I said nothing, for what was there to say? You might think me proud, but I am not a man to plead and grovel. I shook Mr. Reed’s hand and thanked him for the envelope which contained that day’s wages, and then I was on my way.
But to where, I did not know. I walked out into the summer morning and with heavy heart began to walk. Something would turn up, I told myself. I would surely find another clerkship at another firm. If I came back and met my mates for a drink at the pub surely someone would have a recommendation for me.
I found myself walking slower than normal, which was very slow indeed as my injuries still caused much pain, and I was jostled on all sides by impatient passersby. I leaned heavily on my cane. I had no predestined plan, but as I walked I realized I was headed in a north-westerly direction, and whether or not it was the best place to go, Crescent Walk was where I went.
I was exhausted by the time of my arrival, and my whole body ached beyond measure, but the strenuous activity had done much to alleviate my anxiety. Soames ushered me into the drawing room and there I briefly stood until Laura appeared in the room.
“Clive! What an unexpected pleasure.”
I rose and kissed her hand, and then, feeling bolder, kissed her on the cheek.
“Laura I don’t know what will become of me. I shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t burden you with this.”
“Clive, what is it?”
“I was dismissed from Bates and Reed today by Mr. Reed himself.”
“Clive, that’s awful. How can he do such a thing?”
“He can do anything he wants. I suppose it’s my own fault for bringing all this business on myself.”
“Do you mean the attack?”
“I do.”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” she said, and then I knew I had nearly been caught in my lie. She believed that I had been beaten in an alley by an unknown assailant. She knew nothing of Stuart Noyes, or that his violent outburst was the cause for my dismissal.
I sank down into the nearest chair and began to cry. It wasn’t manly of me, I know. The tears flowed so heavily my body was wracked with sobs.
I pulled myself together as quickly and best I could, but not before Laura had sunk to her knees before me. She took my hands in hers and pressed them to her cheek and then laid her cheek against my thigh. The gesture was heartfelt, but I immediately felt myself become aroused. I wanted to push her away. I wanted to pull her to me and kiss her and make passionate love to her right there upon the floor.
“Whatever shall I do?”
“Something will turn up,” she said sounding like a character from a Dickens novel. Her optimism was admirable, but I could not share it.
“I think,” she said, getting to her feet, “that you should have a drink. And then you should stay and have dinner with Lionel and I, and have another drink, and then another if you wish. We have a guest room and it would be our pleasure to have you sleep in our home tonight.”
I was on the verge of making some protest that that really wasn’t necessary, but that was why I had come here, was it not – to be comforted? So that I would not have to be alone with my thoughts.
And so we passed a pleasant afternoon. She played for me on the piano, one of her own compositions, and it was quite remarkable. I was struck that someone blind could play with such beauty and precision, her fingers never once faltered on the keys. We took tea, and she told me about progress at the weekly meeting of her women’s group, and when the conversation began to lull she asked if I liked to read, which I do but never take the opportunity for the light in my lodgings is so poor. She brought a book that her friend, Ruth, had been reading, and I read to Laura.
That was as Lionel found us when he arrived. He did not seem to be annoyed by my presence. On the contrary, he actually seemed glad that I would be staying for dinner.
During our conversation, Lionel made frequent reference to Balfour Manor. I learned that the family estate was on the coast, where they would be returning after the Season came to an end. It had always struck me as odd that an artist’s adult children were apparently supported by an endless wealth. But he told me that centuries ago some long dead ancestor had come into an inheritance and took over the land and rechristened the house
“You see, it helped our father from the very beginning. He was already known in social circles, and his paintings sold admirably, even from an early age. With time he was able to command exorbitant fees. And then of course there are the profits and rents from the farms,” he smiled wickedly at Laura, “enabling his children to continue living in a manner to which we have grown accustomed.
I thought of Laura growing up in some far away house, something grand and immense the likes of which I would surely never see, and what her childhood must have been like there, with Lionel, and with Lydia.
While Lionel talked and Laura and I listened, I found myself gazing openly at Laura, and as the thought of her twin sister crossed my mind, Laura turned and smiled and looked directly into my eyes. I was immediately unnerved and looked away, but when I looked back again her eyes were fixed intently on me. I had never seen her eyes focus with such specificity. It was almost as though she had read my mind and now looked into my soul and saw the dark place inside where I harbored that secret afternoon with Lydia Balfour. I stirred with discomfort.
Lionel caught the look for he suddenly ceased his stream of self-centered chatter and looked from Laura to me.
