The Mourning Bells

by Christine Trent

  The circus had entered London two weeks ago in an impressive parade that featured decorated and gilded coaches pulled by elephants and camels. The animals now made soft snorts and snuffles, cloaked behind brightly painted walls that reached at least thirty feet into the air.

  Although Susanna had remained in her borrowed black dress from Violet after a day of working in the shop, Violet had actually shed her customary black and made a pleasant transformation into a bronze gown accented with a cream collar and matching lace cuffs that peeked out of flared sleeves. It seemed ironic that Violet was hiding her newfound elegance tonight in a darkened performance venue.

  Mary was surprising in her charcoal-gray dress, a color she customarily wouldn’t wear until her year and one day of mourning was over—if she didn’t go into second or third periods of mourning, and Violet doubted she would—adorned with several strands of jet and a pearl brooch. It was amusing to see Mary exhibiting such rebellion. Although Violet loved mourning traditions, she wasn’t too distressed that Mary was abbreviating her grieving period for George, who had proved himself most unworthy of the title of husband.

  The area in front of the circus was bustling with patrons, performers in brightly colored stage garb, trinket sellers, food vendors, eight-year-old cutpurses, and a couple of garishly dressed prostitutes selling their own special wares. An itinerant preacher stood atop an overturned crate, exhorting passersby on the evils of gin.

  As Violet waited for the circus’s curtained doors to open, she saw a dirty, rumpled man in a tattered overcoat stumble toward the preacher and kneel down before him, as if receiving benediction. Other patrons in line also turned their attention to the drunkard bowed before the preacher, who curtailed his sermon, stepped down, and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  But Violet and the others gasped as the man recoiled from the preacher, removed a bottle of clear liquid from somewhere inside his overcoat, unstoppered it, took a long pull . . . and proceeded to spew it from his mouth, spraying the preacher in the face with what was presumably the very liquid the reverend had just admonished against. They all held their collective breath to see what the preacher would do.

  The man of the cloth never acknowledged that he had liquor dripping onto his clothing and matting his hair. Instead, he squeezed the other man’s shoulder, then pulled a few coins from his pocket and handed them to him before stepping back onto the crate and asking everyone to pray for the poor soul before him.

  Violet was greatly sobered by the preacher’s reaction. Why couldn’t she be so placid when faced with such unexpected vitriol?

  She forgot the scene as they paid for admission and entered the cool, darkened hippodrome, with its extraordinarily tall ceiling that drew warm air from the ground and sent it out through several holes in the canvas roof. Various wires and trapezes dangled from the ceiling like old cobwebs. The circus ring, which was strewn with sand, bales of hay, cones painted with stars, and a curved stage at one end, was surrounded by tiered seating. They settled onto wood benches that had depressions marking where each rear end should be placed. Violet supposed the depressions were intended to prevent overcrowding on the seating, but they did nothing for comfort.

  Violet estimated that the makeshift hippodrome held nearly a thousand people on five tiers of benches. The program listed tonight’s activities, which included trick riding, jugglers, aerial acts, and comic pantomimes; with the performance to be concluded with something called “air walking.” Whatever that was, Violet looked forward to it. The program promised that attendees who returned on Friday would be treated to an aquatic circus, with the ring flooded with water and horses executing dance steps with riders standing on their backs.

  Violet leaned over to Susanna and pointed to the description of Friday’s event. “Should we return?”

  “Do you have the time?”

  “I think so. There is certainly nothing notable with my supposed investigation. I imagine Sam would like to come along.”

  Susanna nodded and the show began. They gasped and aahed and oohed with the rest of the audience as clowns tossed balls in the air and caught them while running in between and around prancing horses. They cheered a reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo. They clapped over aerialists who gracefully released their trapeze bars and landed on the backs of elephants whose trunks were wrapped around children whom they swung backward and forward.

  When a pair of comic tramps were caught stealing jewelry and ran away from comic policemen, the pair ended up stuck in a tree, while the police tripped over hay bales into a mud puddle. The audience all laughed uproariously until Violet was certain she would pop the buttons off her dress.

