A Hyacinth for His Hideousness

by Tharah Meester

  Once his back was against the same wall where no pictures of his wife were hanging, he inched along the hallway on the upper floor.

  Where was that despicable bastard hiding from him? Where could that fat son of a cunt be holed up? The miserable coward…

  The door to the living room stood open, and he risked a glance inside. Everything was so quiet. Had the drapes just moved?

  Could someone of Fletcher’s girth hide himself behind the heavy brown material? Without the tips of his shoes being seen?

  His pulse was racing, his breathing rapid as he attempted to cross the room without making a sound. His finger quivered on the trigger.

  He reached for a poker and pointed its tip slowly in the direction of the place where he thought he detected movement.

  Even before the iron touched the material of the drapes, somewhere a key turned in a lock. With a jerk he reeled around. The door he’d come through still stood open.

  He hurried out into the elongated vestibule and listened. He detected a noise coming from a room on the right. It sounded like someone dragging a chair across the floorboards. What was that damn swine planning to do?!

  In a rage, Vrila threw himself against the bolted door, and from within the room came a hoarse, whiny exclamation: “No, go away! Molly, go away!”

  What was that shit supposed to mean? “Fletcher! Open the damn door or I’ll kick it in!” Once more he threw his entire weight against the wood and heard the lock creak.

  “I didn’t mean to do it!” the widower cried out. His voice sounded as though he was holding something in front of his face. Perhaps his hands or a handkerchief.

  Previously he’d felt sorry for the man. Now he became sick to his stomach thinking about his puffed up face with its always wide-open eyes.

  “Why did you do it then, you miserable scum? Why?!” His distress could be heard in every word, and he had to cough to get a hold on himself. There was so much hatred in him! What was he supposed to do with it all? Would that emotion disappear when he had shot Fletcher? Or would it haunt him every day for the rest of his life?

  “He knew it! Molly must have confided in him! They had plotted against me!” He heard Fletcher rummaging in a drawer, seemingly in an abrupt hurry. “Molly wants to get her revenge on me!”

  Grinding his teeth, Vrila shoved against the door, tried to force it open. Again the wood creaked under the stress. “Why did your wife want revenge, you damn bastard? Tell me. Out with it!“

  “I didn’t mean to do it! It was a terrible accident!”

  Hearing that confession, Vrila stopped short. The man had his own wife on his conscience? “Keep on talking! Were you part of the secret society? Did they order you to murder your wife?!”

  “She beat and cursed me all the time.” Fletcher’s tone changed to one of hostility. “That miserable bitch! She beat me and mocked and insulted me!” A second later he broke out in tears again. “I just wanted to defend myself. I gave her a shove so she’d stop! She lost her balance and fell down the stairs! I didn’t mean to hurt her! Lord, forgive my sins. I have sinned...“ He became absorbed in muddleheaded prayers.

  Vrila no longer listened to him but once more threw his entire weight against the door. It burst open, and he stumbled into the room. What he saw took his breath away.

  Fletcher stood on a chair in his bedroom and was putting a rope around his neck. The cord was fastened to one of the ceiling beams. His facial expression was a distorted grimace of despair mixed with insanity. His hair was dishevelled, and some bald spots made Vrila wonder if he’d torn out some tufts in his delirium. His eyes rested deep in their sockets and stared at him chilled with fright.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” he muttered again and, before Vrila could move an inch, he kicked the chair from under his feet.

  “No!” Horrified, he stepped toward the man but didn’t know whether to pull the trigger or try to cut through the rope.

  His memories of the war, which his young husband had exorcised, came crashing back and overwhelmed him so fiercely he flinched and clasped his aching head with both hands.

  He staggered back a step, saw the many corpses before him, staring out of dead eyes as he walked across the battlefield in search of survivors. Their blood coloured the dirty snow lying around in frozen, dark red mounds. Countless hooves and boot soles had mauled the earth so badly, it looked like a roughly ploughed field. “No, no,” he whimpered, helplessly exposed to the images of horror he couldn’t resist seeing in his mind.

