by Amy Cross
"I'm not really in the mood to talk," he says, turning to walk away.
"Wait," I say, grabbing his arm. I glance over my shoulder, to make sure that no-one's watching us. "Please? Just for a few minutes?"
"What do you want to talk about?" he asks with a sigh.
I stare at him, and I can't help wondering what caused the cuts and bruises on his face. "Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private," I say. "I think there are some storage rooms down that corridor. Do you want to take a walk?"
"I'm not a big fan of storage rooms," he replies brusquely.
"Please?" I turn and walk over to the door, before glancing back and seeing that Mark is reluctantly following me. Feeling a rush of excitement, I try to remind myself that I barely know the guy, but it's hard not to get carried away. I don't know what it is about him, but I feel more alive whenever I'm around him. Also, even though he keeps saying he doesn't want to talk to me, he's still following me. That has to mean something. After all, he could easily walk away if that was what he really wanted.
"This won't take long," I say, leading him along the corridor. It almost feels as if we're doing something clandestine and wrong, as if we're sneaking away from everyone else so that we can have a moment alone. My heart's racing as I head into a small room and turn to face him.
"Alright," he says as he follows me inside and pushes the door shut. "What is it you want to say?"
"What happened to you?" I ask. "I mean, no offense, but you look like shit."
"Thanks," he replies, turning back to the door. "I'm really glad we had this chat."
"Wait!" I say, running over and grabbing his arm. "I also wanted to thank you for sending that driver to pick me up yesterday. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't..." I pause, realizing that I'm making it a little too easy for him to think of me as some helpless maiden who needed to be rescued.
"It was nothing," he replies.
"So do you send drivers to pick girls up all the time?"
He shrugs.
"If you hadn't done that," I continue, "I would have missed my father's funeral. I'd be in Exeter right now, and I'd have regretted it for the rest of my life. I owe you, and I want you to know that I really appreciate what you did for me."
"Like I said, it was nothing."
"It was nice of you," I reply. "It showed that you care."
"You think I care?"
"Well, you kissed me," I say, shocking myself with my candor. I was hoping to raise the subject of that brief kiss we shared the other night, but I certainly didn't intend to just blurt it like this. My mind is racing, and I can barely organize my thoughts properly. "I mean... Yeah. You did. You kissed me."
"I shouldn't have done that," he replies.
"Shouldn't you?"
"No." He pauses for a moment. "You're in a very vulnerable place, Elly. Your father died. You're confused. I took advantage of that, and it was a moment of weakness that should never have happened."
"I'm not vulnerable," I say, "and I'm not confused."
"You're a kid."
"I'm twenty-one years old!"
"Well, you act younger."
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but I manage to hold my tongue just in time. I had no idea that Mark saw me that way. "I act younger?" I say eventually, starting to feel a little angered by his arrogance.
"I'm sorry," he continues, "but you do. From my perspective, at least. I mean, you did a great job today, but in general, your level of emotional maturity..." He pauses for a moment. "You know what? We shouldn't be having this conversation. It's inappropriate, especially at a time like this. You're a lovely young woman, Elly, and I wish you all the best, but -"
I suddenly lean closer and try to kiss him, but he pulls away.
"Elly, please..." he says.
"Why not?" I reply. "You were fine with it the other night."
"The other night was different," he says. "You were drunk."
"I was not!"
"Well, I was," he snaps back at me. He stares at me for a moment. "Okay, I wasn't drunk, but I'd had a couple of glasses of wine. It was still a mistake."
We stand in silence for a moment. I know I should walk out of here right now, but something's making me stay. Mark could walk out too, but he's still here. I feel as if we're endlessly circling something, but never quite hitting the target. I know it's crazy to believe that an attractive, successful guy like Mark could be attracted to me, but at the same time he seems to be popping up in my life with surprising regularity. If I didn't know better, I'd start to believe that someone's pulling strings behind the scenes and pushing us together.
"This is your father's funeral," he says eventually. "It's hardly the place to be trying to pick up men."
Without even thinking, I reach out and slap the side of his face. Filled with anger, and feeling totally humiliated, I hurry over to the door, but at the last moment Mark catches up and grabs my arm.
"Let go," I say, trying to pull free.
"Elly, listen to me," he says, refusing to loosen his grip. "Please, listen to me. This would be a mistake. I can't let you into my world. There are things about me that wouldn't be good for you. I can't explain, but you'd be getting into something much, much bigger than you can possibly imagine."
"Whatever," I reply. "Just let go." I try to twist away from him again, but he's still holding me firmly. "Do I have to scream?" I ask eventually.
"Go home," he says, letting go of my arm. "Forget about me. I shouldn't have kissed you the other night. I let my feelings get ahead of me, and I made a mistake. Trust me, you're better off keeping well away from me. I'd..." He pauses, as if he's lost for words.
"You'd what?" I ask. I know I should turn and run, but there's some part of me that doesn't want this moment to end. "You'd hurt me?" I continue eventually. "Is that it? You think I'm this delicate little thing and you'd hurt me?"
He stares at me. "In ways you can't possibly imagine."
