She looked at this Mr. Lockhart -- this poor, forlorn creature who was gentle. Always gentle with her. Even in their indecent liberties, he had always treated her... no. She shook the thoughts out of her system. He turned to look at her, but she took the tray in hand and made her way to the door.
As she headed out of the room, she noticed something. Mr. Lockhart had started leaving his money laying about, as he had done when he first arrived.
He had never been late or short with money during his stay. That much was certain. That alone made him a peculiar tenant, as all of their previous tenants were always difficult when it came to extracting rent or the cost of expenses. But not Mr. Lockhart. He always paid, sometimes too much.
Velma felt like she and Lamont were cheating their tenant. For example, Mr. Lockhart hardly used the upstairs room despite paying generously for it.
She thought if Lamont were able to secure additional jobs as a waiter after this evening, which could very well be the case, she might tell Mr. Lockhart that he would not need to pay as much as he was paying currently.
Mr. Lockhart had turned back to the fire as Velma glanced back at him. She studied the curve of his back as he leaned forward for warmth.
"Good night, sir," Velma said, almost a whisper. Mr. Lockhart turned to her with a face that looked tired, worn and sad. Velma felt as if she would cry. She felt an urge to rush to him and kiss him! "I... hope you'll sleep well tonight, sir."
He offered up a slight smile, only for a moment. "Yes, thank you. I might go for a walk first. After studying and experimenting all day, I need a little exercise I think."
"Oh, I wouldn't go walking tonight," she said. "It's bitter cold tonight. Not fit for anyone. I wouldn't expect anyone to be outside this evening, for any reason whatsoever."
"No, I suspect there will be many people out in the streets tonight," he said. "It's the holiday season, after all. And then there's this terrible business with that murderer."
Velma's eyes went wide. It was the first time she'd ever heard Mr. Lockhart make mention of the Hangman.
"More than usual, perhaps. But still, it's powerfully cold. I'd hate for you to catch cold walking about in this weather."
"Really?" Mr. Lockhart asked. "Do you think it's strange, Velma, that people who can carry on with all sorts of amusements during the day should continue such merriment into the late hours of the night?"
"No, sir. I was thinking..." Velma searched for the words, hesitating at first, but then blurted them out. "I was thinking of the police."
"Police?" Mr. Lockhart put his hand to his face, an obviously nervous gesture. "What is man's might against that of God's?" His face glowed in the firelight. It caused Velma to shiver for a moment before a wave of relief came over her. He wasn't angered by her words or offended. Rather, he took it as an opportunity to cite words that he had no doubt studied during the day.
"That's true, sir," Velma said with great respect. "But the good Lord wants us to take care of ourselves too." With that, she closed the door behind her, took a deep breath and went downstairs.
Velma stopped in the sitting room before going to the kitchen with Mr. Lockhart's tray. She didn't care what Lamont or anyone would say; she was going to put the tray with what was left of Mr. Lockhart's meal on the sitting room table and deal with it in the morning.
Velma went into her bedroom after that, closing the door and pressing her forehead against the doorpost.
The fire in the room was still burning clear and bright. She began to undress herself in the fiery glow, looking at herself in the mirror. The light flickered against her body as she slipped out of her dress and undergarments. She stood in front of the mirror fully nude, looking at herself.
Her hands went to her full breasts and she cupped them in front of herself, covering her nipples. She released her hands and watched her breasts dip. Velma then ran her hands over her belly and hips.
The flames in the fireplace flickered, casting shadows on the wall behind Velma, enlarging and twisting her own shadow. Velma turned and faced the shadows. She looked back over her shoulder, at her posterior and her back.
If it wasn't too late when Lamont came home, she would fuck him. She decided that he deserved it and she needed it. She needed to feel something inside her. She needed her husband.
She looked at the shadows on the wall, shuddered and slipped into her nightgown and robe. Once dressed, she sat in her bedroom chair and watched the fire, feeling herself slip away. She dozed.
Velma had no idea how long she dozed but she awoke with a rapid thumping of her heart. The fire was almost out, even though it seemed as if it were blazing just moments before. There was enough light to read the clock: it was a quarter to midnight!
Where was Lamont? Surely, he wasn't working this late at night. Fear gripped her, a different brand from what she'd been feeling of late, but fear nonetheless.
Then she heard the noise -- that damned noise! Mr. Lockhart's rubber-soled shoes, footsteps creeping down the stairs, along the hallway and out the door, quietly but not quiet enough to escape her detection.
Velma rushed to the bedroom window and peered carefully through the curtain. She could see Mr. Lockhart's silhouette, already receding into the misty distance. He moved quickly, his heavy coat almost billowing behind him. He moved with an almost supernatural speed it seemed. Was she dreaming this?
She wouldn't be able to go to sleep now. She was alone in the house and it made her feel even more afraid. Where was her husband? Why wasn't he here to give her a sense of security, of safety, of comfort?
