Flowers Stained With Moonlight

by Catherine Shaw

  Oh Dora, perhaps, just perhaps, I shall now finally be able to discover something which has eluded me thus far; perhaps, after all, this key will be the one to unlock not just the box, but the mystery itself!

  Only how, how shall I get at Sylvia’s jewellery box? Dare I invade her room? What if she hides the box when she realises that she has lost her bracelet? I must act quickly! What can I do? Shall I tell Mrs Bryce-Fortescue? Maybe she, with the authority of a mother, could enter her daughter’s room, take the box, unlock the compartment and look at the contents without shame.

  Yes, but what if she chooses to do so alone, and finds evidence that may incriminate her daughter, if not of murder, at least of aiding and abetting it? It is just the reason for which I would not talk about this with her earlier. I believe there is no doubt whatsoever that she would destroy such evidence instantly, and for that matter, she would be quite capable of inventing some seemingly innocent excuse to stop the investigation and send me back to Cambridge post-haste. No, I cannot let that happen – things have gone too far for that, and I feel personally responsible now for what I have undertaken. I must do something else; I shall say that I am unwell, and go to Sylvia’s room in one hour, while the others are at luncheon. Until then, I shall remain here in my room, with the door open, writing to you and checking whether or not Sylvia enters her room – if she does, I shall simply have to slip into my secret hiding place and try to get some idea of her actions.

  Later, after tea (of which I partook rather copiously … due to my feelings of distress, as well as the lack of the midday meal!)

  Oh, my dear Dora, I cannot describe the fear which I suffered during the luncheon hour, when, having excused myself lamely (feeling certain that my subterfuge was utterly transparent) and retired to my room, I counted out several minutes, emerged, and tiptoed down the hallway to Sylvia’s door.

  It was worse, much worse than in the library, and indeed, I believe there was some cause, for if I were to be caught and captured at the critical moment in which I should be dipping my hands into Sylvia’s jewellery box, I do not believe that even Mrs Bryce-Fortescue would be convinced that my efforts were all in the interests of her daughter – and whatever happened then, it could only be for ill! Why, if she believed I was stealing the jewellery, I should be in a fine pickle – in prison, perhaps, my reputation ruined and my future blighted, and even Arthur would have trouble believing that the necessity to examine the contents of Sylvia’s jewellery box was absolutely unavoidable! And yet, God knows, rings, necklaces and bracelets held so little attraction for me at that particular moment that they might as well have been made of dust!

  A seemingly endlessly varied series of similar such undesirable prospects presented itself to me spontaneously as I pressed the door handle of Sylvia’s room and pushed the door slowly and carefully ajar. But my feverish desire to pursue my task was stronger than all my fears together, and I closed the door silently behind me, and slipped across the room towards the famous box, which sat upon the dresser, announcing its character most openly and unashamedly.

  It was a rather large, dark red leather box which opened with a nice little brass key that was innocently thrust into its hole, proclaiming to the world at large that Sylvia was unafraid of any investigation of her box. I turned the key, opened the lid, and began to poke and pry within its layered, pillowed depths to locate the invisible keyhole of the secret compartment.

  Without being aware of its existence, no one could ever have guessed that the box contained such a thing. But knowing it gave me a signal advantage. I began by examining the box with care inside and out to locate where some unused portion could lie, and determined that it was necessarily at the very bottom of the box; it could not be otherwise, where every possible corner appeared to be accounted for. I then pried all about that section until, pulling two velvet cushions apart from each other, I spied a tiny hole nestling in the depths between them. I took out the purloined charm bracelet, isolated the tiny key with trembling fingers, and thrust it into the hole. It fit, but would not turn – I began to doubt, and yet felt so sure of myself – my nervousness prevented me from calmly trying one direction and then the other – I jiggled the key and grew more anxious by the second – and then suddenly it turned and clicked.