"Well..." I start to say, but then I realize it's pointless trying to argue with him. He's clearly completely full of himself, and I'm starting to think that maybe he's right: maybe I am better off keeping away from his life. I mean, sure he's hot, and he's rich, but there seems to be something else going on that I really don't understand. I'm certainly not going to beg him for anything. Without saying another word, I turn and hurry out of the room, heading back through to the main reception area.
"Shall we get going?" my mother asks, smiling as she sees me and takes my arm. "A few people are coming back to the house."
"Sure," I say, looking down at the small silver pot in her hand. "What's that?"
"It's your father," she replies.
"Oh." We walk silently out to the car park, where a taxi is waiting for us. I glance back at the crematorium, but Mark's still in there somewhere. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that I just had a lucky escape. Whatever games he likes to play, I'd rather stay well clear. He's cute, sure, and he's hot, but there's an edge to him, and a hint of something that I'm not sure I want to experience. He's made it clear that he's not interested, so for the sake of my self-respect, I need to forget that he even exists. Besides, he was right about one thing: this is my father's funeral, and I have more important things to be doing than running around after unavailable men.
Inspector Matthews
1895
As soon as I walk into my office at New Scotland Yard, I'm confronted with the most shocking sight. Piled up on my desk, I find more than two dozen notebooks of varying sizes, shapes and colors. Standing next to them, and with a rather self-satisfied look on his face, Laverty seems to think that he has uncovered something rather spectacular.
"Where did these come from?" I ask.
"You asked me to dig around," he replies, "so I dug around. I found forty-five cases in which a missing girl noted some reference either to Edward Lockhart, or to this Mr. Blue individual. Forty-five, Sir. Surely that's got to mean something!"
"How old are these?"
I ask, somewhat in awe of the piles of journals.
"Some are recent," he continues. "Some date back as far as twenty years."
"Twenty years?" I pause for a moment. "That's not possible. Edward Lockhart would have been but a child."
"The older ones reference Mr. Blue, rather than Lockhart directly. It's my guess that the position was interchangeable, and that someone else once held the title Mr. Blue, in which case Lockhart's position within this game would have been rather more disposable." He smiles, clearly very pleased with himself. To be fair, he has done a good job.
"There might be something to this," I reply, picking up one of the journals.
"Were you inquiries of any benefit?" he asks.
"Not particularly," I say. "Mr. Lockhart is said to have left the country, although I have it on good authority from other sources that his departure might have been less than convivial. In fact, I would wager that he was forcibly removed from the equation."
"You think he's dead?"
"I think his disappearance is highly uncommon," I reply. "I dismissed the man's story when he first came to see me, but now I'm starting to think that perhaps there was something to it. It is certainly possible that his co-conspirators got wind of his visit to me and decided to silence him." I pause for a moment, thinking back to Lockhart's ramblings; as he ranged over a variety of topics, including the deaths of several girls as well as the notorious Whitechapel and Jack the Ripper murders, I originally thought him to be quite insane. Now, however, I am beginning to give serious consideration to the possibility that the man might have been telling the truth. Surely his entire tale cannot be correct, but perhaps certain elements can be proven true.
Hearing a knock at the door, I turn to see my superior, Captain Elton, entering the room, and I can see from the look on his face that he has something of grave importance to discuss with me.
"Laverty, get out of here," he says.
Laverty glances at me before hurrying out of the room. Although he is a man who despises authority, and who bristles at being given orders, Laverty nevertheless obeys dutifully whenever he is told what to do. I am quite certain that he will complain loudly and bitterly to me later, having been so abruptly dismissed by Captain Elton.
"Is there a problem, Sir?" I ask.
"I understand you've been investigating a gentleman by the name of Edward Lockhart," he replies. "Something to do with a missing girl, I believe?" He looks over at the pile of journals. "I take it that this mini-library you have collected is something to do with the case?"
"I am at the preliminary stages of -"
"It's a hiding to nothing," he snaps. "I can't imagine what has gotten into you, Matthews, but I hardly think you can argue that this is a good use of police time. I took a look at the file and I fail to see what in blazes could have persuaded you to waste even a moment's thought on the matter."
"My initial reaction was to dismiss the whole thing," I explain, "but Laverty and I have come up with some puzzling connections that I believe demand attention."
"And for that reason," Elton continues, "you decided to go and make a nuisance of yourself at the home of Lady deHavilland." He stares at me for a moment. "I have been informed that you paid her a visit today, Matthews, and spun your tawdry tale while presenting thinly-veiled accusations."
"I hardly think -"
"I don't want to hear your excuses," he replies, having clearly decided to come in here and read me the riot act. "Lady deHavilland is a highly esteemed member of London society. Her husband is a man of considerable nobility, and it simply will not do to have her bothered by such things, especially when I am informed that there was some indication of a sexual element to the investigation."
I sigh. "The only -"
"I don't want to hear it!" he booms. "You do not bother a society lady with questions relating to such activity. Not unless you have authorization from me in the first place, anyway. I have decided to give you the benefit of the doubt, but your investigation must end here. I order you at once to gather up these journals and have them burned, and then you will get on with some actual police work. Do you understand?"