Velma forced herself to lie down in the bed, but she lay there listening to the settling house and thinking. She thought about reading something until Lamont finally returned. She would get one of Lamont's detective novels, light a lamp and read until Lamont came home.
But no, she couldn't. She knew she would never read a single word. And so, she lay in her half-empty bed, as the light from the fireplace dwindled to embers. They looked like devilish eyes, hundreds of them, all leering at her in contemptuous glee.
Chapter 21
Velma hadn't exaggerated at all about the cold that evening. It was cold, windy and the atmosphere was heavy with the promise of snow. Anyone who was able to stay indoors remained indoors.
Except for Lamont. He walked down the sidewalk, several blocks from his and Velma's house. The evening had been a success. In fact, it had been downright fortuitous as Lamont considered it. The young girl whose birthday party he served had inherited a great fortune that very day. Despite the cavalcade of presents she had received from family and friends, she felt inspired to give as well. She presented each of the wait staff with a twenty-dollar bill in addition to their wages for the evening.
The gift, which came with some very kind words from the young girl, for she remembered Lamont from his earlier days as part of the house staff, touched Lamont. He knew for some of the staff, that twenty dollars would make for brighter Christmases for their families. Lamont smiled, pleased that there were decent folk in the upper class who treated others with largesse and kindness in equal doses.
However, the smile was tinged with concern. Lamont thought of Velma. He was puzzled by her behavior over the past few weeks. She was nervous and on edge all the time, something he had never known Velma to be in all their years together.
She had become awfully jittery and jumpy. Velma had never been that way either. Granted, she could be moody and prone to bickering, but she was hard working, solid and Lamont never doubted that Velma loved him, even if she rarely said it. Her actions spoke love to him.
But she wasn't getting any better. The hysterics over the Hangman, the short temper, the distant look she got in her eyes. Was she hiding something? He thought back to Carter's prank a few nights earlier.
Velma knew all too well that Carter often had to use disguises in his line of work, so as to blend in with the unsavory types in Charleston. But her reaction was so over the top. It was as if she had never known C
arter! Yes, it was very unlike his wife, the way she acted of late, thought Lamont.
Then there was the other strange thing that bothered him on both a conscious and subconscious level. During the last several weeks, Velma began talking in her sleep. He couldn't make much of what she was saying, but he could tell she was in distress. Only one night could he clearly hear what she was saying: "It's a lie! All lies!" Her voice was almost a wail, infused with fear and revulsion. It was a voice of despair.
Lamont cupped his hands over his mouth and blew warm air into them. He'd forgotten his gloves. He was certain Velma would chastise him for doing such a thoughtless thing. He moved his hands into his pockets and quickened the pace of his walk.
As he moved steadily down the sidewalk, Lamont caught sight of a familiar figure. It was Mr. Lockhart, his tenant, walking on the opposite side of the empty street. It was a side street that led away from the main road.
Lamont's brow furrowed. Strange time of night for anyone to be taking a stroll, he thought. He noticed that Mr. Lockhart's thin frame was bent and his head was turned down to the ground. His left arm was hidden inside his heavy coat but it was clear there was some sort of package or bag concealed under the coat.
Mr. Lockhart walked even faster than Lamont and as he walked, Lamont could hear the man talking to himself. This wasn't all that surprising in and of itself to Lamont. He knew that gentlemen who lived alone most of the time tend to do such a thing to break the monotony of solitude.
It was clear Mr. Lockhart was unaware of Lamont's presence.
Lamont nodded inwardly. Velma had been right. Their tenant was an eccentric, a most peculiar man. It was strange then that such an odd man would have made such a positive difference in his and Velma's lives, rescuing them from near destitution.
Lamont glanced over at Mr. Lockhart again, reminding himself of Mr. Lockhart's eccentricities, such as his dislike for meat and what Lamont called reasonable food. Not every tenant can be perfect, Lamont thought. You take the odd with the lucrative. You simply can't have everything. At least the tenant wasn't one of those strange vegetarians who refuse to eat any animal flesh, including eggs and cheese! In this respect, Mr. Lockhart was reasonable, as well as his dealings with Lamont and Velma as his landlord and landlady.
True, Lamont saw far less of the tenant than Velma. Lamont had only been upstairs a small handful of times since Mr. Lockhart moved into their house. Those times Lamont waited on Mr. Lockhart, he found him to be a silent, possibly timid man. However, he had made it clear that he did not prefer either Lamont or Velma to come to his rooms without first being asked to do so.
Perhaps now would be a chance to engage in some pleasant, late night conversation on the way home? After all, Lamont was pleased (though slightly puzzled) to see his tenant out and about for the first time. For some reason, it contributed to his overall sense of satisfaction with the evening.