  Yet I still could not discover the compartment. I pulled and pushed gently, but nothing seemed to give. The minutes passed, and I grew more and more terrified. I searched for another way, I gently tugged at the leather tags, I pulled here and there at the cushions, I removed a number of pretty stones and bracelets to examine the box more closely. Oh, Dora, I cannot describe how nervous I became at length, how frightened, how my ears pricked up as attentive to the slightest sound as those of a trapped wild animal, which I would hardly hear anyway, as they were ringing with the banging in my chest. Yet my burning impatience would not let me shut up the box and rush from the room, as I was every moment tempted to do! After what seemed forever, but was perhaps only five minutes – certainly not enough time for the meat course to be over downstairs – I stopped trying to force the box and began to observe it carefully, study its structure, and reflect. It was thus that I finally came to the conclusion that the lid of the hidden lowest section could not in any manner be moved or shifted backwards or forwards, or lifted up vertically or in the manner of an ordinary lid. I finally concluded that it must work via some kind of a twist, and taking a deep breath, I took hold of what must be the top of the section and swivelled it. Something folded and yielded, and suddenly it came away and the secret compartment lay revealed to my eyes!!

  It was empty.

  Sylvia had changed her mind, and changed her hiding place, after her discussion with her friend.

  Dismay swept over me, as I wondered if she had, finally, followed Camilla’s advice and burnt the evidence, whatever it may have been? I glanced at the grate, but there was no sign of a fire having been lit there recently, as indeed it was not likely there would have been, during a warm and pleasant month of June. Still, that proved nothing – anything that can be burnt (I assumed it was papers of some sort) can be burnt even at a candle, with enough patience. All my efforts had come to nought.

  With leaden hands I returned the upper portion of the jewellery case to its place, worked it snugly downwards, rearranged the disturbed pieces, and closed and locked it. I left the room, not without first opening the door a crack and spying out the hallway, and making my way quietly to the library, I slipped Sylvia’s bracelet deep down into the crack between the seat and the armrest of the chair in which she had slept so soundly. I then returned to my room, feeling dreadfully disappointed, and lying down upon my bed, I fell asleep from pure annoyance, and woke up at teatime with a great appetite.

  Tea has restored at least a portion of my courage and good humour. I find that as I am making unsatisfactory progress with the inmates of this house, I should decide once and for all to turn my attention fully to the young man spied in Haverhill on the day of the murder. For this, I must begin by returning to Cambridge, at least for a brief visit – for how can I undertake such researches without the help of my friends? I am already laying my plans, and will speak to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue about them tomorrow. The young man exists, therefore he must have an identity and live in some specific place. I shall make it my business to discover all that can be known about him!

  Your disappointed but not despairing

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Saturday, June 18th, 1892

  My dearest sister,

  Here I am back in Cambridge, writing to you at my very own desk, in my very own dear rooms! How familiar, how consoling and reassuring they seem. And just two weeks ago, I felt quite tired of them, and wished very much that something should happen to take me away from them for a time!

  Yesterday morning, I closeted myself with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and told her what I had learnt about the person I call to myself ‘the mysterious young man’. She was greatly impressed by the importance of the discovery, and I tol
d her that in order to pursue my researches, I needed to travel. I needed to try to pick up the traces of his journey, and perhaps to follow or trace him as far as London, or wherever else he had decided to go and lose himself. She grew most excited and worried, above all when I asked her opinion on the subject of the police: should we not inform them of our discovery at once? Could they not trace the gentleman much more efficiently than I should be able to? No, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue did not think so. She was much against speaking to the police at all; she hemmed and hawed, and twisted, and said that they would not listen to us, that their minds were fixed against Sylvia, that they would dismiss our words as so much useless gossip. The reasons she gave did not strike me as being extremely convincing, but she is my employer, after all, and in any case, I felt that nothing should be lost by waiting, and much might be gained. After all, the police could certainly be informed at any time, and besides, what prevented them from finding it out for themselves, instead of proving that Sylvia was somewhere where she wasn’t? Why, whoever said they saw her ought to have been seeing a red-caped young man instead!