“What is it, darling?”
The spell was broken. Laura blinked and turned her head in her brother’s direction. “What?”
“You had the most peculiar look on your face, as if you had seen a ghost.”
She laughed. “Silly, Lionel. I was momentarily distracted. I suddenly had an uneasy thought about our sister.”
“Lydia? What on earth for?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Am I not allowed to think of her from time to time?”
Balfour shrugged. “What was it you were thinking, my dear?”
“I cannot say. It’s gone now, whatever it was. I hope she is well, don’t you, Lionel?”
“Always, Laura, always,” he said with little attempt to hide his distaste for the subject.
But no sooner had this peculiar interchange transpired but Soames stepped into the dining room.
“If you please sir, and begging your pardon, miss, and sir” – to me – “but there is a gentleman to see you. I told him the family was at dinner and were not receiving visitors, but he was most insistent.”
“What sort of gentleman?” Balfour said.
“Inspector Daugherty, sir. From the police.”
“Well, send him away.”
“He is most insistent.”
Balfour rose and threw down his napkin in exasperation. Laura stood as well.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Sit down, Laura.”
“If this has anything to do with our sister, I have a right to know.”
“What could this possibly have to do with our sister?”
“I don’t know. Not a moment ago she crossed my mind and now a policeman is at our doorstep. Whatever it is, I have a right to know.”
And if it did indeed have anything to do with Lydia, while I may not have a right, I was certainly intrigued to know as well. I followed the two of them down the hall without objection. After all, it would be most impolite to leave me sitting at table alone.
Daugherty was a scrawny, red haired man, no more than a lad really, in a long black coat that would have been better suited for a winter’s night than a warm summer evening. He was barely older than Laura, and there was little Balfour could do to hide the contempt on his face.
“Yes?” Balfour said curtly as if the interruption was the height of social impropriety.
“Mr. Balfour?”
“Yes,” he snapped again.
Daugherty looked from me to Laura, as if introductions were required before he could proceed,
then thought better of it, and got to the point. “I’m here to inquire after Miss Lydia Balfour. She is your sister, is she not?”
Laura clasped her hands to her throat.
“Yes, yes, of course. What sort of trouble is she in?”
“No trouble, sir. Not yet, anyway. Miss Balfour is wanted for questioning in the murder of Stuart Noyes.”
Laura gasped.
“I take it you know the man?”
“Yes, of course,” said Laura. “He is our sister’s fiancé.”
“I hope he burns,” said Balfour.
Daugherty did not, as I expected, cock an eyebrow. He did not need to. Lionel Balfour is accustomed to saying what he wants to whomever he wants, a habit which more often than not leads him into trouble.
“Have you seen her?”
Laura shook her head.
Balfour said, “She does not live with us. The less we see of her, the better.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“Do I need a reason? Is my familial relationship any concern of yours?”
“It could be.”
“What is your meaning?”
Daugherty faced me. “What about you, sir?”
“Mr. Dahl is our guest,” Laura protested as if to imply that I should be left unbothered by the matter.
“Have you seen Lydia Balfour?”
“I’ve never met her,” I said. A nerve twitched beneath my left eye. I hoped the Inspector had not noticed, and perhaps with the remnant of my black eye the subtle movement was undetectable.
“I’ve been to her flat in Soho on more than one occasion, morning, noon, and night, and always the response to my knock is the same. There is none. The landlady has no knowledge of her whereabouts, and apparently she lives without servants.”
“How did he,” began Laura, “how was he killed?”
“By blunt trauma to the head.” The Inspector’s eyes remained on mine. “He was severely beaten. He was found outside, ahem, a house of ill repute in the East End—”
“How dare you!” Balfour interjected.
“He was dead before he hit the pavement, poor fellow. Whoever did it made a nasty job of it. This sort of thing happens all the time in those places. All it takes is a run in with the wrong sort of customer. But this one didn’t look like your garden variety mugging. Someone put a right bit of effort into this one”
Again the Inspector looked at me and then fixed his eyes upon my cane, only for a moment, but long enough for the implication to be sealed. He didn’t think that I could possibly have had anything to do with Noyes’ death! How could I?
But of course, the motivation was there. Did he know that Noyes had beaten me? I didn’t see how he could, but I was suddenly very frightened indeed. I hadn’t killed Noyes, and I was certain Lydia was not capable of such violence, but I would be a fool if I refused to believe that circumstantial evidence had caught both Lydia and me in its net. Now I also shared Balfour’s contempt for the young man, for young he was, and his direct and undisguised implication was an effrontery. Never mind that the man was only doing his job.