Lamont crossed the road, stepping up his pace to overtake Mr. Lockhart. But no matter how much Lamont quickened his step, Mr. Lockhart seemed to advance further and further away. Not once did Mr. Lockhart turn back as Lamont's rapid steps echoed across the cold pavement.
Lamont noticed that Mr. Lockhart's own footsteps were silent. He could see the man's step clearly in the hazy moonlight and still-lit street lamps, but they didn't make a sound on the cobblestones. Lamont surmised that Mr. Lockhart's shoes had rubber soles. It was the only logical explanation, he thought.
Strange. Lamont never had a pair of rubber-soled shoes sent down by Mr. Lockhart for him to clean. He had always guess the tenant had only one pair of shoes or boots for outdoor use.
The two men continued their pace all the way to Willow Road, just a few hundred yards from the house. Lamont steeled himself and called out, his voice echoing in the nighttime air: "Mr. Lockhart? Sir? Mr. Lockhart!"
The tenant stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to Lamont. Lamont approached and saw that the man had sweat pouring down his worn face.
"Ah, Mr. Barnes," Mr. Lockhart said, heaving slightly. "I heard footsteps and I hurried on to the house. I wish I'd known it was you, sir. So many strange characters out at night here in Charleston."
"Not on an evening such as this, sir. Only honest folk with outdoor business would be out on such a night. Bitter cold, it is!" Lamont then wondered why in the world Mr. Lockhart would be out at this time of night, in these weather conditions.
"Cold," Mr. Lockhart said, repeating Lamont's inflection of the word. He panted and his words came out quickly. "I don't find it that cold, Mr. Barnes. I find that when snow falls, the air always seems milder."
"Agreed, sir. But tonight has a sharp wind coming in from the east. It'll freeze the marrow in a man's bones! Still, I have to say this evening walk has been stimulating for me. And as late as it is, I'm afraid it's worked up an appetite in me."
Lamont noticed that Mr. Lockhart kept his distance from his landlord. He walked to the edge of the sidewalk. "I feared I lost my way," Mr. Lockhart said quickly. "I had been over by the university to visit a friend, a man I studied with when I was a boy. On the way back, I got turned around and wound up walking far longer than I should have."
They approached the iron gate at the front of the walkway to the house. Mr. Lockhart stepped forward and walked up the path to the front door. Lamont quickened his step and moved in front of his tenant in order to open the front door for Mr. Lockhart.
As Lamont passed Mr. Lockhart, the back of Lamont's left hand, cold and bare, brushed against the tenant's heavy coat. The fabric was icy and damp... and wet. Not just wet, but sticky.
Lamont placed his left hand in his coat pocket, using his right hand to unlock the door with his house key.
Bot men walked into the foyer together, as the doorway was wide enough for both.
The house was dark. As Lamont stepped forward, followed closely by Mr. Lockhart, he felt a sudden, stark feeling of dread, as if he were in a very real and present danger. He backed away from the tenant, trying to put distance between them.
Mr. Lockhart spoke, his voice almost a growl, though not loud at all. "I'm afraid, Mr. Barnes, you touched something rather foul on my coat. It's a dreadfully long story, but I tripped and fell over a dead animal, a dog by the looks of it. Poor thing had been run over and had apparently limped to the sidewalk where it gave up the ghost."
"No, sir. I didn't notice anything. I barely touched you on the way in, actually." The words that came out of Lamont's mouth were absolutely untrue, but they came from a place within Lamont that thought only of self-preservation. "If you won't be needing anything further this evening, I'll bid you good night, sir," Lamont said with a curt bow.
Lamont held his breath and waited as Mr. Lockhart passed him and made for the stairs. The tenant stopped. Lamont couldn't hear the man breathing. "Good night," Mr. Lockhart said in a toneless, empty voice. It didn't sound human, Lamont thought as his heart raced.
Lamont waited until the tenant was upstairs before he sat down in the front room, turning on the nearest lantern. He sat because he felt he might pass out from the chill he felt all over his body. Soon, his own body was sweating profusely. He couldn't explain it, but Lamont felt as if he had narrowly avoided a mortal crisis.
He refused to remove his left hand from his pocket until he heard Mr. Lockhart's bedroom door shut upstairs. Once it did, he slowly removed his hand. He looked at it curiously in the golden light of the lamp.
His hand was streaked with dark blood. He wiped at it with his handkerchief before going over to a nearby basin and washing his hand until no trace of blood could be seen. The water had turned pink. Lamont frowned at this and took the basin into the kitchen, where he poured it into the sink, rinsed the basin and refilled it.
Once he was in his bedroom, he removed his boots and clothes and crept into the bed.
"What have you been doing?" a voice came from the bed. Lamont slumped and slid beside Velma. Her hand automatically went to his chest. It was a resting place for her hand, som
ething that comforted her and also pleased Lamont. Sometimes, it was the only time she would touch him.
Sugar in Her Bowl Page 22