Slasher Girls & Monster Boys

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  “You know, they don’t talk about you much, the Gortleys,” Kerstin said, at the third-story landing. “Or the servants. You’re like a character in a novel. Rather like a secret.”

  That sounded nice. Being a secret. “It’s not like that at all,” Misha said. “It’s miserable here.”

  “Isn’t it everywhere,” Kerstin said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re not miserable. I hear you singing. When you’re taking out the washing. I’m the Queen of London-Town. You don’t sound miserable at all.”

  “Don’t I? Oh. Well, better singing than crying. Anyway, I don’t want to be a servant forever. One day I’ll get away from here. I’ll be an actress or a circus performer. I’ll shoot pistols and whisper to snakes.”

  Kerstin sounded dreamy, and Misha fell into the dream, thinking of bright lights strung across a tent, sawdust kicked into clouds, jangling music drifting from an organ grinder’s box. She wanted to pursue the subject, but they were walking down the corridor now, and Kerstin was speaking of murder again. “Tomorrow it’ll be a bit fresher, I think. Clearer in your head, and less like an awful nightmare. It was with me. D’you have any idea who might have done it?”

  “No. There are thirty guests in the house at least, and just as many visiting servants.”

  “But did you notice anything? Perhaps a—?”

  A floorboard creaked, footsteps approached, and suddenly Misha was surrounded by the smell of tobacco and lavender. Someone passed behind them in the corridor.

  Misha stopped, rooted to the floor. Kerstin tried to keep going, but Misha’s muscles were locked, her shoulders stiff and high.

  “Miss?” Kerstin’s fingers squeezed Misha’s arm encouragingly. “Miss, go on?”

  Misha turned, looking back down the corridor. Someone was standing there. She could feel him. She could feel eyes on her, watching, and through the fog of her vision, she could see a shape, tall and dark, facing her through the swirling gray. She wanted to scream, but the only sound that came from her was a hissing, high-pitched whine. Her hands went tight around Kerstin’s arm. She wanted to ask who it was, who was standing there at the end of the passage. Then Kerstin opened the door to Misha’s room and pulled her in, hurrying to fold down the bedspread and plump up the pillows.

  “Kerstin?” Misha whispered. But by then Kerstin was gone, and the fear returned, creeping around the edges of the door, red and murky.

  × × ×

  Misha slept fitfully that night, her sheets twisted around her legs. She had wedged the door shut with a chair and closed all the windows, but it was summer and the night was hot. The temperature seemed to have seeped into the velvet drapes and the wood and the bric-a-brac, and was now releasing itself in puffs of steam, slicking her forehead and dampening her pillow. She could not close her eyes. She felt she could still smell the thick cologne, feel the woman’s skirts hanging down from the ceiling, the blood dripping, and the cold arm . . . Every shifting in the house, every scuttle of a rat under the floorboards, sent her skin rising into gooseflesh.

  There in the dark, she wondered why the man had not killed her when she had stumbled across Lady Willoughby’s body on the stairs. She had practically walked into the murder as it was being committed, and she had witnessed his presence, and surely it would not have been such a great risk to add a blind girl to the scene. But Misha knew why, even if she wished she didn’t: He had not killed her because he thought she was not a threat. He thought he could whisper a few horrid words into her ear and it would be enough to frighten her into silence. It had been enough, almost. She was frightened, a part of her, but another part was forming too, deep in her chest, and shaping into an angry, spiky little burr, and that part wanted to catch him, wanted to grab him by the hair of his wicked head and drag him to justice. He was still in the house, one of the guests, or more likely one of the guests’ servants, judging by his rough voice. And either she caught him, or she waited in fear and silence while he did whatever he pleased and perhaps got away with it.

  No, she could not allow that. She was done sitting quietly in her attic room. He would come to regret having spared her.

  × × ×

  When morning came, it was a sick sort of relief. Misha stumbled from her bed and shuffled about for her clothing. Kerstin came up several minutes later with the breakfast tray. No sooner was she in than Misha snatched her arm and pulled her into the middle of the room.

  “Kerstin, you’ve got to listen. Is the door closed? Was anyone in the hall?”