  It was good to clear her mind of everything that had to do with Brookwood Cemetery.

  The humor was nearly ruined by a woman sitting nearby who sniffed in disapproval and said, “This is ridiculous. I’ve been to America, you know, and Mr. Barnum’s museum is vastly superior. He has Siamese twins, a giantess, and even Commodore Nutt—a perfectly miniature man. Such freaks and eccentricities to entertain the mind. This is all so, so”—she wrinkled the nose that was already sweeping the air—“so common,” she finished with a satisfied nod.

  Violet and Susanna exchanged glances and rolled their eyes heavenward. They had lived in America, and everyone in America knew about Phineas T. Barnum and his famous museum of oddities.

  The final act was the air walking, and it stunned even the snobby woman into complete silence. A man with rubber suction pads attached to his feet walked up and down the makeshift walls of the hippodrome over the heads of the audience, who squealed in delight. At the conclusion of the show, the owner, Mr. Sanger, came out wearing a shiny top hat and diamond tiepin and was hugely applauded. “Friends, friends,” he cried out, waving his hands, “I trust you have enjoyed this evening. As an expression of your appreciation for the artists and performers, would you consider dropping a token of gratitude into one of the hats being passed around?”

  A trio of dwarves in lemon-yellow outfits appeared from nowhere wearing hats that matched Mr. Sanger’s and spread out through the audience, teasing and cajoling them into parting with more money, which they willingly did.

  When they exited the hippodrome, darkness had completely settled over the city. A half-moon hovered over the cloudless nighttime sky. It joined the few street lamps, along with the lamps dangling from the string of cabs waiting to pick up circus patrons, to illuminate the area. As patrons threaded their way to the cabs, Susanna held back, wanting to visit the trinket seller for souvenirs to take home to Colorado. They all gathered around as Susanna dawdled over circus postcards and picture books of London. Once Benjamin finally made her purchases for her, they turned to hail a cab but, to their dismay, discovered that they had all departed with other circus passengers. Now they were the only people left in front of the hippodrome, except for the trinkets man and a few circus workers who were closing up the venue.

  “Shall we wait?” Mary suggested. “Surely there will be another cab along soon.”

  “I have a better idea,” Benjamin said. “Why don’t we walk back along the Serpentine? Mrs. Cooke, we can drop you in Bayswater Road and continue on to Queen’s Road. A walk through the park to Paddington will be invigorating.”

  Violet put a hand to her waistline. She could certainly use the exercise. “Yes, let’s.”

  Benjamin was right. The night was warm but not stifling, and there was enough moonlight that they could make their way on the pathway north to the top of the park. The Serpentine lake was to their left, and the moon’s glow off the still surface was both spectral and eerie.

  Gravel crunched beneath their collective boots and shoes, and soon Benjamin was whistling a catchy ditty he’d learned during the farce of the two tramps, as the male tramp wooed the female into their life of crime. Laughing, Susanna joined him by stomping hard on the gravel as she walked to create a beat, then singing to his whistling.

  Come into the garden, Maud,

 
For the black bat, night, has flown,

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  I am here at the gate alone.

  Violet and Mary joined in with both the stomping and the singing. Violet imagined they sounded like a clowder of howling, tortured cats, but it was fun nonetheless, acting silly in the park with no one else around to hear them.

  Violet heard scuffling from nearby. She paused, holding out an arm in the dark to stop Mary, too. Were Susanna and Benjamin behind or in front of them? The scuffling resumed.

  “Benjamin,” Mary called out, “have you now added dancing to your list of talents?”

  “What do you mean?” His voice came from up ahead on the trail.

  Mary cupped her hands around her mouth and called forward. “You whistle, you sing. Now it sounds as if you are waltzing or perhaps doing the tarantella. It’s so difficult to know in the dark. May I have a spot on your dance card?” She actually giggled. How good it was to hear Mary enjoying herself, taking pleasure in—

  Wait. Something was wrong. “Susanna?” Violet said tentatively. There was no answer, and Benjamin’s steps against the gravel also ceased.

  “Susanna?” Benjamin repeated after Violet. “Dearest?”