  Finally he regained his self-control and hid his injured soul behind the cold façade he was once more able to build around himself.

  The scenes surrounding him of the battle at Leznijek became indistinct, and when the fog dissipated, he was in Pierce Fletcher’s bedroom again.

  For a moment he was relieved. But then he saw Fletcher opposite him. He presented a dreadful sight. The fall hadn’t been intense and jolting enough. His neck hadn’t broken and he struggled noisily with death. His legs pedalled in the air and his fingers fumbled with his collar. His wretched eyes became bloodshot and bulged, staring at him.

  Vrila could have made the matter easier, could have helped him to a quick end in innumerable ways. But Pierce Fletcher hadn’t earned such an end. He deserved to suffer those few seconds longer. This man merited no amount of grace. He’d chosen his fate, and Vrila stormed out of the room to leave him alone with the devil.

  Suddenly overcome with panic, he ran down the stairs and left the building the same way he’d entered.

  Breathing heavily, he hurried from the rear courtyard back to the street and nearly ran into someone. Into someone he knew. “Haggard?” he wheezed and examined his worried expression with a feverish stare.

  “The boy said you’d be here,” his burly friend said in a lowered, peculiarly sibilant voice. “For Heaven’s sake, put that weapon away! What have you done?”

  Vrila did as he was told and swallowed hard. The tip of a boot was covered in green paint. Now that Fletcher had taken his own life, he didn’t need to get rid of that footwear. They rounded the next corner together. “What are you doing here?”

  “We met Hyacinth heading to police headquarters. Sergei went along with him. They sent me here to prevent you from doing anything stupid. It appears I’m unsuccessful.”

  “Sergei is with him?” Vrila blinked and to his amazement sensed jealousy emerging within him despite the gruesome circumstances.

  “Someone needs to stand by him.” Haggard shrugged his shoulders and appeared – judging by his tone of voice – neither to have intended nor to have noticed he’d hurt Vrila profoundly with those words.

  Someone needs to stand by him, he repeated in his head and realised just how much he’d actually let his husband down. It wasn’t Vrila who was encouraging Hyacinth and standing by him, but rather Sergei.

  Another man was needed to console the young man. Tormented, he closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead before indifferently looking straight ahead. He felt colder than ever before. The sensation in his chest caused him to presume his heart was frozen.

  “Did you… Fletcher… did you…?” Haggard couldn’t finish the question and seemed afraid to hear the reply.

  “He hanged himself. Voluntarily,” Vrila explained and quickened his pace.

  *

  Hyacinth feared he might lose consciousness any moment. Everything was swirling around him, and the multitude of questions by the police pelted him like hailstones. His tears had dried, but his despair remained.

  After returning to Seymour’s house, the police first examined the murder victim and drew small marks on the floor. Next, the undertaker came and carelessly packed his friend into a dark wooden box. His assistants hadn’t been careful and Seymour’s head had banged against the bottom of the coffin. They’d torn the statue from his fingers and left it with the officers.

  The inspector had examined and handed it to one of his subordinates who dropped it into a sack then threw it in
to a box with other pieces of evidence. Hyacinth had objected and insisted they had to return Seymour’s possessions to him. Hathaway had merely laughed scornfully, and another officer had slammed a hand against Hyacinth’s chest – as if it didn’t already hurt enough. He was rudely informed the statue would be examined first, then later it would be determined whether the old man could keep it. Having no other options, Hyacinth reluctantly accepted the situation.

  Sergei made every effort to support him during the interrogation, but his objections were ignored or dismissed with derisive remarks.

  To shield Vrila, none of them had uttered a word about Pierce Fletcher being the murderer. After all, Vrila was now at his place to deal with him. Whatever that meant precisely, it was clear to Hyacinth he must by no means send the police there. His husband would be arrested on the spot.

  “He was my friend! I couldn’t harm a hair on his head! Why don’t you believe me?!“ he yelled in the inspector’s face.