  “Miss, please, I’ve got a load of work to do—” Kerstin started, but Misha shook her. She listened for a second, and when she heard no sound, either from the garden or the house, she went on:

  “I know who did it. I know who killed Lady Willoughby. At least, I know a little. I know he smells like lavender and tobacco, and I can see him somewhat, like a dark shape in my eye. I know that sounds mad, but it’s more than anyone else knows, and we’ve got to do something or he might kill me. He might kill you, Kerstin. Did you see the man that passed us in the hall last night?”

  “Do you mean, when you had that little fit and fairly well clawed my arm off? No. I was distracted.”

  “Oh. Well, that was him. That was the murderer, and you’ve got to help me catch him. He sounded like a country man, a Yorkshire man perhaps, though come to think of it, he may have put that accent on. He didn’t smell like a country man. He smelled like lavender and tobacco. Do any of the servants smell like lavender and tobacco? And if they don’t, I need you to go through all the men’s guest rooms and find a cologne that does. Tobacco and lavender, all right? Can you do that?”

  Misha had barely breathed at all during the rush of words, and now that she did, she realized that Kerstin was probably staring at her as if she were the maddest creature alive. “Can you do that?” she said again, somewhat suspiciously this time.

  Kerstin did not answer at once. Then, quietly, and a little awed, she said: “We passed him? We passed by the very murderer?”

  “Yes. And he came into my room right before he did it. He was right there in the doorway with Lady Willoughby.”

  Suddenly Kerstin tore away from Misha, and she heard her go to the window and pause there. “Oy!” she shouted down at someone. “You shouldn’t be out there! Back inside, the lot of you!” She slammed the panes closed and came back to Misha. When she spoke again her voice was breathless and a little bit excited. “He was right there? Oh, lawks, the murderer, right there with you . . .”

  Misha was about to launch into another plea, when Kerstin said: “I’ll help you. I don’t believe that you can see him, not unless you aren’t blind as a bat as we’ve always supposed, but I know you were there, and so I’ll look. You, miss, should go downstairs and be with the Gortleys and not by yourself.”

  “No, I can’t, I—”

  “Then come to the kitchens. Wait there. At least there’ll be folk around to watch you. I won’t be able to tell you right away, but I’ll do my best. Now come on, or Cook will have my head for chicken dinner.”

  Misha was not convinced she wanted to be in kitchens either, not until she was sure the murderer was not one of the staff, but at least she would not be alone there, and so they both ran from the room, down the back stairs and into the servants’ wing. Misha hung back while Kerstin whispered to the cook and the other maids that they would have a guest. A hard wooden chair was brought out for Misha, and she sat down. She listened carefully for a rough voice like gravel and earth, for the dark spike in the corner of her eye that would tell her the murderer was here, but he was not. Misha sat very still on her chair and listened to the bustle swilling around her, the snap of aprons, the crackle of the stoves, the clang of pans, the whispers.

  The servants tried to be quiet at first. Even the head cook, the queen of the lower levels second only to the butler and the housekeeper, lowered her voice while giving orders.
But after a while of Misha sitting like a statue they seemed to forget about her, and the regular noises of the kitchen returned as loud as ever. She heard their gossip like a constant newspaper reading: The servants’ quarters had been searched again; Mr. Hudson, the butler, was disgusted, and said that if it was one of his servants who was the murderer, he would break the perpetrator’s neck himself and spare the cost of rope; the entire house was being searched; the old governess, Essa Beet, just down the hall from Misha, was missing from her room, and a side table was knocked over as if there had been a struggle, and no one had seen her in hours; guests were wailing desperately about their wish to leave the wretched place; and Lady Gortley did nothing to dissuade them, because if Miss Beet’s body was found, Lady Gortley would be ready to go as well.

  × × ×

  Kerstin did not come back to the servants’ hall for many hours, or if she did, she had no time to speak. Eventually it was teatime and Misha was sent away by the cook to have tea with her own people. She did not tell Cook that she didn’t have people, that the Gortleys were no more her own sort than the servants. She came into the parlor just as Lady Gortley was arriving, conversing loudly with a guest:

  “. . . and what is that lovely scent I’m smelling everywhere?” Lady Gortley was saying. “Such a rich accord. Is it Guerlain?”