  Silence. Dread crept over Violet’s shoulders, replacing the gaiety that had been there just moments before. She shook it off. “Susanna, darling? Enough with your hiding. We need to get Mary home.”

  Violet knew, though, that Susanna was not one to play silly tricks. She tried to keep her voice even and steady and said, “I think we may have lost Susanna along the way.”

  That wasn’t what she thought at all, but it disguised her growing panic.

  More crunching, and Benjamin was looming next to her. Even in the dark, Violet saw panic and worry in his eyes. He probably saw it mirrored in her own eyes.

  “Why would Susanna hide from us?” Mary asked, completely oblivious to what was silently transpiring between Susanna’s mother and husband.

  “Benjamin,” Violet said quietly, “why don’t you return to the circus and see if you can borrow a lamp? Mary and I will stay right here.”

  “Yes, Mother Harper.” He ran off in the direction of the gaslit hippodrome sign. Violet felt a hundred years old when he called her Mother Harper, but right now she felt as though she might be two hundred. How in the world had Susanna simply disappeared?

  She and Mary held hands tightly as they waited for Benjamin’s return. Within a few minutes, they saw him outlined in the steady flame of his lamp.

  “I think you should take Mary home and I’ll look for Susanna,” he suggested. Violet heard the grimness in his voice.

  “Absolutely not,” Violet said. “I’m not going anywhere without our girl.”

  With Benjamin holding the lamp high overhead, they stumbled on and off the pathway looking for Susanna, like a trio of gin drinkers desperately searching for a bottle. Violet despaired of ever finding the girl and was on the verge of suggesting that they stop their search and instead go to a police station for help. Suddenly, Benjamin made a strangled noise and rushed forward into a wooded copse between the path and the lake.

  He threw himself on top of a prone figure. Still holding hands, Violet and Mary followed, but Violet shook Mary off to kneel down next to Benjamin, and her worst suspicions were confirmed.

  It was Susanna.

  Benjamin was mumbling uncontrollably. “My love, my dearest, oh, my sweet.” He rose and pulled her into his arms, her head against his chest, as he finally broke into a sob over her.

  Violet picked up the lamp that her son-in-law had hastily dropped to the ground. She held it high and beheld the gruesome tableau before her. Her heart nearly stopped beating when she saw that Benjamin was covered in Susanna’s blood, which openly streamed from a wound on the side of her head.

  Her beautiful daughter’s hair was clumped in a dark, bloody mass, and she lay limp and lifeless in the tight clutch of her husband, whose grief Violet wanted to join, though she was in too much shock to do so.

  Benjamin turned to Violet, a look of utter self-contempt spreading quickly over his face. “We should have gone back to Colorado weeks ago. I should have never agreed to remain longer, but she wanted to stay. Why did I listen?”

  Violet was hardly paying attention to him, so caught up was she in the sight of Susanna. She was vaguely aware of Mary standing behind her. Clouds passed before the moon, casting the area not directly illuminated by the lamp into utter darkness. A bat flitted overhead, squeaking and flapping.

  For the first time in her life, Violet was so overcome by shock that she was completely unable to form a word of distress, much less a coherent sentence of comfort for her son-in-law. Mary laid a hand on her shoulder and murmured, “My dear friend, how terrible.”

  Mary’s simple act of comfort nearly caused Violet to drop the lamp. She put it down carefully and took a deep breath, ready to release it in a flood of tears, when she noticed something. Had Susanna just moved? It was so hard to tell with Benjamin rocking her back and forth. Perhaps it was just a postmortem reflex.

  “Stop!” she commanded him. He did so instantly, looking at Violet in confusion.

  Violet held out her arms, and Benjamin handed Susanna over, like a parent handing over an infant. Violet had no thought for her own dress as she cradled Susanna’s shoulders and crimson-spattered head in one arm. She carefully examined Susanna with her other hand, trying to pretend Susanna was simply an unknown body she was inspecting prior to preparation for burial. It was nearly impossible to maintain composure with Benjamin gasping for air next to her.

