The Valentine Circle

by Reinaldo DelValle

  “Silas?” Posy blurted out. “Is that you?”

  The man sharply turned his head to the side, realizing that his next victim had arrived. He put Silas’s top hat on and began to walk away.

  “Silas? Where are you going? Don’t walk away from me. Stop! I don’t want to keep chasing you.”

  The man picked up his pace, walking down the side of the manor towards the back and then making a right after reaching the corner.

  “Silas, wait!” Posy took off running after the man.

  Meanwhile, inside Mr. Grant’s manor, Silas sat in a rigid and posh velvety chair as he waited for Mr. Grant to bring out a decanter filled with his best scotch.

  “Is it true that officers are not allowed to drink while on duty?”

  “I’m not an officer, well, at least on duty, anyway.” Silas took his glass of scotch and downed it in one sip.

  “What do you mean? I thought you were with the Boston PD.”

  “Technically, I am, but, to be honest, I don’t really know what I am.” Silas shifted in his seat and paused to think for a moment. He moved his eyes around Mr. Grant’s dimly lit study, and in his mind he broke the room apart, all four walls splitting into separate sections. This is how he instinctually saw every room whenever he wished to discern the space around him. The flames emanating from the extra-large fireplace, which sat neatly in the middle of a pair of ceiling-high bookshelves, sparkled with life, crackling and popping between every word that Mr. Grant spoke. There were oversized, hand-painted family pictures hanging on each of the walls. Gold accents glimmered with the dancing shadows of the room whenever a hint of light would break against their sheer luminance.

  Everything was put in its place. The furniture was huddled close together, the papers on his study desk were neatly stacked on top of each other, and the expensive rugs had been recently groomed. Mr. Grant took pride in his cleanliness.

  Silas could find nothing suspicious about the room. In fact, he found it to be very welcoming and warm. He didn’t mind sitting in the midst of the room’s subtle comforts.

  But one thing did stick out to him. There were a few fingerprints smeared on the far left window, as if someone had been keeping vigil by the windowsill, peeking out into the darkness of the neighboring grounds, which reminded Silas of why he was there.

  “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Grant. Now please explain why you were wandering around the Reillys’ property.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Grant took a swig out of his own glass. He sat down. “For the past couple of days I’ve been spying on my neighbors.” Silas’s eyes deepened, and his brows curved in. “You see, about a week ago, I spotted a man lingering around the Reillys’ backyard. He was tall and long-limbed. He had on a dark overcoat with a big top hat. He kept to the bushes and shadows, and he walked the better part of the backyard for an hour or so, looking up at the windows facing the rear of the house. I thought that to be strange.”

  “It is strange, Mr. Grant. Did you find out who he was?”

  “No. The man disappeared all of a sudden, as if I had just blinked my eyes and he wasn’t there, like a ghostly apparition shooing away from me. Intrigued, I went over to the Reillys’ property, searching the back yard.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Well, that was when Mrs. Reilly came out to see what I was doing, and she became very nervous. She was quite adamant that I leave her grounds as quickly as possible. She’s usually very amicable. I mean, I know I wasn’t supposed to be trespassing, but I assumed she would’ve at least asked me a few questions as to why I was snooping around.”

  “But she didn’t?”

  “No, she was acting strange, yes, very strange.”

  “But didn’t you tell her about the mysterious man?”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Grant replied, taking another swig of his scotch. “I told her everything, how there was a strange tall man pacing her backyard and how he stared at the windows on the second floor.”

  “She didn’t believe you?”

  “No, not in the slightest sense, and she insisted that I was hallucinating. She said she’d been sitting by the window all the time that I was there and she didn’t see anything suspicious. She told me to go home and to not bring up the man again, lest I be labeled the neighborhood cuckoo.”

  “I have to ask, Mr. Grant, and I’m sorry that I have to do this, but...did you hallucinate?”

  “Perhaps. The man may have been real or he may have not, but I tell you one thing that was real.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mr. Grant took a little card out from his pocket. “This ticket stub.”

