse about, looking at scalp powders and brushes for the teeth.

  “Are you ill? Something for sleep perhaps?”

  Margaret was taken aback by his line of questioning. Was her restless night so very evident on her face?

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I am looking for Miss Locke. She said I should call upon her during my visit to Edinburgh.”

  The man nodded, though he looked rather disappointed. “One moment, miss,” he said, moving toward a door that led to the back of the shop. “I shall ring for her.” He pressed a finger into a tiny knob in the wall at chest level. Margaret heard the faint sound of a bell ringing on the upper floors and instinctively looked to the ceiling.

  “She will be down in a moment, miss.”

  Margaret nodded a thank you and then decided to take a turn about the shop while she waited.

  “Do not fret, miss,” the young boy said, jumping down from his window ledge in front of her. “Miss Locke will set you to rights. She always does.”

  Margaret stammered. “Oh, I’m not out of rights,” she said with a tiny laugh. “I’m just visiting … as a friend.” The words had been hard to choke out but she had done it, rather successfully too, she was forced to admit.

  The young boy and the man exchanged peculiar glances. “But your scar. Surely you’ll be wanting to treat it so it’s not so … bold.”

  Margaret’s hand went to her neck and collar and found that her silk scarf, one she had worn religiously and checked almost constantly, had been dislodged, most likely by the wind as she walked over.

  “I could make a few suggestions to make it more inconspicuous, if you like,” said the man behind the counter. “An ointment ought to return the skin to its natural ivory.”

  He surveyed the display case as Margaret drew near and then smiled when he found what he was looking for. “This ought to do it.” He pulled a round, blue tin from a collection of others and presented it to Margaret with a flat palm.

  “Belmare’s Beauty Ointment,” Margaret read.

  “Uses your skin’s natural pigment to conceal unsightly blemishes,” he said, rhyming off the wording exactly as it was printed on the box.

  The man rounded the end of the counter and proceeded to twist off the top of the tin. He placed a small amount on his middle finger. “May I?” he asked, nodding to Margaret.

  Margaret gave a half-hearted nod and turned her head to the side. The cream was cold and greasy but the clerk was gentle as he applied the ointment. After a moment he stood back and smiled. He presented her with a mirror on a stand.

  The ointment, which lightened the colour of the scar, did nothing to diminish the elongated bump in her skin, or the tinier bumps where the stitches had been placed.

  “A few more applications and you won’t remember it existed,” the clerk said.

  Margaret was doubtful but pulled a few coins from her reticule anyway, if only to appease the two eager salesmen. The man and the boy beamed with pride as she paid for her purchase and slid it into her bag.

  A moment later footsteps could be heard marching down a set of stairs behind the storefront. In the doorway to the backroom appeared Detective Inspector Hearst with his bowler hat in his hands. He turned when he reached the storefront and then Margaret saw Eloise behind him.

  “Thank you, Miss Locke. You’ve been very helpful with your fiancé’s case.” He replaced his hat and touched the brim as he passed Margaret. “Ma’am.”

  She didn’t think he recognized her.

  “Margaret!” Eloise flew across the room. “I’m so glad you have decided to come. After my meeting with that man you can be sure I am in need of some good chatter.” She gestured for the back stairs but Margaret was watching the inspector, who stood outside on the pavement writing speedily in his notebook.

  “What did the inspector want?” she asked, unable to take her eyes from the man who was determined to prove Jonas’s guilt.

  “He wished to know about Jonas, of course,” Eloise said noncommittally. “Have no fear. I only said that if Jonas killed Professor Frobisher, then he must have had a good reason for it. My Jonas never does anything without cause.”

  Margaret worked hard to conceal her disgust. How could this woman, who professed to be his fiancée, speak of him in such a way? Did she not realize she was only helping to prove the case against him?

  Margaret trailed Eloise into the back room but stopped short of the stairs that would take them to the Locke’s living quarters.

  “Do you not worry that your assistance may hinder Jonas’s case?” Margaret asked.

  Eloise’s expression was flat even as she took in Margaret’s words. “He either did what they say he did or he didn’t,” she said. “I’m afraid nothing can be done for it now.”

  “We have an obligation to him,” Margaret said. She could feel the panic rising inside her and sincerely hoped it could not be heard in her voice. “We must see that his true character is known. We mustn’t give them any reason to believe him capable.”

  “But we are all capable.” Eloise’s gaze burned into Margaret. She did not flinch or give any indication that she did not truly mean what she had just said. “Every last one of us is capable of murder given the correct circumstances.” Her features alighted suddenly and she reached for Margaret’s hand to coax her up the stairs. “Will you come meet Father?”

  Margaret was so unnerved by Eloise’s sudden change in demeanour that she didn’t register her steps until she realized she was at the top of the stairs looking over a long hallway with an ornate bannister guarding the drop of the stairwell.

  “We live on the upper floors,” Eloise explained, as she adjusted the drapes of a very large window at the top of the stairs. “Father’s workspace used to be downstairs but he so rarely ventures down anymore. We had all his equipment brought up here.”