  “Oh, it’s not Guerlain. I don’t know where it’s from. All the men found a bottle in their rooms, tiny little ampoules with lovely notes. I was sure you had done it as a welcome gift!”

  “Darling, no, I couldn’t possibly afford it. The taxes, you know. They’ll be the death of us. But it is a strong scent, isn’t it? Like tobacco and lavender.”

  Misha’s heart sank into her shoes. She walked to one of the sofas, counting the steps, sat down, and waited as others arrived. Someone arranged herself to her left and began eating daintily. A gentleman sat to her right; the Earl of Prylle, judging by the sound of his bronchitis. The room filled quickly, bodies jamming the space. And everywhere, completely drowning the smell of black tea and scones and finger sandwiches, was the scent of the murderer, rolling from every soul, like purple smoke.

  × × ×

  There was one more grand dinner before the end of the hunt. None of the guests were allowed to leave, even the important ones, because Lady Willoughby was the daughter of a councilman, and that made her death much more problematic than it might have been otherwise. Most of the guests huddled together in the drawing room or billiard room, nursing cups of strong drink and murmuring to one another. The brave ones helped in the search for Essa Beet and the murderer, and the less brave spoke fervently of planning to do so. No progress was made on either front.

  And so the dinner went on as planned. Misha had taken a new room, a small cupboard of a place lower down in the house, and had told Kerstin not to tell anyone, not even the servants. That morning, as she climbed the stairs on her way back from her bath, she passed an open window. She heard the children again, singing:

  F is for Frederick, who laughs like a hog

  G is for Ginty, who died like a dog

  Misha shivered and hurried on, the bathwater suddenly cold on her skin. She dressed quickly and started down toward the servants’ quarters.

  “Misha! Oh, there you are.” It was Kerstin, stopping her on the stairs. “You heard about the perfume. I don’t know, I don’t know how, but he knew somehow that we knew, and all the ampoules from the silver cabinet had been stolen and an eye-dropper and fourteen pieces of card-paper, and what’s the first thing you do when you have a new perfume, you try it, of course, and now—”

  “Kerstin, it’s all right. We’ll catch him another way. There’s a dinner tonight. He’s not one of the servants. He gave himself away with the scent. If he were a servant, he would have given the scent to the servants, but he knows where I’ll be and he wants to throw me off. He made a mistake there. He thought I knew more than I did. I’m going to find a way to get near him tonight, and then I’m going to mark him.”

  “I told you I didn’t believe that nonsense about you being able to see him.” They began clattering down toward the kitchens. “You can’t know—”

  “I do know. It’s like—it’s like a sickness in the air whenever he’s close. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. Now. I’ll need a bit of red paint and a letter stamp, or something similar, and then I’m going to have to distract him at dinner tonight and mark his suit or his hand, and then I’ll need you again, Kerstin. I’ll need you to tell me who it is. When we have that, I’ll go the police, tell them the entire story, have them follow him about incognito until they’ve got something to arrest him for. It shouldn’t take long. D’you have a stamp?”

  “Can’t you just point him out to me, and I’ll tell you who he is?”

  “You’re a housemaid, Kerstin! Of course I would if you could get into the dining room, but what’ll Mrs. Hawksmith say if she hears you were in with the guests during dinner!”

  “She’ll say, ‘You’re sacked,’ and that’ll be that.”

  “Precisely. So. A stamp. Do you have one?”

  It took Kerstin some time to catch up with Misha’s thought processes, but when she did, she said: “Of course I don’t have a stamp!” She paused and perhaps she winked, but Misha couldn’t see it, so at last Kerstin squeezed her fingers and said: “But I can fetch one. I’ll have to sneak into Mr. Hudson’s pantry. He’s busy enough right now. It shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll meet you down in the scullery and slip it to you. I’m not sure this will work one bit, but . . .”