  “Ticket stub?” Silas leaned in to check it out.

  “Yes.” Mr. Grant handed over the ticket. “It’s a train stub. I suspect it’s his. I found it buried in the snow, right next to one of the few footprints I could find. Do you think I imagined those footprints as well?”

  “No, Mr. Grant. I certainly don’t. I’ll have to keep this stub as evidence. You understand that?”

  “Yes. Go ahead. I hope it helps.”

  “Then why have you been spying on the Reillys for the past few days? You’ve been doing it vigilantly.” Silas pointed towards the windowsill. “Sitting from over there, you have the best view.”

  Mr. Grant gasped. “How did you know?”

  “I could tell with one look, Mr. Grant. That’s who I am. That’s what I can do. I can’t speak on it any more than that, for I don’t know why I do it. I just trust it. Regardless, why did you keep vigil by the window?”

  “I hear the news, Officer...”

  “De San Michel.”

  “Yes, Officer de San Michel. The news about the Decamps girl’s murder has been going around the neighborhood for a long time. You see, Officer, in this neighborhood there are no secrets, especially along the strip of Valentine Lane. I knew that the Decamps girl had been assaulted and that she unfortunately met her demise. People talk, especially in this social circle we’re all part of, me for the sake of my wife, who unfortunately lives to talk and dine amongst the Valentine elite. If you ask me, this elitism is just a bunch of petty and egotistical nonsense; this fabricated social hierarchy is nothing like true hierarchy. What I wouldn’t do to leave this place and cut ties with this group of holier-than-thou marauders, a band of outlaws is all they are, but they carry coin instead of swords.”

  Silas smiled. “Focus, Mr. Grant.”

  “Right. Of course. I didn’t mean to veer off topic. Very well. Where was I? Oh, yes. When I saw the man roving around the Reillys’ backyard, I became suspicious. I knew from all the gossip that the Reilly girl was best friends with the late Miss Decamps, so the wheels in my head started turning, and I became very afraid for the Reilly girl. Speaking of, how is Miss Reilly?”

  “She’s fine for now.”

  “And the baby?”

  Silas fidgeted with his empty glass. “What do you know about the baby?”

  “Everyone knows about everyone’s babies in this neighborhood,” Mr. Grant said, ending with a long sigh. “How’s the baby?”

  Silas just shook his head.

  “I see. So the man struck again.”

  “It seems like it.”

  “Oh, dear. The one night I forget to keep a lookout for him, it happens.” Mr. Grant lowered his head.

  “Sir, why didn’t you report this man to the authorities?”

  “Are you joking?” Mr. Grant remarked with a sly smile. “What good would that have done? It would’ve been dismissed by the police, especially since Mrs. Reilly would’ve denied the whole thing.”

  “So then why do you think Mrs. Reilly didn’t believe that you saw a strange man lurking around her mansion?”

  “That’s the thing, Officer de San Michel. Why would she, indeed?” Mr. Grant stood up, grabbing a lantern. “Come on, I want to show you something.” Mr. Grant headed towards the far end of the spacious study. Silas stood up and followed him. Mr. Grant hovered around a large chalkboard that was covered w
ith a thick blanket. With one swoop, he took off the blanket, revealing a makeshift map of the neighborhood pinned onto the board. He raised the lantern closer so as to reveal the whole of the map.

  “Mr. Grant, you have been busy of late.” Silas glued his eyes to the drawing. “What is this a map of?”

  “The neighborhood, stretching from Valentine Lane to Valentine Court and circling Valentine Street. Please forgive all of the valentines. This part of the suburbs was named after someone who thought highly of his surname.”

  “It’s extremely detailed.”

  “Well, during the War, I was enlisted in the Union Navy. For the last couple of years of the war, I was only required to do one thing: make maps. I was very good at them.”

  “I can tell,” Silas said as he stepped closer to the chalkboard.

  “I’ve been working on this one for the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Grant, what are all these houses you have marked on the map?”