  “Who oversees the shop?”

  “Me, of course. Father taught me everything he knows.”

  Eloise led Margaret down the hall to a closed door, where she knocked gently. “Father?” She pushed the door in, revealing a large room filled with all manner of jars, tins, and boxes. Drying herbs hung from the rafters and bookshelves lined each wall, some filled with books but most displaying jars of various sizes, each marked with a white label and a handwritten word or two.

  Mr. Locke sat in a chair near the window, a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on his nose and an array of mortar and pestles of varying sizes spread out on the table in front of him.

  “Miss Margaret Marshall has finally come to see us,” Eloise said, stepping out of the way.

  Mr. Locke looked up briefly but quickly returned to his work. “Margaret, did you say?” he said in a croaky voice.

  “Yes, Father, Margaret Marshall.”

  He raised his chin to peer at the dropper in his hand through his spectacles. “Forgive me for not coming to the door to greet you … This is a very delicate operation. I must get the measurements exact.”

  Margaret unwittingly held her breath as she and Eloise watched Mr. Locke deposit three drops of liquid into a slender vial. He slipped the dropper back in its originating bottle and pressed a cork stopper into the open end of the vial.r />
  “I am working on a serum to alleviate pains of the stomach,” he explained. He looked to Margaret over his half-moon spectacles. “You don’t suffer from pains of the stomach, do you Miss Marshall?”

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Very well then,” he said. “I shall have to find another willing subject.” He regarded her sideways and gave a quick, playful wink.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, sir,” Margaret said. “Jonas has told me so much about you and what you’ve done for him.”

  The man stopped his work suddenly and looked to her. “Jonas, did you say?”

  “Yes, sir. My brother and I are in town—”

  Mr. Locke’s eyes darted to Eloise at Margaret’s side. His disposition changed abruptly when he looked away. His eyes darted over his worktable as his shoulders sank. “The scoundrel. The mutt.” Mr. Locke didn’t bother to look at Margaret as he barked out the words with disgust.

  “Certainly not,” Margaret found herself saying. “He is the epitome of righteous character.”

  “That may have been true once,” Mr. Locke said.

  “It remains true now.” Margaret did not mean to argue. Her words were more a reaction to her surprise than anything else. How could Mr. Locke, who had believed in Jonas’s capabilities before anyone else had taken notice of him, suddenly decry him as unworthy? “You may no longer believe in him as you once did, but I will not be so quick to throw him to the wolves.” Margaret realized her speech was as much for Eloise’s benefit as it was for Mr. Locke’s.

  Eloise stepped between Margaret and Mr. Locke, her hands ushering her to back out the door. Margaret wouldn’t allow herself to be pushed from the room. “Mr. Locke, Jonas is innocent—”

  “Not of what he’s done to my daughter and our good name.” The man abandoned his measurements and removed his spectacles, tossing them to his tabletop. “I put all I had into that man, even at the expense of my own daughter—”

  “Father, there’s no need to drum up the past.”

  “It’s true! Had I known he’d turn out such a way … well, I’d never have done all I did for him. Especially after what he’s done to my poor Ellie.” He stood then, something which appeared to cause great pain. To ease his movements, he leaned on the tables around him as he inched toward Margaret and Eloise. “Did you know he begged her to come to London last spring? When she showed up he refused to take her about and show her the city. He wouldn’t introduce her to his friends. And then he sent her home crying. We all began to wonder if he’d ever set a wedding date, if he ever meant to follow through with his promise. Now I am just thankful that he never did take vows with my daughter.”

  Margaret found herself utterly confused. She could not find the words to come to Jonas’s defence because she knew nothing about any such arrangement. As she understood it, Jonas had never made any promise to Eloise. The old chemist had been thoroughly poisoned against him.

  “Father, please.”

  Mr. Locke ignored his daughter’s pleas as he struggled to walk around his workroom. “He’s not good enough for her! But Ellie, Lord bless her, still loves the man and won’t break things off.” He snatched a book from the shelf angrily before retracing his steps with it under his arm. “Now, I’m an old man and I never did see the connection between them. Night and day they are, but what does an old widower like me know about love? Bah!” He fell back into his wooden swivel chair and waved a dismissive hand. “The sooner this trial is done the better, then maybe our shop wouldn’t be losing so much business.” He slipped on his spectacles and tucked the curved arms behind his ears before turning his attention back to his work.

  Eloise donned a saddened face and went to her father. He turned from her, waving off her concern, but she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him from behind anyway.

  “Have no fear, Father,” she said, her chin pressed firmly into the top of his head. “The business will recover.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “We will leave you to your work,” she said, “and have tea in the parlour.”

  Margaret saw Mr. Locke lift his glasses from his cheeks so he could rub tears from under his eyes. She wondered if he suspected he had been lied to or if it was just easier to believe his own offspring even when the things she told him did not sound like Jonas’s character at all.