“Mr. Daugherty,” Balfour began slowly, for once choosing his words with care, “we are all discomforted by the news of Mr. Noyes’s unfortunate accident. As you can see, my sister is most distraught. But none of us have seen or heard from Lydia in some time, and until what time that we do, I am afraid there is nothing further for us to discuss.”
The Inspector dipped his head. “Of course, sir,” and producing a card from his waistcoat which he handed to Balfour, he said, “you will, if you see or hear from her, or have any knowledge of her whereabouts, not fail to contact me at once.”
“Of course,” Laura spoke on her brother’s behalf, for if I had had my fill of the fellow’s impertinence, I can’t imagine what thoughts ran through Balfour’s head. “We shall call if we receive any word.”
“Soames!” shouted Balfour and the man, apparently lingering just outside in the hall appeared in the room, “show Mr. Daugherty to the door.”
After he had gone we found that none of us had an appetite or desire to finish our meal.
“Dear Lord,” said Laura. “I hope he doesn’t think that Lydia was responsible for this atrocity. To think that she would be capable of such a thing is to think that I would be capable.”
“I assure you he thinks nothing of the sort,” I said. “But perhaps Lydia knows something that would be of help to the police. Perhaps Mr. Noyes had known colleagues who might have been with him at this…place. It may have been merely happenstance. Then again, it may not.”
The rest of the evening went poorly. Laura, not surprisingly, retired to her room with a headache. Balfour invited me to join him in his den where he proceeded to drink heavily, insisting that I match his pace.
Eventually he broke out a deck of cards, becoming insolent within a quarter hour when he realized I was no match for him. In my inebriated state I couldn’t possibly concentrate, let alone attempt to understand the rules to a game I was unfamiliar with.
“What do you think will happen?” I said by way of initiating conversation.
“About what?”
“About Lydia.”
“Why should I give a damn about Lydia?” he asked. “I prefer to live my life as though she never existed.”
I found this attitude alarming. She was, despite his feelings for her, his sister, and twin to Laura at that. Moreover, I could not imagine what she had done to make her siblings turn away from her. Was it merely her wanton use of men and drugs? It was shocking, yes, but was her life any more sordid than her brother’s? How little I knew of him. How little I knew of any of them.
“But do you think her capable of killing anyone?”
“Do you?”
I was so disarmed by the directness of his question, and my tongue so loose from liquor, that I answered it without thought.
“I don’t think she is.”
He grinned at me, like the Devil come happily to collect a soul. I will never forget that burning gleam in his eye when I saw that he had caught me.
“So you’ve met our sister, then? Tell me, did you enjoy fucking her?”
Warmth flooded my face. I could do nothing but stammer.
“Of course you did, because it was Laura you thought you were fucking. Don’t deny it, Dahl. You’re not the first man to lust after Laura, and the first thing they do when they realize they cannot have her is go after Lydia.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh? What was it like?”
“I love Laura.”
“You’re mad.”
“I do love her. Isn’t it obvious? And I’m certain she shares those feelings for me. I have treated her with dignity and respect—”
“—by fucking her sister—”
“Stop saying that!”
“Oh, forgive me. Have I offended your delicate sensibilities? We’ve been through this before, Laura and I, with men more pious than you. They get one look at Lydia, the way she walks, the way she talks, the way she wears her clothes, the words she chooses to tease and test them…she’s little better than a whore.”
My stomach lurched. “How can you say that about your own sister?”
“Because I know her. I’ve known her all my life. Because she is my sister, and nothing can sever that bond between us. Because I know her, and you do not.”
I couldn’t go on arguing with the man. I knew he was right but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it.
“Well,” I said, returning to my initial question, “do you?”
When he looked at me I saw two of him. I had to look away to keep from being sick. The room tilted beneath me.
“My sister is capable of anything.”
And then I was sick, purging up the filth he had filled me with over the past hour. I soiled my clothing and the carpet.
Balfour leapt to his feet. “Good God, man, what is the matter with you?”
I had no words left for him, only sickness.
In the morning I awoke, having slept in my clothes on top of my sheets, with the smell of vomit all about me. I felt vile. I could not believe I had behaved so badly when I was a guest in another man’s home, yet later, when the lingering illness began to pass, I reminded myself of whose home I was in, and despite the fact that I could have refused further drink at any point I chose, I had to consider the man himself.
Black Valentines Page 5