  “Well, as you can see, Officer, both the Decampses and the Reillys’ mansions are marked.”

  “Yes, I see those, but you have four other mansions marked as well.”

  “Yes, those are the others.”

  Slowly, Silas fixed his gaze on Mr. Grant. “Do tell me about the others, Mr. Grant.”

  “Well, it’s just a theory, a simple one,” Mr. Grant replied as he leaned against his night desk. “All of the houses marked on the map belong to the families of the girls that were known to hang around the late Miss Decamps. They were always seen together, so I’ve heard. They played together, studied together, vacationed together...plotted together. They were inseparable, forming a small social unit, something like a miniature caricature of the true Valentine Society, that is, the parents—us. Fortunately for me, I have sons, and they pretty much keep to themselves. I’ve raised them that way, much to the chagrin of my wife.”

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Grant?”

  “Well, it’s quite obvious. I don’t know if you know this, but all six of these girls—well, only four now—are pregnant.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard a certain rumor.”

  “Oh, it’s no rumor. It’s as real as our own minds.” Mr. Grant strode up to his map. “Follow the dots.” One by one, he pointed to the mansions on the map. “First the Decamps girl, and now the Reilly girl. But then who’s next?” He pointed towards another mansion. “The Haralsons?” Then to another. “The Daileys, perhaps?” And he kept pointing. “The Lattimers, or maybe the Dupuyses?”

  “So you’re saying the perpetrator, this man you saw, is going to strike one of the other four girls soon?”

  “No, I’m saying that’s where the dots lead. I could be wrong.”

  “No, Mr. Grant, I don’t think you are.” Silas gazed at the map for a moment before turning around and shaking Mr. Grant’s hand. “I appreciate all your help. You’ve certainly confirmed my suspicions, but I have to ask you to stay out of our investigation, for your safety. I’m sure this man knows what you’re up to.”

  Mr. Grant cowered a bit.

  “Keep your doors locked. Keep your family together. Don’t let them out of the house, not even for school, at least until we find the person who has committed these crimes. I now must get back to my colleagues at the scene. I might come back to get a more formal statement. But I don’t want to report your testimony just yet. We don’t know what type of connection the department has with this social circle you guys have conjured up out here in the confines of Valentine Lane.

  “I bid you good evening. If you could see me to the door, I’d be much obliged.” Silas turned to walk away.

  “But don’t you want to hear about the boy?”

  “Boy?” Silas stood still.

  “Yes, the father of the babies.”

  Silas turned around and approached Mr. Grant with great interest. “You know the fathers of these babies?”

  “No, I said the father. There’s only one.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, so I’ve heard. I caught my wife speaking to a few of her friends about this boy while they took their afternoon tea. I’d just walked into my study after taking off from work early. They were talking about the boy, at least what they knew of him, for it was a rumor to them as well. The boy, it seems, is from Boston’s lowest slums, deep in the heart of the city. I heard he’s an orphan, a seventeen-year-old lad.”

  Silas was beside himself. “But why would they… I mean, why would he father all of their babies, and why would the girls let him?”

  “Truly, I don’t know all the answers and why it went down the way it did. All I know is that there is this rumor about a boy, and last I heard of him, he was working during the night shift at the docks, helping out with the cargo ships, something you’d know a bit about, I suppose.”

  Silas’s neck hairs stood up in attention. “What do you know about me and cargo ships?”

  Mr. Grant’s eyes sank, and his lips dropped. He took a few steps back. He scrambled to come up with some excuse as quick as possible. “I...like I said, nothing is news to the Valentine elite. We know everything, including everything about you and your...situation.” Mr. Grant knew much more than he wanted to tell Silas.

  “So you just pretended to not know me earlier?” Silas closed his fists. “What else do you know about me?”

  “Only what flows in and out of our circle,” Mr. Grant replied nervously. “We know just as much as you do. Nothing more,” Mr. Grant blatantly lied.

  “Right. You stay out of trouble, Mr. Grant. I don’t want to come back here again for...other reasons.”