  “Come, Margaret,” Eloise commanded as she passed Margaret and made her way to the hall.

  Margaret didn’t follow and instead took a step further into the room. “Sir, it may come to pass that all you have been taught to believe is proven false. It would be best for you to keep an open mind.”

  Mr. Locke appeared dumbstruck at the thought. His gaze was both sincere and defeated. He looked past Margaret to Eloise, and then back to his work. How often had be done that, Margaret wondered. How often had he dismissed his own judgement to side with his daughter, a woman who had proven herself unsteady and incapable of rational thought?

  “Margaret?”

  Margaret could feel the gentle tug on her sleeve at her elbow as Eloise tried to guide her away. Margaret met her gaze and found the woman happy, even after all her father had said. Her father’s faith lay broken and Eloise found assurance in that. “Shall we take our tea now?”

  ***

  Upon entering the parlour Margaret was reminded exactly why she had ventured to take tea with Eloise in the first place. The room was adorned with countless photographs and daguerreotypes, all of them framed in ornate tin and wood. Most hung from the walls but many were scattered about on the mantel, the tabletops, and over the piano in the corner.

  Margaret’s awe at the sight must have been evident on her face. Eloise giggled slightly. “It was my mother, you see,” she said. “She was an amateur photographer.”

  Margaret leaned in to one framed portrait and immediately recognized Eloise, her father, and a woman who must have been Eloise’s mother. “I can see the family resemblance,” Margaret said.

  “Can you?” Eloise shrugged. “I thought my mother a rather plain woman.”

  Margaret found her nothing of the sort. She had long flowing hair that displayed near-perfect curls and a striking face with pale, alabaster skin. Margaret noticed a frame at the back of the table and thought she recognized the young boy in the image. Margaret scooped it up without thinking. It was Jonas at about ten years old with long, dirty hair and patches on his knees. A woman, in a plain dress of black, knelt next to him with a hand at his back and another at his stomach to hold the jittery boy still. Her hair was pulled back into a bun at the base of her skull. She looked embarrassed to be photographed but the boy was tickled and smiling broadly.

  “I managed to convince Father not to get rid of this one,” Eloise said, drawing close.

  “Is this Mrs. Davies?”

  Eloise nodded. “That’s right. She was always so sickly. No pluck, if you ask me. My mother never understood why Father insisted we take them on, but he has a soft heart, you know.”

  Margaret ran her hand over the small frame and felt the cold glass. She wanted to take that little boy into her arms and shield him from his future. “When did Mrs. Davies pass away?” she asked, without taking her eyes from the image.

  “I was twelve, which meant Jonas was thirteen.”

  “My goodness.” Margaret resisted the urge to pull the frame to her chest and hug the boy and his mother. “May I take this to him? It may lift his spirits somewhat.” She turned to Eloise, hopeful.

  Eloise regarded her suspiciously before finally relenting. “All right, as long as you tell him it was I who suggested it.”

  Margaret had no intentions of lying but smiled all the same to keep Eloise happy.

  “Shall we fetch the tea?” Eloise asked.

  “Sounds lovely.”

  Once left alone Margaret instantly set about to find a recent photograph of Eloise that could be shown to the barkeep. It had to be small, Margaret noted, and less likely to be missed. There was one on the mantel but its prominent pl
ace meant its absence would be noticed. Margaret had nearly circled the room entirely before she came to a photograph and frame that could be easily slipped into her reticule. The picture was a few years old but it would have to do. Hurriedly, Margaret pulled at the strings of her bag and listened for any sound that would indicate when Eloise was returning. The frame was almost safely stored away when a floorboard in the hall creaked.

  “Would you like a bite to eat as well?” Eloise asked at the door.

  Margaret turned, using her body to hide her open reticule on the tabletop. “Sounds lovely.” She held the frame tightly behind her so it would not fall from the opening of her reticule and clatter to the floor.

  “What have you found?” Eloise stepped through the doorway and came toward her. Margaret struggled to pull the fabric of her bag over the edges of the frame. The drawstring dangled and she could not get a good enough grip on it to close the top of the bag.

  “Oh … well, nothing really,” Margaret said. “I was just looking at more of these memories.”

  Eloise came alongside the table, forcing Margaret to turn. She felt her reticule slip from the edge of the table but caught the drawstring just in time. With her one hand held behind her back, Margaret sheltered it with the folds of her skirt.

  “Is that little girl you?” Margaret asked, using her free hand to point to a daguerreotype.

  The emeralds of Molly’s ring caught the light as Margaret reached forward. She saw Eloise’s eyes focus on them. Margaret should have removed it before coming. On her ring finger it looked like an engagement ring, something Eloise would believe most likely came from Jonas. Margaret braced herself for the inevitable questions. In the end, Eloise said nothing.

  Instead, the woman waved a dismissive hand at the framed photograph and turned from the table. “Oh, I hate that one,” she said. “It reminds me of the sister that was never meant to be.”