“Don’t be an idiot, Fletcher!” Vrila reprimanded him angrily.
Bartholomew sighed and fiddled with the ring on his finger while Haggard spooned red cabbage from a large bowl. He held it close to his chest to keep the spoon near his mouth.
“Do you all agree to have your stories put on paper?” Hyacinth enquired for assurance.
“I don’t have a story. So, you can’t put anything on paper for me, but I’d be glad to listen to the others tell theirs,” Sergei interjected while grinning at him.
Hyacinth didn’t believe a word he said. After all, he’d found the picture of that young man in Sergei’s trouser pocket but said nothing about it. He’d take the man aside and ask him about his lover whenever they could have a moment to speak in private.
Murphy Haggard shrugged his shoulders and thus gave his consent.
“I think that’s an excellent idea. What an intelligent husband you have there, Gavrila,” Bartholomew stated in an oddly unusual tone of voice then directed a challenging glare at Vrila to force him to respond.
To Hyacinth’s amazement, Vrila nodded and replied coarsely: “I know.”
Only two simple words, but they meant so much to him. Hyacinth bowed his head to conceal his highly flushed cheeks.
“If you say so,” Fletcher snapped and rubbed his chin. He seemed uncomfortable with the idea of someone wanting to write down his statement.
But why? What did he fear from a simple sheet of paper describing what had happened to his wife? The police surely had a file as well on the unfortunate Mrs Fletcher.
“Who would like to start?” Hyacinth asked hopefully, but each one hesitated.
At last, Vrila produced a feeble sound. “I will,” he announced and his tone of voice left no doubt he only did so to avoid embarassing Hyacinth. And again, his heart throbbed wildly. “What exactly would you like to know?” he added, still avoiding his gaze.
“As much as possible. As much as you’re able to tell.”
“Well, Dimitri and I had an argument about my having walked out on him and leaving him alone, as he put it. He… he wanted…” Vrila cleared his throat. “He stormed out into the night. His overcoat blowing in the wind was the last thing I saw. It was the last time that I… that I saw him alive.”
In order not to forget anything, Hyacinth jotted down key words, although Vrila didn’t describe in great detail. What had his brother done? What had he demanded that Vrila couldn’t recount?
Actually, he could imagine. Dimitri, that bastard, probably beat him.
In anger, he pressed down on the pencil so hard the lead snapped, forcing him to pick up another.
“What happened then?” Hyacinth encouraged his taciturn husband to continue.
“For five days he couldn’t be found. After those five days had passed, a beggar knocked on my door. One of those who’re always hanging around here. He told me he’d seen my brother’s corpse lying in the municipal morgue. Probably hoped to earn a few coins for that information. I gave him nothing, being so preoccupied with rushing through the streets without even a coat on to find out for sure. I did.” Vrila drew a deep breath. “He… was horribly mangled, his face barely recognisable, and in one hand he clutched a small necklace which didn’t belong to him. I’d never seen it before.”
Hyacinth swallowed hard. “Did Dimitri have many enemies?”
In response, Vrila shrugged his shoulders as if wishing to ward off a reply, but his gesture, along with his facial expression, seemed to be an affirmation. “He was very popular with his colleagues. They respected him although in court he usually out-argued them all. During his entire career as an attorney, he never lost a case.” Vrila paused to mull something over. “However, the next-to-last case he worked on had him unnerved somewhat. He was irritable and aggressive.”
Even more than usual? Hyacinth bit his lip rather than say words that would infuriate his husband against him. Vrila was suffering enough, as anyone could clearly see.
“Why do you believe the case made him so angry?”
Vrila finally looked him in the eyes while he lightly shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. He won it, after all, but still didn’t seem happy with the outcome.“ He finished his report and firmly pursed his thin lips together as though he meant to indicate he wouldn’t and couldn’t tell anything more.
“Good.” Hyacinth nodded and sighed, profoundly affected by how depressed Vrila looked. “Murphy?”