  “Yes, Officer.”

  Silas turned to walk away.

  “Don’t you want me to make a copy of the map for you?”

  Something inside Silas took over, and he stopped, turning to Mr. Grant. “I don’t need a copy. I have a copy, a very vivid rendering of your map, locked all the way inside the deepest recesses of my mind. And not only do I have a copy of your map stored in there, but also a vibrant image of your whole mansion, from the first brick on to the last one. Your exact image, and that of your family, is stored there as well. I have marked you in my spirit, and you’re no longer untraceable. Step out of line, Mr. Grant, and you’ll find me looking over your shoulder, breathing down your neck, but you won’t see me—nobody ever does.” Silas’s eyes smirked like a cat’s would do when toying with a mouse. “And do yourself a favor: stay away from your wife’s friends. Rumors are bad for the spirit. Be very careful, or you’ll become a rumor as well, lingering about the rotten mouths of the elite, with their silver china and their learned absurdities. Break yourself away from this circle, Mr. Grant, for your family’s sake. Now see me to the door.”

  “Of course, Officer,” Mr. Grant said after swallowing a large gulp. “Right this way.”

  While Silas made his way out of Mr. Grant’s manor, Posy scrambled to get a beat on the man she followed, the man she thought was Silas. She had already traversed across the Grants’ backyard, which was at least a full five acres, and now she was nearing the neighbors’ large wooden fence. Up ahead, she saw the man effortlessly scale the fence.

  “Silas! Would you just wait?” She stopped for a second, crouching down and holding her belly, as if it hurt her. She rubbed it up and down. Damn it. “That’s it, Silas. You can go on by yourself. I’m not running after you anymore.” She stepped up to the fence. “I’ll just take my time, thank you very much.” Scaling it, she found it hard and awkward. How the hell did you get over this damn thing?

  At long last, she made it over and leapt towards the ground. Stretching, she dusted herself off, sighing from exhaustion. What’s wrong with me today?

  She searched the landscape, seeing large shapes of gray and silver. “No lights. Looks like no one’s home.” She searched the mansion’s perimeter. “Where are you, you annoying rookie?”

  The man was only about fifty feet from Posy, waiting in the shadows by a large, wooden treehouse. Posy caught a glimpse o
f his hat. “Hey! What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?”

  No answer.

  And then the moonlight shone on half of the man’s body, which allowed Posy to see the man’s silhouette reflected off the horizon. “Silas? Why won’t you answer me? Where’s the man you were chasing? Is he close by?”

  The man held up his hand and then put his index finger up to his face, as if asking Posy to shush. Then he motioned for her to come towards him.

  Posy crouched down, and she began to whisper. “Did you find him? Is he here?” She began walking towards the man slowly. “Why are you being so quiet?” But right then, her intuition caught hold of her, grabbing her bones and locking them up. She stood frozen. “Wait.”

  The man motioned for her to keep coming towards him.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you say something.”

  There was an eerie moment, a pause under the darkness of the moon. Who are you?

  And the man spoke. He had a Mid-Atlantic English accent, a blend of American and British, and it was bland, monotonic, very soft and calm. His voice was devoid of any tension and emotion. One could say it was somewhat robotic. “Very well, Miss Chapman.”

  Posy winced. The voice definitely didn’t belong to Silas, and the tone of it made her spine tingle with fear. “Step a little closer to the light so I can see you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Chapman.”

  “Why not?” Posy stepped back a couple of feet and reached for her revolver.

  “Oh, don’t do that. That certainly won’t turn out rosy for either of us.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Posy raised her weapon at the strange man.

  “I can sense you’re upset, Miss Chapman. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Do for me?” Posy replied, turning up her nose. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

  “I’m a strange one indeed. Never ordinary. Never average.”

  “Oh, so you’re the black sheep of your lot?”

  “The blackest.”

  “And who are you, then? Where do you come from?”

  “I’d rather not say. You’d find it all too puzzling.”