"Absolutely," I reply, knowing full well that it would be futile to argue with him.
"Very good," he says, walking over to the door. "I hope not to have to reprimand you on this matter again," he adds, before leaving. I take a deep breath as I realize that I have just felt the full force of London's elite weigh down upon my shoulders. Although Lady deHavilland was polite to my face, she clearly decided to send a message to my superiors and get my investigation shut down. Perhaps she was merely aghast at the nature of my questions, but I would rather believe that she became a little nervous as I got too close to the bone.
"Problem, Sir?" Laverty asks, having returned to the room.
"We must cease our investigation into this matter," I reply. "Officially, that is."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially, we shall keep digging." I turn and look at the notebooks, piled high on my desk. "I have an important job for you, Laverty. I need you to go into town and purchase forty-five notebooks of varying sizes. I need you to then come back with them, and take them to the charnel room and have them burned. Make sure the smoke rises high. I need Captain Elton to believe that these notebooks have been destroyed."
"Very good, Sir," he says, smiling as he turns to leave. After a moment, he looks back at me. "I was right, wasn't I? There's people in power who don't like having questions asked."
"Apparently so," I reply. "Therefore, we shall ask no more questions. Not in public, anyway, but we shall keep digging in the background, and I think perhaps we might actually turn up something of interest."
Once Laverty has gone, I walk over to the window and look out across the street. The idea of some secret society operating in London, playing a sexual game that claims the lives of young ladies, is almost impossible to believe. Nevertheless, impossible things do happen from time to time, and one must always keep an open mind. If Mr. Blue, Mr. White and Lady Red are really out there somewhere, I'm going to find them, and I'm going to put a stop to their little game before it can claim another life.
Elly
Today
"Elly," my mother says, "are you listening to me?"
Suddenly realizing that I've been daydreaming for a few minutes, I turn to her. "What?"
"I asked if you could put some more tea water on," she continues, clearly a little annoyed at me. "I'm afraid we're running low."
"Sure," I say, glad of any excuse to get out of this middle-class pressure cooker. I've spent the past hour sitting in the front room at my mother's house, listening as she and a few of her friends discuss my father. I feel like I have to stay, otherwise I'd seem rude, but at the same time I want nothing more than to just go out and get blind drunk. Damn it, I'm so desperate for a distraction, I've even been considering calling Rob and seeing if he's back in town. Thankfully, I realized what a huge mistake it would be to re-open that particular sore, but I'm still tired and frustrated. The day has been dragging on, and I just need some kind of release. Perhaps the worst thing is that the urn containing my father's ashes is currently sitting on the coffee table, as if my mother's making some macabre attempt to include him in the conversation.
The other problem is that it's hard taking my mind off Mark, and I feel a little annoyed that he apparently thinks I'm some delicate flower who can't stand to be touched. Everything about his behavior earlier, from his tone of voice to the way he insisted he wanted to keep away from me even as he was hanging around for a chat, made my blood boil. I don't think anyone has ever quite got under my skin the same way, and I keep coming back to the memory of that kiss the other night. I find it hard to believe that a kiss like that, so full of passion, could have meant nothing. Then again, I guess I just have to move on and forget about him.
"Are you still there?" I whisper, hoping that my father's voice might return.
Silence.
I sigh. He's really
gone.
"Elly?" asks a quiet, timid-sounding voice nearby, as I'm setting a couple of bags in the teapot. I turn to see Felicity Haughton smiling at me. I've never actually met her before, but I've seen her around a few times and I know a lot about her. She's the woman who was apparently my father's first love, and apparently his mistress too.
"Hi," I say, feeling a little nervous.
"I just wanted to tell you that your reading at the chapel today was really lovely," she says. "It was a genuinely touching moment."
"Thank you," I reply. There's something about this woman that I really like. In the heart of all the insanity that's been swirling around me lately, she's an oasis of calm. Loads of people have paid me compliments today, and they've all sounded false, but somehow Felicity Haughton seems totally genuine.
"I often find these things to be far too mawkish," she continues, "but you really hit the sweet spot."
I smile. There's that word again: mawkish. Felicity and my father are the only two people I've ever heard use that word.
"Well," she says, after an awkward pause, "I really must be going. I just wanted to say hello." She turns to go back through to the hallway.
"I'll show you out," I say, following her to the front door once she's said goodbye to my mother and the others. "So you knew my father for a long time, huh?" I ask, figuring that this might be my only chance to find whether my suspicions are correct.
"Yes," she says. "We were at university together. He was always the brainy one, of course. I used to tell him he'd be the next Einstein." She smiles. "Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he was certainly a very clever man."
"So what do you do now?" I ask. "Do you do research work, like he did?"
She shakes her head. "I drifted out of all that," she explains as she puts her coat on. "I got married and had children, and before I knew it, I was too old to get a proper position anywhere. So I ended up teaching, which has been rewarding in its own way." She smiles again, but I can't shake the feeling that there's real sadness in her heart. I want to ask her about her true feelings for my father, and to find out if they were ever truly in love, but I don't know how I'd even begin to bring up that question.