Haggard wiped his mouth on a dirty shirtsleeve. “It was my sister they took from me. We both lived on the street. Gina worked as… as…”
“A prostitute,” Sergei helped him along without compunction, and Murphy nodded affirmatively, no doubt ashamed of what his sister had been.
Hyacinth cast a nervous glance at Vrila. Was he also ashamed of him because he’d done things he hadn’t wanted to do?
But his husband paid him no attention, stared continually at his fingers and didn’t push back the hair that had fallen over his face.
“We slept in Elwood, in one of the empty houses. Gina had a little girl. She took… she took her along in the streets. Helen wasn’t ten years old yet but was supposed to be shown how,” he spit out with contempt while he held his head down. “I appealed to Gina’s conscience to leave the child with me instead, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Hyacinth’s stomach churned, but he kept his distance from the story as much as possible while writing notes as intensively as a scribe. He didn’t wish to be so cold but he couldn’t bear even more grief and sympathy. He had to be strong so he could stand by Vrila. His husband was the one who counted. Not the fates of others, as gut-wrenching as their stories might be.
“One morning I awoke and saw that Gina and Helen hadn’t returned. Their sleeping spaces were empty, and a few of the people who lived with us confirmed they hadn’t seen the two since the previous evening. I was beside myself with worry and began searching. After all, they were my family, the only ones I had left.” Haggard lapsed into a dogged silence he seemed determined not to break.
“How did you find Gina and Helen? Tell me. It’s important so we can find their murderers and bring them to justice,” Hyacinth insisted politely, while the man suppressed a sob.
“I went… I…,” he stuttered, kneading his wool cap with his large hands.
Once more Sergei came to his aid. He slapped Murphy on the shoulder and took over the task of finishing the story. “They found his sister along with her daughter hanging from the south city gate. Someone had hung signs around their necks.” He licked his lips nervously.
“What was on them?” Hyacinth dared to ask, although he didn’t want to know. His heart was beating slowly, and bitter stomach acid bubbled up at regular intervals and put a dreadful taste on his tongue.
“Sinners,” Sergei replied tersely and poured whisky for Haggard, whereas he stayed with water.
For a fleeting moment, Bartie put a hand over his mouth as though he might also become nauseated, and his eyes narrowed. He quickly got hold of himself.
“You believe the secret society did it. How did you come to that conclusion?” Hyacinth wished he could spare them this interrogation, but it was unavoidable if they intended to make further progress.
“They had those damn small chains wrapped around the knuckles of their fingers,” Murphy inserted after he’d emptied his glass. “They didn’t belong to them; we couldn’t have afforded such things. And none of the customers Gina had were that generous. Dammit, I want my revenge!”
“We’re working toward that, Murphy.” Hyacinth turned to Bartholomew, who gave him a gentle smile despite the solemn mood.
“I assume, since Sergei has nothing to report…” He directed a brief glance toward him. “… then I’m next. My story isn’t as tragic as the others, but I suppose it will be a welcome diversion that we won’t have to talk about murder and manslaughter.”
Hyacinth managed a nod. For one evening they’d truly heard enough gruesome things, and P
ierce Fletcher had not yet brought himself to the point of telling about his tragedy. They’d have to hear it later so they could assemble all the information needed. He just hoped the effort wouldn’t be in vain and they’d be able to make useful sense of some detail or another.
In any case, Vrila appeared not especially taken with his idea. If then his plan yielded nothing, his husband would surely be disappointed in him. This thought caused Hyacinth’s throat to constrict.
“Well really, there isn’t much to say. We have no doubt about the likelihood that the secret society has its dirty fingers in several political and economic affairs. For ten long years, I had a seat on the city council, one directly under the personal supervision of the king,” Bartie explained with a certain measure of pride in his voice. “Although we never came face to face with him,” he added with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Be that as it may. I had found my place in this society and was no less revitalised by being permitted to have a say in matters of importance. Many years ago we had a chance to put a stop to a man intending to double his wealth at the expense of the poor. It was the issue of that iron works that never should have been built in Elwood. That kind of factory puts an enormous strain on its environment. The noise, the heat, the waste products. So many families lived there. New residential buildings had just been constructed with economical apartments for rent.”