  I told Mrs Bryce-Fortescue that I thought I should visit Cambridge before anything, for the young man had almost certainly stopped there in the train from Haverhill, and I thought I might be able to find out if anyone remembered him alighting. For that matter, I thought that one might be able to trace his voyage to Haverhill as well as that going away, and either way, Cambridge would be the nearest major station.

  We decided that Peter should take me to Cambridge today, and he took me to despatch a telegram to Arthur to let him know that I was coming. ‘Arthur darling returning Cambridge need your help Vanessa’ was as much verbosity as my small change would cover (the second word was perhaps not strictly necessary but did much to alleviate the overcharged state of my feelings).

  I set about preparing a few things for my journey, for I could not tell how long I might be away nor what I should find out, and tried to put my thoughts as well as my clothes in order until teatime, when I sallied downstairs. We had barely settled around the teapot, when the sound of cantering was heard rapidly approaching the house.

  ‘Whatever is Peter doing with the horses?’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, going to the window.

  ‘It isn’t Peter,’ said Sylvia, getting up also.

  A splendid carriage worthy of a fairy tale, pulled by two high-stepping and perfectly white steeds, was approaching at a fast clip.

  ‘Is it some friend of yours, Vanessa?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘No one I know possesses such a superb equipage!’ I answered, and we remained all four glued to the window, quite breathless with amazement.

  The carriage pulled to a halt in front of the house, and a gentleman alighted from each side of it.

  ‘Why, that is a friend of mine,’ I cried, astonished. ‘It’s a mathematician of my acquaintance, Mr Morrison! But I don’t know the man who was driving.’

  The gentlemen saw us plainly, gathered together in the window as we were, and they smiled gaily, but went ceremoniously to ring the bell. Charles’ friend, the proprietor of the carriage, was a distinguished although somewhat portly person of fifty or so, with an ample and carefully tended greying moustache. I waited with ill-contained impatience until Mr Huxtable had opened the door, taken the gentlemen’s coats and ushered them formally into our presence.

  ‘Did you get our telegram?’ were Charles’ first words. ‘We did send one to say we were coming – you haven’t had it yet? I’m so very sorry! We got here before it; it’ll come any moment, I dare say. Please do forgive us. We didn’t mean to interrupt your tea! Vanessa – Miss Duncan – telegraphed that she was meaning to come up to Cambridge, and my friend Korneck and I thought it would be simpler for everyone if we just came down and fetched her ourselves, as Korneck has the most terrific horses and they were really in need of exercise. Please let me introduce myself,’ he added with the debonair manner which had its usual effect of irresistible charm on everyone around him. (Charles is really a dear.) ‘I’m Charles Morrison, mathematician, Trinity College in fact, and this is my friend Mr Gerhard Korneck, an amateur mathematician from Prussia, presently also of Cambridge.’

  ‘From the region of Posen, old Poznània, I come. I am enchanted, enchanted to make your acquaintance, dear lady,’ said Mr Korneck punctiliously, in fluent English with a marked Germanic accent, addressing himself uniquely to the lady of the house. As she kindly extended her hand to welcome him, he took it and kissed it in a most continental manner! ‘I ask a thousand pardons for our so sudden, so ridiculous arrival not announced by telegram.’

  ‘Oh, please do not worry about it,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue courteously. ‘We were just sitting down to tea, and should be most pleased and honoured if you two gentlemen would like to join us.’

  Indeed we were pleased (and perhaps even honoured – who can tell?); the presence of a couple of gentlemen in a society of ladies enlivens the mood remarkably, and witty remarks soon began to fly among the members of the younger generation, while Mr Korneck continued to address himself admiringly to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, praising her house, her roses, her tea, her cakes and her delightful hospitality. Indeed, he seemed greatly taken by the adventure, and continued to repeat lovingly,

  ‘It is all so very British, so very British,’ as though he could not get over this plain and simple fact.

