“Ardenovic…vic…vic…,” he greeted Vrila with his customary ebullience. “Longing so soon for me…me…me?”
Standing beside Vrila, Hyacinth was audibly grinding his teeth.
“Come down; we need to speak with you,” Vrila responded after a slight grunt. He didn’t know exactly how he should behave. He had no experience at all with jealous husbands. He didn’t want to cause negative emotions in Hyacinth or offend him in any way.
“What in hell is he wearing?” Sergei muttered.
Tornwauld swung himself over the rain gutter and proved again what unusual agility he possessed by balancing on one of the clotheslines. Shortly thereafter he leapt down then caught himself – his hands grabbing hold of the line. He hung briefly on the seemingly silk-like thread before he cut through it and, with the aid of the cord, came swinging to the ground.
He landed elegantly on his feet, tucked the walking cane under an arm and bowed as though he’d just performed a feat of skill for which he expected a round of applause.
“You need something…thing…thing?” He smiled impishly then lowered his eyelids to be coquettish with him in his customary, insane manner.
“Tornwauld, you have to stop doing that. I’m a married man now,” Vrila asserted and, with those clumsy words, enticed a suppressed laugh from Sergei. A lot of help that fellow was…
“Oh,” Tornwauld responded, barely parting his lips. He appeared to be aggrieved and withdrew emotionally. He stirred up the dust with the tip of a shoe then stared down at it.
Finding the peculiar situation hardly to his liking, Vrila uneasily cleared his throat behind a hand over his mouth. “We need to ask you something. It may be important to us.”
“Then speak,” Tornwauld commanded in a quiet voice without looking at him. Vrila felt sorry for the young man.
Instead of him, Sergei spoke: “Timothy Fowler. He lived in one of these houses. His brother was killed months ago. Recently he was attacked and died of his injuries. Do you know who’s responsible for this attack?”
“Timothy told you about them…them…them. You didn’t believe him…him…him. Now it’s too late.”
Vrila’s forehead wrinkled. “Whom did he tell us about?”
“The devils,” Tornwauld whispered and raised his head to stare directly into his eyes. The twinkle had disappeared. “They often roam the streets around here, violate the women and take their rage out on the men. They stole Vincent Fowler’s body…body…body.”
“Mr Fowler told us about devils with gigantic paws and… and claws and all of that crap. How in the world were we supposed to believe him?” Sergei interjected bluntly and let Vrila know he attributed a portion of the guilt for Timothy Fowler’s death to himself.
“That’s hardly the reality. On the outside they’re ordinary men. Timothy saw their souls because those are really ugly. One of them was tall and blond. The other one of shorter stature and with hair as black as Ardenovic…vic…vic.” Tornwauld pointed a finger at Vrila. As he did so, a slight, friendly smile scurried across his lips.
They already knew the tall blond. At least, he knew them and was closely following, but at the same time always a step ahead.
“Were those the devils who beat up Timothy?” Sergei enquired further although the answer seemed evident.
“The dark-haired one was alone…lone…lone… He screamed so loud…loud…loud,” Tornwauld nearly spit out the words, placed his hands over his ears and made a face as though he were hearing the sounds once more. “He said he wouldn’t allow such a filthy bastard to put his life in danger. Then the blond joined in…in…in and dragged him away…way…way. He didn’t end it there. Not that night.”
Was he suggesting that someone had gone to Fowler in the hospital to end what he’d begun? It could be, sounded plausible. Vrila drew a sharp breath when struck with the possibility they might have been able to prevent the attack. Only then did it become clear to him how it had been their fault. If they hadn’t questioned Fowler and nosed around here, those men would have left him in peace. His stomach turned.
Hyacinth spoke up. “You need to keep yourself far away from those devils, Mr Tornwauld.”