  “You’d only known the man for a few days, you said,” the inspector replied calmly and pursed his lips.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that he was my friend! Mr Wiplay and my husband have known each other almost their entire lives!”

  “You haven’t even known your husband for more than a week, Sir. Or had you often serviced him before?” A self-satisfied grin flitted across Hathaway’s ugly face. A few of his subordinates chuckled, urging on the Chef de police. “Is that why he was so keen on marrying you, because he didn’t want to lose his whore? Are you so good at what you do?”

  Hyacinth’s cheeks turned red with shame. He remembered the nights when he’d roamed in the gutters. He felt nauseous remembering suitors who’d knocked his head against a wall and shoved so hard into his mouth it hurt. His stomach was churning violently, and only with considerable effort did he keep himself from throwing up.

  “Don’t the duties of an inspector include remaining unbiased and leaving personal differences aside when questioning someone, Sir?” Sergei interjected while trying to suppress his rage.

  “That’s what I’m being. I’m gathering the facts,” Hathaway replied cheerfully and ran a finger through his moustache. “You maintain you found this remarkable gentleman in his chair when you came for…” He laughed sardonically. “… your lessons. The man still spoke to you, you said. Why didn’t you see anyone running away? The amount of time between the assault and his death couldn’t have been very long.“

  “If I knew, I’d tell you,” Hyacinth choked out in dismay.

  He heard rapid footsteps from downstairs. Were even more policemen arriving?

  “All of that seems suspicious to me. You had a way in, Mr Ardenovic. Everything points to the possibility that you’re lying and stabbed this poor man to death yourself.”

  Hearing those words, Hyacinth’s legs gave way under him and he’d have fallen to the floor had Sergei not grabbed him. Would they arrest him? Would they take him and lock him up?

  “If you dare try to pin anything on my husband, you’ll get a taste of my revenge,” a dark voice well-known to Hyacinth growled from behind, and he turned around with a gasp.

  When he saw Vrila, his knees grew weaker, and he needed Sergei’s support even more. Vrila hated him. He must hate him… because he alone was to blame for Seymour’s death. Once more his eyes were burning.

  “Ah, Your Hideousness,“ Hathaway called out, half laughing and tipped his hat to him, put it over his chest then made the suggestion of a bow. “Click your heels together, men, and do His Hideousness the honour he doesn’t deserve!”

  The officers grinned derisively and stopped to salute Vrila.

  Hyacinth gritted his teeth while pressing his lips together.

  Vrila appeared unimpressed. “Did you hear me, Hathaway?”

  The inspector looked up from his notebook. “Your toothless threats? Yes, yes, I took note of them and put them down on paper. May I ask how you found your way over here?”

  Hyacinth hastened to anticipate Vrila’s response: “I sent Mr Haggard for him. He left the house with me this morning to run some errands and wasn’t at home when I found Mr Wiplay.”

  “I asked your husband, and it would make me happy if you’d keep your mouth shut when I’m not speaking to you,” Hathaway hissed and turned to Vrila: “Is that true?”

  “Of course it is,” he replied without emotion while Hyacinth lowered his head.

  Sergei nudged him to stand on his own feet and coughed slightly before he drew back a step.

  “As I understand, you were very close to the victim,” Hathaway continued. “The man was one of the few people who could stand your dreadful looks.”

  Hyacinth glared at the police chief without lifting his head. He wanted to scream at him, tell him to shut his mouth. His hands clenched into fists. He had enough of all the abuse, of all those evil words that wounded Vrila’s heart even if he would never admit it.

  “We were close,” Vrila repeated coolly.

  “You’re not a suspect, Your Hideousness, but it’s a little different concerning your… spouse.”

  “My husband had nothing to do with the murder. Mr Wiplay was as much a friend to him as to me, and I think you already know.”

  “Maybe,” Hathaway shrugged and scribbled something in his book before closing it with a clap and shoving it into the inner pocket of his ghastly overcoat.

  “Are you going to get to work then and find the real murderer?” Vrila asked with an urgent undertone intended to avoid indicating they already knew who’d committed the crime.