  But she did it anyway. They found each other an hour later and Kerstin passed her a metal-something and a tiny envelope of red stamping ink, slipping it behind her back as they passed each other, right under Mr. Hudson’s nose, as sly as two cats. They agreed that Misha would try to mark his shirt, and then they would meet early the next morning at the latest, and search for the marked clothing among the washing. With that they parted ways, and Misha dressed herself for dinner and crept down to the dining room.

  You should have killed me when you had the chance, Misha thought, and she smiled bitterly and trudged into the whirl of sound and bodies.

  × × ×

  The dinner was eight courses—soup, jellied salads, fish, fowl, red meat, sorbet, cheese, and a sweet, and the chatter was slow and dull and everyone spoke a little softer, displaying the usual symptoms of worry and righteous anger and grief, though none were quite so sincerely expressed as the worry. The inspector had been allowed to eat with them, and sat drinking up the admiration of the highborn guests like a sponge. Misha knew the murderer was at the table too. When she turned her face one-quarter of an inch to the left, she could see him, far down at the other end, his form like a flickering blot of ink, like his very essence was a blight in the room. She took care not to stare in that direction, but even so she felt him, the weight of his eyes on her, like a dead-cold stone. She did not hear his voice. Or perhaps she did, but she could not separate it from all the other shoe-black voices slipping and hissing and sliding into her ears, smooth as eels.

  What did the others see, she wondered. No doubt a suave and smiling shell. Perhaps he was speaking to them, condoling with them, expressing little tuts of outrage over the monster who had hung Lady Willoughby by her legs from the chandelier. And they believed him, simply because he was polite and rich, like them. And suddenly Misha wished everyone were blind, every single person at that long table with its clinking silver and hissing lamps. Because what good did seeing things do, really? For all their squinting, peering eyes, they did not know who was good and who was wicked, who was strong and who was cowardly, who was murdering in their house, and who was trying to save their lives. Eyes were tricks in bone boxes, but everyone believed them.

  Misha tried to eat, poking her fork idly about her plate. There wouldn’t be much time left. The murderer knew of the incriminating perfume. He knew she was fol
lowing him, and if he knew that, he would not let her go on with it. He would kill her too. Two murders in one house—three, if Miss Beet was not found soon—was a dreadful number, but he felt secure, no doubt, invisible. He thought he was safe.

  You aren’t safe, Misha thought, crushing her napkin in her lap. I see you. And you think you see me, but I’m not what you see, and I’m not what you think.

  M is for Misha, who sits in the dark, the children had sung. They could change that now: M is for Misha, who faced the dark and vanquished it. M is for Misha, who acted, who caught a murderer and rescued a houseful of aristocrats. They would have to work on the rhyming, but it sounded infinitely better to her already.

  × × ×

  After the dinner came the dancing, and that was when Misha saw her chance and took it. The string quartet (farmers from the manor, buttoned tightly into fine livery like sausages in skins, with lace at their throats so that none of the guests would know) began to tune their instruments. The first piece started, a slow, rather blue-sounding waltz.

  Misha stood up and tapped her way toward the dancers. She could feel eyes following her, appraising her dress, her walk, her poise or lack thereof. They don’t know. They don’t know who you are, and so they don’t matter. She saw the shadow of the murderer out of the corner of her eye, but she did not go to him. She went to the center of the floor, held out her hand, and said, “Who will dance with me?” as clearly and loudly as she could.

  She felt sure she heard the first violin slip a note when she spoke, but she did not flinch. She stood and waited, and let the snickering wash over her. And then she felt a wrinkled hand in hers and an elderly gentleman said, “My dear? Will you permit me?”

  His voice was kind enough, but she could hear the wink in it, spoken as much to the audience as to her. She took his hand, and they began to dance. Or he did. She walked, clumsily, stepping here and there and swishing her skirt. The tittering became louder. Her ears began to burn. They’re laughing at you, her mind told her. They think you’re a mad, foolish girl. And as much as she did not want it to, it stung her. She danced with the elderly gentleman for several minutes, and then, when she felt the attention begin to shift away, she let herself be passed to another fellow, and then a third, moving closer and closer to the shadow man. She swooped past him, so near she could have reached out and touched him. A new song began, a sharp, scratching three-step in minor. And then she was in his arms.