It was the first time Tornwauld appeared to notice him, although the lad had remained on Vrilas arm. The mad man keenly observed him, tilted his head to the side and smiled. “What a dear being.” Then he turned to Vrila: “Your husband?” He seemed satisfied with Vrila’s faint nod then bowed low before Hyacinth. “My best wishes, Mr Ardenovic…vic…vic…”
Before any of them could react, he swung himself up the wall and disappeared over the roofs of the ghostly island. Vrila’s eyes followed him until he was swallowed by the heavy fog. He detected a hint of worry within himself. Tornwauld was still something of a boy and defencelessly exposed to all those horrors. He had nobody to care in the least for him, and Elwood was a dangerous area. Especially since that murderous scum was roaming its streets.
Good heavens, Hyacinth had made a compassionate being of him! He didn’t know what he should think about it. The slight smile taking hold on his lips gave him an answer.
“We need to do something for him,” Hyacinth said, appearing to have read his mind, then looked at him with concern. His jealousy had apparently vanished. Perhaps because Tornwauld was someone whom people couldn’t hold a grudge against. Or because he had received an acknowledgement that day.
Vrila nodded softly and bent over to kiss his sweetheart’s temple. “Let’s get out of here.”
*
Kissing and embracing each other, they stood at their front door. “You’re not angry with me because I’m not coming with you?” he asked in a mumbling voice while still touching Vrila’s lips.
His husband wanted to see to matters in Seymour’s house and remove a few items from there. That afternoon, a policeman had brought them a carton containing Seymour’s possessions seized during the investigation. Without looking at any of its contents, Vrila had taken it upstairs to join his own cartons. His grief had prevented him from doing more. And the same emotion deprived Hyacinth of the courage to accompany his husband into the house where he’d studied and often enjoyed a laugh with Mr Wiplay. He couldn’t even look at it, much less enter it.
“Of course not. I‘ll be there less than an hour. If you change your mind, you can come over at any time.” Gingerly, Vrila brushed a few curls from his forehead.
Hyacinth managed to nod and, after a further kiss, let go of his husband. Through the broad curtains he watched him walk over to Seymour’s empty house. It was gloomy outside; night would soon fall. After they’d been with Tornwauld, the poor fellow, they’d taken lunch with Sergei at a guesthouse before also taking leave of him. They’d spent the remainder of the day in front of the hearth, cuddled with one another, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Neither of them knew how matters would proceed from then on. It was gruelling being unable to do anything. So much had happened, but – contrary to Bartie’s opinion – they weren’t one step closer to their objective.
Hyacinth sighed deeply and turned away from the windows since Vrila had already disappeared from his field of vision. His eyes remained glued to the narrow steps leading upstairs. Seymour’s box was up there, and he was seized with a powerful urge to hold an item once belonging to his mentor.
He reached for a candle and climbed the stairs. He paused when he caught sight of the carton. It stood near the small, angled sky-light that only admitted a dim glow from outside.
With a heavy heart he sat on the cold floor next to the box and paused a few moments before being able to reach into it. His fingers felt the figurine Seymour had received from Mr Lynnen.
When I was Seymour’s pupil, he’d drag me along at least once a week to the man’s shop. He bought things he had absolutely no use for, just to see the man.
When he recalled Vrila’s words, tears filled his eyes sooner than he’d expected.
I was standing next to a massive oak table when Lynnen gave him that figurine. Seymou
r was rather embarrassed, and Lynnen… he was too. He seemed nervous.
Why was the man nervous and also embarrassed as well? He’d only presented a small gift to a paying customer. Or did a deeper significance lie behind it? His fingers followed its finely wrought lines.
At least Mr Lynnen had made it with painstaking craftmanship. Would he have done that for anyone, or was Seymour someone special to him?
The question he’d directed at Vrila emerged once more. Had Mr Lynnen also liked him? He wanted someone to offer an answer, but who?
“Did you love him, Maurice?” he whispered to the statue, which naturally couldn’t reply. He tensed while turning the wood in his hands. He rotated it on its head and observed the carver’s initials, the one Seymour had so passionately lost his heart to, though the man had never known. Or had he known and ignored it because he didn’t feel the same way?