  She pressed a hand to Susanna’s cheek. Still warm, of course. Next she held a finger over the girl’s lip, as though making a mustache. Could it be . . . ? Violet thought she detected the faintest flow of air from her nostrils. Perhaps it was just the night breeze.

  Steeling herself for whatever vacant look she would find, Violet used her thumb to gently raise an eyelid. Susanna’s eye rolled backward. Violet couldn’t help it—she laughed. If Susanna were dead, her eyes would be glassy and unmoving. Releasing the lid, Violet bent her head down and whispered into Susanna’s ear, “Dear girl, can you hear me? It’s your mother. Susanna? Susanna?”

  Susanna’s eyes fluttered briefly, and she moaned. Benjamin uttered a cross between a yelp and a squawk. Violet wasn’t about to return her to him yet, lest he start fussing again and upset Susanna. Instead, she continued cooing and whispering in Susanna’s ear. Within a couple of minutes, Susanna’s eyes were fluttering open while Benjamin stared in disbelief and Mary’s jet beads clacked together inside their owner’s nervous hands.

  Finally, Susanna’s blue eyes fully opened and she looked directly at Violet. She spoke distinctly and with an unruffled calmness. “Mother, I could use a cup of Earl Grey.”

  Violet kissed Susanna’s forehead, which was caked with sticky blood. “Of course, anything you want. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

  With great effort, Susanna shook her head. “No, I wish to go home, please.”

  “Dearest,” Benjamin began to cajole, “you need to be seen by a phys—”

  “No,” she said again, more firmly. “I refuse to be poked and frowned at by some lump of a man with nothing but foul breath and a jar full of leeches. I’m fine, I promise.”

  Violet looked at her daughter’s lacerated head, which at least was no longer bleeding, and had her doubts about the idea that she was “fine,” but the firm set of her lips told Violet there would be no arguing. Benjamin looked ready to jump to the moon if that was what Susanna demanded.

  With Susanna once again ensconced in Benjamin’s arms and Violet leading the way with the lamp, they made their way home with a quick detour to see Mary to her home in Bayswater Road.

  Back at their flat above Morgan Undertaking, Sam opened the door in horror at the bloodied, rumpled trio before him. Before he could ask the first question, Violet swept in, extinguished her lamp, and curtly issued instructions to Benjamin for placing Susanna in th
e tub and finding her nightgown and wrapper. Violet went to work at getting Susanna out of her blood-encrusted clothing and washing her. Ruth would have to take the dress somewhere to be burned.

  Once Susanna was finally cleansed of all traces of her attack, except for a lingering bruised and purpled eye, they made room for themselves in the parlor, scooping up clothes and other belongings from chairs and settees and piling them on the floor so they could sit down. Mrs. Softpaws kept a safe distance on top of the display cabinet, grooming and licking herself and pretending not to be interested in the proceedings going on below her.

  Benjamin and Sam sat in chairs across from the women on the settee. Benjamin wrung his hands and gazed at Susanna as though her staying alive was predicated on his keeping her in his sight. Sam, though, was like a tightly wound tiger, leaning forward and back and perpetually shifting in his seat as though looking for the right moment to leap. The perpetrator was fortunate he wasn’t here at the moment, Violet thought, lest Sam tear him apart with his bare hands.

  Violet sat next to Susanna and, with her daughter’s camel-hair brush, began brushing Susanna’s damp hair as the girl told them what had happened. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be told.

  “I was just marching along with all of you when I felt someone grab my arm. I thought it was Benjamin, simply cutting capers with me, so I let the man guide me off the path.”

  Sam interrupted her. “You know it was a man?”

  “Certainly it was not the grip of a woman.” Susanna rolled up the lace-edged sleeve of her wrapper, displaying bruised oval depression marks on her arm.

  “That’s why you didn’t cry out,” Violet said, making another long stroke through Susanna’s hair. Susanna winced visibly, and Violet immediately withdrew the brush. “I’m sorry, dear. I got too close, didn’t I?”

  She had tied a bandage over Susanna’s wound, which had bled much more than the actual gash suggested it should have. The location of it on her temple so close to her left eye was probably what had resulted in the bruised eye.