  We had a lovely tea (Charles’ telegram was delivered in the middle of it, ‘Coming to fetch Vanessa this afternoon please excuse suddenness Morrison’). Afterwards, I collected my things, bid farewell to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, promising to return as soon as I should have some positive information, or to write her if necessary, and took my departure with Charles and Mr Korneck.

  Once comfortably installed upon the plush cushions of the most luxurious vehicle I have ever had the good fortune to enter, I scolded Charles vigorously.

  ‘I might have been in the middle of important detection! It might have been necessary for me to stay the night! I might have really wanted Peter to take me into Cambridge – it might have been urgent for me to talk to him!’

  ‘Oh no,’ he exclaimed with meek dismay. ‘I never thought of all that – I do hope we haven’t spoilt your plans! Anyway, you must blame Arthur, not me; it was mostly his idea. In fact, it’s all your fault, Vanessa, when it comes to that. It was that “darling” in your telegram that did it. Arthur got all het up when he read that, and here was Korneck with his horses just pawing the ground with eagerness to get going somewhere, and I suddenly had this stroke of genius about how to satisfy everybody at once! I tried awfully to get Arthur to come, but he had to teach his very last class of the year this afternoon. I tried, I did, Vanessa. I told him the students would be delighted to get early vacation, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.’ He shook his head with mock sorrow. ‘Poor old Arthur. There’s a man who’ll never take a walk on the wild side.’

  ‘I’d just as well he didn’t,’ I answered smartly. ‘I prefer him steady and reliable. He was in enough danger once to last anyone a lifetime, if you ask me!’

  ‘That was different,’ said Charles; ‘it was danger, right enough, but it wasn’t courted, any more than the pedestrian on the pavement is courting the danger of the brick which all unknowingly bonks him upon the head. It wasn’t a consequence of taking risks and living to the hilt!’

  ‘But why should a person court danger? It comes only too often when it isn’t wanted, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ sighed Charles a little wistfully. ‘It’s different for you; here you are in the thick of it.’

  ‘Rubbish, I’m not in any danger!’ I snapped, feeling slightly annoyed at Charles’ indiscretion, for I didn’t want Mr Korneck to know anything about my detecting activities. But it turned out to be much too late for such worries, for that gentleman said cheerfully,

  ‘Yes, yes, I have heard that you undertake a dangerous task, a most dangerous task.’

  ‘Charles!’ I cried in dismay. �
�You haven’t told!’

  ‘Not a thing, not a thing! I only said that you were hunting down a murderer, that’s all. I just told him in the carriage, coming over. No details, I promise.’

  ‘You are impossible!’ I was beginning.

  ‘He told me no details at all,’ said Mr Korneck hastily, then added with a wink, ‘None were needed. I read the daily papers. But reassure yourself, my dear young lady. I will be the soul of silence, I will be the tomb. I am deeply shocked to hear of a young lady engaged in such activities. I do not wish to hinder or increase the danger in any way. I will be of discreet help if possible, nothing more. You may count on me. Your … Verlobter, your fiancé is very good, a very fine man. But if you need further help, please do not hesitate to depend upon me.’

  ‘I haven’t introduced you to Korneck properly yet,’ said Charles, quickly redirecting the conversation into channels less immediately connected with his own foolish indiscretion. ‘You remember I mentioned him last week; he’s the one who’s working on Fermat’s last theorem, the lost and forgotten problem.’

  ‘Ah, so beautiful!’ Mr Korneck showed a great disposition to be distracted from my doings, and hold forth upon what was obviously his pet topic. ‘Do you know the problem, Miss Duncan? Are you a lover of mathematics?’

  ‘I am sadly ignorant,’ I smiled, ‘but always greatly interested in listening to the conversation of my many mathematical friends. I have heard so much over the past years that the language has a welcome, familiar sound to me, and I feel quite happily at home surrounded by talk of quaternions, matrices, or vectors, even if I cannot participate.’