The man had never married, but what did that really signify? Maybe he’d simply not found the right person. Maybe he was more attracted to women than to men. Maybe there had never been anything between Seymour and him. He couldn’t know, but the question wouldn’t leave him in peace.
Then maybe Mr Lynnen had the same feelings but also the same fears as Seymour. That was only conjecture; he couldn’t obtain any confirmation, but the thought resonated in his head and churned inside him.
He sat there for what seemed like forever and stared down at the wooden object.
Cautiously he ran a finger along the base on which the carved figure of a young man stood and, for some reason or other, he put a fingernail in a tiny slit there.
A moment later a small panel came loose from the figurine’s underside. Good heavens, no! He’d broken it! Fresh tears anguished him momentarily.
Immediately after his initial fright, he noticed he hadn’t destroyed anything; the panel was made to be opened.
A small roll of paper had fallen onto his lap. He swallowed hard and breathed as though he’d run throughout all of Ascot.
Trembling, he picked up the paper and unfolded it.
A few lines were penned in a spidery but meticulous handwriting, reminding him of his own.
Dear Mr Wiplay,
I’m only a simple cabinetmaker and not worthy of you; however, I can’t help myself and must write you this message.
I feel like I’m going to lose my mind over you. I look into your eyes and I’m overcome with an urge to kiss you. I’d most of all like it to be for the rest of my life.
I hang on to the hope you actually don’t need all those pieces of furniture and come to see me alone. It might be ridiculous, but something in me holds firmly to this insane notion. If you genuinely care as much for me, please give me some indication. I’d like to spend more time with you and would make every effort to live up to your expectations.
A word from you will suffice, and we’ll see how things turn out between us.
Should you not reciprocate my feelings, forget this letter, and I will know you actually have a use for all those things.
Yours, Maurice
“No.” With an agitated movement, Hyacinth shook his head. ”No, tell me it isn’t so.” His cheeks were wet; his eyes burned.
Whereas Seymour believed he wasn’t the right man for Mr Lynnen because of his two left thumbs, the other believed he wasn’t smart enough for Seymour. Therefore, they had missed the one opportunity for happiness with each other.
That knowledge was worse than the uncertainty distressing him earlier. The whole situation was so much more tragic than it might have seemed at first glance. Both had loved one another but not known it! They hadn’t known it!
All those years, Seymour had had that love letter in his possession, had held it in his hands a thousand times but hadn’t read it.
Hyacinth sobbed quietly. He had to tell Seymour. Vrila had to go to the cemetery with him. Now, right away. After so many years having passed, he firmly believed the matter couldn’t be delayed any longer.
Hurriedly he took the steps downstairs, wiped his eyes as he descended but a moment later remained frozen on the final step.
An ice-cold panic seized him; he found it hard to breathe.
In the middle of the living room he viewed a circle of candles and black flowers. The numerous flames bathed the room in an eerie light, lent the scene an even more harrowing appearance.
An envelope lay in the middle of the circle. With pin-sharp handwriting, J. H. Black was written on it in jet-black ink.
Hyacinth slowly approached it. Looking more closely he recognised the flowers to be black-coloured hyacinths. A threat.
His heart raced as he picked up the envelope. He pulled out the letter. It consisted of only a few words, but they chilled him to the bone.
Leave him and disappear from the city, otherwise you will regret it. We’re giving you this one night. Do not utter one word to him.
A shiver ran down his spine. Not until the next moment did it occur to him that someone had been in there while he’d sat upstairs and noticed nothing. He felt sick to his stomach.
His breathing intensified, but the air didn’t seem to be reaching his burning lungs. With eyes wide open, he stared at the windows.
Maybe the enemy was still in the house. And suddenly he could practically feel the bathroom door open behind him…
*
Vrila didn’t believe in ghosts. Nevertheless, he’d started a fire in the hearth to drive away the cold in case Seymour’s spirit spent its nights here.