  “We’ll see what we can do, Your Hideousness.”

  “Stop calling him that!” In a rage, Hyacinth rushed at that damn arsehole of an inspector.

  Sergei yelled out his name and tried to hold him back but could only grab his shirt.

  Hyacinth struck the police chief so hard on the chest that he stumbled backwards. He tried to punch him in the face but was restrained.

  Vrila had seized him from behind and forcefully held him back. “Are you out of your mind?!”

  Not knowing if his husband would ever embrace him again, Hyacinth unwittingly used the opportunity to put his arms on those holding him by the waist. His throat was so tight he couldn’t swallow. He closed his eyes and relished the coolness of his husband’s body pressed against his back. Did Vrila really hate him? He wanted to ask, but here and now was hardly the right time and place.

  “There’ll be repercussions for that, you damn vermin!” the Chef de police threatened and visibly disturbed, adjusted his collar. His subordinates had closed in around him to shield him from any further attack.

  “Not if you don’t want the whole world to learn you yourself keep one of those whores you’re so contemptuous of, Mr Hathaway,” Sergei countered and caused total silence to fall over the room.

  Eyes wide open, the inspector stared at Perkovic as if he were a ghost.

  “You heard correctly. You were seen strolling through the streets with a pretty, blond night flower. They say that girl could have easily been your daughter.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Then let us be. You’ll have nothing to worry about,” Sergei stated offhandedly.

  Hathaway gave his beard a cursory stroke then nodded as if he wished to agree without saying a word. “If the gentlemen would kindly leave the scene of the crime so that we can continue our work here?”

  Vrila released Hyacinth and shoved him toward the stairs. A few moments later they were standing in the street. “What in hell were you doing?! The bugger could have arrested you!”

  Hyacinth offered no reply. What should he say? He’d obviously defended Vrila, and at that moment the consequences hadn’t mattered to him at all.

  ”Stop yelling at him, dammit!” Sergei unexpectedly leapt to his aid and glared at Vrila, a reproachful grimace on his face. “It’s completely unnecessary.”

  “You don’t tell me how I’m to deal with my husband,” Vrila growled and confused them all with his hate-fil
led voice. “And if I ever see you embracing him again, I’ll break every bone in your body. Do you understand?” He raised a finger toward Sergei whose eyes suddenly narrowed.

  “I caught him because he’d nearly fallen to the floor. The youngster needed support, but you weren’t there. Turn your rage on yourself because you’re the one who deserves it.” With those words he stormed away without leaving Vrila the opportunity to respond.

  Perhaps it was for the best. This wasn’t the time to be attacking one another. Seymour wouldn’t have wanted it. None of it. Again, tears flooded Hyacinth’s already aching eyes.

  “Why are you still standing here?!“ Vrila hounded him immediately. “Into the house, damn you!”

  Haggard cringed, cast confused looks at them and appeared not to know what to do. At last he nodded with pity and walked off in Sergei’s direction. Most likely to catch up with him.

  Nearly choking as he swallowed, Hyacinth stared at his friends then did what his husband had ordered. Vrila looked around suspiciously and slammed the door behind them.

  “What did you do to Fletcher?” Hyacinth risked asking quietly and ran his fingers over the chipped wood on the kitchen counter then stared down at it rather than have to look at Vrila’s angry visage. For the first time since they’d known each other, he was afraid of him. Not because he expected a beating, but because his husband’s features appeared to be so hard and stony. As if nothing in this world would ever mean a thing to him again. Least of all Hyacinth.

  “Nothing,” came the terse reply. “He’s dead.”

  An intense wooziness overcame him. “Did you kill him?”

  Vrila stood in front of the sofa, holding firmly onto an armrest and staring at the hearth. His body appeared to be hunched with stress; sorrow seemed to reside in every fibre of his being. “That wasn’t necessary. He did it to himself and admitted to me that he killed his wife. Allegedly an accident.”

  The ghost of his wife was what had filled Fletcher with such a panicked fear. “Was he a member of the secret society?“