Fletcher interrupted that monologue, which was becoming suspenseful, by emitting a brittle scream because the fire in the hearth had crackled somewhat louder than usual. Vrila looked askance and shook his head while Sergei directed a furtive grin his way.
“I voted against the works, and the opponents were, contrary to all expectations, suddenly in the majority. That didn’t please the members of the secret society who had some kind of connection with that industrialist. They made us… change our vote. One after the other,” Bartholomew continued in a gloomy tone and stopped turning the ring on his finger. Though resting on the table, his hands were quivering.
“How did they manage that?”
“A few of the women on the council were victims of violence, a few of the men as well. They also attacked me. They put a sack over my head when I was walking through town on my way home. I had no inkling of any threat. They dragged me into a side street and hammered into me with everything they had that I needed to be well-disposed toward the iron works.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not a fearful-minded person and usually don’t allow anyone to impose his opinion on me, but those men succeeded in compelling me to commit a lie with my ballot and in forcing me off the council. Since then, I’ve not had any interest at all in trying to turn this city in the right direction.”
“Can you remember anything? Voices, words, features of the persons who attacked you?”
A gentle contemplation met Hyacinth’s. “It’s been so long, my boy, and I’m old. Unfortunately, my memory is declining.”
Yes, Hyacinth had already noticed that, when once Bartie couldn’t even remember his name. Of course, since then he hadn’t again become bewildered about something or forgotten it.
“I only know that I’m scared stiff of those people.”
“So why are you here? It could put you in danger.”
“Someone really needs to put a stop to those bastards.”
That contradicted his words maintaining he no longer wished to be involved in the city’s affairs, but Hyacinth didn’t want to offend him by pointing that out. Instead, he eagerly wrote down a few sentences and turned to the corpulent man fearfully glancing around. “Now, Mr Fletcher, we need your story.”
“If it’s really necessary,” Fletcher mumbled and rubbed along his jawline. He cleared his throat then began to speak: “My… my wife was such a dear woman. She was everything to me. I… I never thought I’d ever have to get along without her. And yet, as you see, it came to that.”
“What happened to her?” Hyacinth enquired directly since the man was dancing around the subject and avoided getting to the point.
Once again he cleared his throat – this evening all their throats seemed to be affected somehow. “We owned a small fabric shop on the main city square. Well, I… I still live there but I don’t work anymore. My widow’s pension is sufficient for my needs. Also, I don’t have any house servants to pay and don’t need much to make ends meet.”
“Fletcher, tell him what he wants to know,” Vrila interspersed and glared at the man with a look that made him tremble.
“I was out that night. It was one of those rare occasions when I went out without my Molly. I regret it to this day. When I came home, it must have been around three in the morning, she was lying motionless at the foot of the stairs. In a pool of blood that I… that I stepped into, in my panic, and stained the whole carpet. That would have upset her, but she never had the chance to scold me for that.” His pale eyes filled with tears, spilling out over his plump cheeks.
Hyacinth felt sympathy but also something else. He had to imagine how it might be to come home and find Vrila like that. His body shuddered, and the hairs on his arms stood up. His jawbone throbbed from clamping it so tightly.
“Somebody must have pushed her down the stairs. I don’t know what those people wanted from us, but they took the opportunity, when I was away, to lay hands on her. Or it was an accident,” he added in a low but shrill voice.
“Was there any evidence of the secret society?”
“Not the slightest,” Bartie spoke, whereupon Sergei interrupted him: “Perhaps they were smart enough to leave none behind!”