He’d placed all the edibles into a box to take to the poorhouse. Certainly this would meet with Hyacinth’s approval. He intended to take the tin containing Seymour’s favourite tea home with him. He and his husband should drink a cup of it because Seymour always maintained it calmed the spirits and dispelled all worries. A smile flitted across his face.
“Do you know that I’m no longer consumed with Dimitri anymore?” he asked the non-existent spirit of his friend, who would have been happy to hear those words. If he were there.
“When I discovered my feelings for Hyacinth, I knew Dimitri would abhor me for it, and it frightened me. Whenever I’ve been … together with Hyacinth, I’ve often thought about what Dimitri would think about my actions.”
He swallowed hard and packed another textbook into a box he’d take home. Then he smiled again. “Now I no longer care what my dead brother thinks about my loving a man. I love Hyacinth. Nothing can prevent me. Nothing.”
A sigh resonated from his throat, and he closed the lid of the carton. He looked up at the portrait of his old friend hanging over the hearth. “And Hyacinth loves me too,” he whispered and felt deeply touched. “Nothing can separate me from him. He’s the most important thing in my life.”
A loud sound downstairs in the shop caused him to wheel around. Someone was thundering up the stairs, and a moment later he was looking his ashen-faced husband directly into his wide-open eyes. “My lad, what’s happened?”
Hyacinth rushed into his embrace and threw his arms tightly around Vrila’s neck, almost cutting off his air. “Someone wants to kill me.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?” Gently he stroked the back of Hyacinth’s head and fought against the panic creeping up in him.
“I was upstairs, looking at the small statue. Inside was a love letter for Seymour. From Mr Lynnen. He never saw it. Then I went downstairs, and there was this circle of black hyacinths. And… and this threat.” He released his hold on Vrila and handed him the letter. Vrila found it difficult to process the information.
While he read the letter, he felt a burning sensation in his stomach. He kept his poise for the sake of his agitated husband, although he felt inclined to react differently. “I won’t allow anything to happen to you,” he burst out in a scratchy voice. “I’ll find out who wrote that and then…”
“No, please! We’ve already stuck our noses too deep into this mess. They’ll kill us if we don’t leave it alone! We need to leave town! I’m begging you!”
“What are you thinking? We can’t just simply run away and let everything…”
“You just don’t want to leave Ascot because you can’t forget the mystery about your damn brother! Dimitri’s always more important!”
Enraged by the reproach, he shouted: “My brother’s dead!”
“And despite that, he’s more important to you than I am!” Hyacinth roared in evident despair. “He was an evil man. Face up to it, will you!”
Vrila lost his self-control. “I’ve known that for a long time! And I hated him for it! I’ve detested the filthy scumbag! A bit more intensely every time he struck me! So don’t tell me he’s more important to me than you! He isn’t! He never could! Nothing is more important to me than you!” He shouted the words without thinking and was dismayed by them. Groaning, he covered his face with his hand. When he lowered it, he saw the tears streaming down Hyacinth’s pale cheeks.
“Don’t,” Vrila muttered, powerfully affected, and overcame the distance between them by drawing his lad into his arms.
Hyacinth concealed his damp face on Vrila’s neck. “Please, let’s leave. I don’t want to stay here any longer. I’m terribly afraid.”
“I’ll protect you, I swear.” Softly he ran his fingers through blond locks. He’d made one false move after another. The realisation struck him that he should have ceased pursuing Dimitri’s murderers much sooner, and it caused his lungs to constrict. How much suffering could all of them have been spared, had he listened to Seymour and simply forgotten his despicable brother instead of chasing a phantom? By doing so, he’d placed them all in peril, and someone else had had to pay the price. He wouldn’t allow Hyacinth to be the next to suffer for his mistakes.
”We’ll leave tonight,” he relented in a tender voice. “We’ll keep our distance from this damn society. I should have never allowed you to be dragged into this affair. I’ll never allow those fanatics to do anything to you. I’ll never allow anyone to do that. Come, we’re going.” He reached for the tea tin and took the young man by a hand and led him downstairs.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 40