“Yes, yes,” Fletcher affirmed. “The cash drawer, the cash drawer. All the money was still in it! Had it been common thieves, they would’ve stolen something, but everything was still there, and Molly, by God, didn’t have any enemies!“
Hyacinth doubted Pierce Fletcher’s story actually fit in with the others but kept silent to avoid upsetting the man even more. He experienced no particular sympathy for him but wouldn’t have wished such an incident on his worst enemy. The widower had been very devoted to his wife and when he’d lost her, he’d also lost a part of his sanity, as revealed by his panicky gestures and glances.
From the corners of his eyes, Hyacinth regarded his husband and experienced the apprehension that he might react exactly the same way, should something happen to Vrila. That won’t be the case. He recovered his senses. Why should anything happen to him?
Fletcher was still crying, but no one made an effort to console him.
Only Vrila finally handed him a handkerchief and muttered: “My sincere sympathy.”
His cold-hearted husband had more soul than even he himself assumed. Once again Hyacinth was deeply touched, and, despite the adverse circumstances, his insides felt warm. “May I ask how you all met?”
Sergei spoke up in response: “For quite some time I’d been working at the morgue to…” He hesitated an uncomfortably long moment. “… to make my life on the street a bit easier. Haggard’s sister and her daughter were brought in eventually, and shortly thereafter he came to us.” With that, he motioned in Haggard’s direction. “I cheered him up a bit, that is, supplied him with whisky, and we started talking. He wanted to find the murderers of his family, and I took on the task of helping him. So, he also started helping out at the morgue to get access to information.”
For the same reason as you, Hyacinth thought and wondered what information Sergei wanted access to. What was his story? As surely as the ‘amen’ in a prayer, it had something to do with that portrait.
Vrila took over in a subdued voice: “Perkovic and Haggard picked me up from the stairs of the morgue. They knew about the necklace. That’s how we came into contact with one another. Bartholomew joined us somewhat later. We met in front of the police headquarters and got into a discussion.” Thereupon he nodded in Bartie’s direction to indicate he should continue the story.
“It was a very remarkable coincidence, I must admit. I was there that day to report a theft. Someone had broken into my place and stole nothi
ng except a very valuable vase. It must have been one of my guests who fell in love with it. I have odd friends.”
Hyacinth could confirm that after those damnable ladies and gentlemen had spoken so cruelly about Vrila.
”Well, I was with Inspector Hathaway, then when I came out, I sat on the steps to rest my old legs a little and smoke a cigarette. That was not long before both of us gave up smoking, wasn’t it, Gavrila?” He laughed at him and received a curt nod in reply.
“You smoked?” Hyacinth asked in an incredulous tone.
“A while. Not any longer.” Vrila avoided his eyes.
“So, I was sitting there with my thoughts when Gavrila was thrown out. He’d asked too many questions. Questions they didn’t know the answers to – and don’t know to this day. It’s widely recognised that officials in uniform find it very difficult to admit mistakes, mishaps and inadequacies. So, they just washed their hands of him.“
“Filthy swines,“ Vrila interjected quietly but decisively.
“One of the men tried to knock him out, when I intervened with a few conciliatory words.” Bartie laughed with a mocking inflection. “Which earned me a punch myself. Gavrila felt guilty and offered me a cigarette. Then we entered into a conversation because I’d overheard them warning him to leave it up to them to search for the secret society.”
“So that’s how all of you came together.” Hyacinth bobbed his head nervously. “How about you, Mr Fletcher? How did you join them?”
The man cringed at the sound of his name, but at least his tears had dried up. “These gentlemen…” He pointed to Sergei and Murphy. “… asked around if anyone suspected the secret society of being behind any crimes. I got in touch with them because I’m certain this society took my Molly from me! I’m absolutely certain!”
With a hardly noticeable movement, Bartie shook his head then looked upwards scornfully. It didn’t appear to conform to his gentle nature.
In summary, it could be said that among all those men, something akin to friendship had developed. Only with Fletcher each of them had kept his distance or even taken a repellent attitude. Hyacinth pondered the reason for that.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 23