“I suppose it never occurred to you that I can provide a good home myself,” she countered. “I provide the food in your mouth and the clothes on your back. Does that not escape your attention?”
Augusta grunted. “It’s unseemly. You stalk the halls of the workhouse and teach children and speak to men staff as if they were your friends. I’ve no doubt as to why you don’t wish to find a husband. Your manners are too manly to attract any decent fellow. That’s the truth of it.”
Audrey clenched her fists as her temper began to rise. “Or the truth is you’re jealous of my accomplishments, and rather than say, ‘Well done, Audrey,’ you have to put me down. And if I’m so manly as you seem to say, then I will tell you this. You will go to Dr. Engle’s facility. You will participate in his medical trials, and you will stay there for at least a fortnight.”
Augusta turned away from her daughter and then turned back to face her with her eyes full of worry and fear. “But if I’m not here, Audrey, who will watch out for the shadow man?”
Audrey slammed her palm down upon the table next to her and stood up. Her temper exploded, and she began yelling at her mother. “There is no shadow man! Are you insane? Do you want your daughter upstairs to think that you are insane? What shadow man? What? Where is he? Tell me, Mother!”
Augusta looked at her daughter with large eyes. They both heard Frances call from up above to ask if everything was all right.
“It’s nothing, dearest. Go back to your room,” Audrey told her, and Frances complied after a moment. Her hands were shaking as she took her seat again. “I apologize, Mother. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
Augusta looked quietly at her daughter and then down at her lap. “If you really want me to participate in these trials, then I shall. I don’t wish to leave you, but you said two weeks, and that isn’t that long.”
Audrey touched her forehead. “No. It isn’t.”
“And you’ll—you’ll be careful?”
“I will be careful. And you’ve no need to worry about Frances.”
“Very well.” Augusta nodded, got up, and left the room.
Audrey closed her eyes as she heard her mother moving about upstairs. Her temper was on edge, and that should not have happened. She should not have yelled at her mother like that. She pulled her small purse towards her to take it upstairs, and she saw the peppermints inside. Marguerite!
She wanted to get out of the house and take in the crisp clean air. She picked up her purse and walked slowly back to the workhouse. From the path by the cottage, she passed several buildings, including the laundry, the bakery, and the stables.
In the evening light, the workhouse building looked like a huge, overpowering monstrosity. It was stately, yet cold, and the many windows reminded her of the Greek god Argus with the many eyes watching her as she moved about the grounds.
She stopped before Marguerite’s room and knocked sharply. Before a response came, she stepped inside.
There was an older inmate inside the room who had her back to the door. She was peeling off the flowers that Marguerite had placed on the walls and putting them in the waste bin. Marguerite was nowhere to be seen.
“Hello?” Audrey said sternly. “What on earth are you doing there?”
The woman turned around abruptly at the sound of Audrey’s voice, hand over her heart. “Oh, my goodness! You gave me such a fright!” she exclaimed.
“What are doing? Who gave you leave to come here and remove Ms. Shirley’s things? Stop that immediately,” Audrey told her.
The woman frowned. “I was told by Matron herself to come clean up this room.”
That made Audrey pause. “Matron sent you here? Why?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to get the room ready for whoever will next occupy it.”
“Whoever will occupy it next?” Audrey asked. “They’ve moved Marguerite? Where did they move her to?”
The woman frowned again. “Moved her? No one moved her. She died last night. In her sleep.”
Audrey’s stomach clenched in disbelief. “She died? Marguerite is dead?” Audrey sat upon the bed and shook her head, unable to believe it.
“You don’t look well, miss. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Audrey heard her moving about the room just as her eyes took in the objects about her. The biscuit tin. A scarf she must have brought with her. A comb. The waste bin filled with flowers. She picked one up and looked at it. A white gardenia. She could almost smell it.
“She died in her sleep?” Audrey asked the woman.
“Yes, miss. That’s what they said.” The woman handed her the glass of water, but Audrey set it on the table. She watched as the woman returned to the work of taking the pictures down.
She sat down on the bed and looked about the sparse space, feeling sad. The music hall theater actress had been reduced to this one little room with her flowers being tossed into the rubbish bin. She was about to stand up when she saw something peeking out from underneath the pillow. She glanced at the inmate once and thanked her for the water.
“That’s all right. It was a shock. I could tell.”
“It was,” Audrey agreed.
When the woman turned away again, she reached under the pillow and pulled out the diary she had read before. With trembling hands, she pushed it into her purse with the peppermints just as the woman turned back to her.
“I have to finish up here. So…” the woman said awkwardly.
“Of course. I’ll leave you to it. Thank you again,” she said and left the room.
Audrey waited until she had walked several steps away from the room before she stopped. Marguerite was dead! She had seemed fine. A little shaken up about Alistair’s death but that was natural. She felt for the diary in her purse and turned down the corridor until she reached the door to the courtyard. Under the gaslight outside in the courtyard, she pulled out the diary.
It was the same as she remembered. She found the last diary entry and reread it. It was the same as before.
Alistair is dead. He was coughing badly towards the end. Consumption? That’s what they want everyone to believe.
But as she turned the page, she realized with a start that it was no longer the last entry. When she read the last entry, a coldness swept through her. She looked up to see if anyone was watching her, but she was alone. When she glanced back at the words, she felt herself tremble.
They know that I know. It’s not a game. It’s real. I must be vigilant. I must be ever on the lookout. They killed Alistair. I’m next because I know. I know.
It was getting late, but Audrey caught a hansom cab and made the trip to Henry’s office. She remembered he had said he would be working late. She turned the knob on the door, letting herself into his office.
“Henry!” she called out to him, her voice more high-pitched than normal.
“Audrey? What brings you here at this time of night?” he asked, coming forward to greet her.
She looked across at the mantle clock and saw it was just after nine in the evening. “I didn’t realize the time. It’s late.”
He came to stand before her. “Do you want a cup of tea? I can make you one. I suspect you need it.”
“Thank you.”
Henry busied himself in preparing tea for them both and entered the room carrying a tray with two cups and saucers. Henry set the tray on the desk between them, and they each took a cup.
“Sugar? Cream?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head, wanting to taste the bitter brown brew.
“I have some biscuits somewhere around here. Would you like some?”
“Yes. Please.”
He rummaged in the front room and came back carrying a tin of Huntley & Palmers biscuits. “Here we are. Perfect with tea,” he said and sat back in his chair with a cup in hand, eyeing Audrey.
She bit her lip, suddenly realizing how rude she was barging in without any notice. “I’m keeping you from your work.”
&nbs
p; “You are,” he agreed, but a hint of smile was on his lips.
“I wanted to speak with you,” she said, her tone serious.
“Is everything all right with your mother?”
“No. We had a row. It’s not the first time. I think the farther removed we are from our old life, the more she resents it and me. I think I’m the focal point of her anger,” Audrey mused.
Henry sipped his tea. “You must not take it to heart, Audrey. She’s not making the transition well.”
Audrey fiddled with her cup. “I know. I was quite harsh with her. I didn’t ask her opinion, but it’s done. She’ll go see the doctor.”
“She agreed?”
Audrey closed her eyes. “She had no choice.”
Audrey felt tears in the back of her eyes and willed them not to fall. She placed the cup and saucer on the desk and tried to smile.
Henry’s features took on a look of concern. “Audrey, what troubles you? Tell me. It’s not just your mother.”
Audrey looked about the office. It was dark except for the gas lamp on his desk. The rest of the office was filled with darkness and shadows. She thought of the shadow man her mother talked about and shuddered. “Did you ever meet Marguerite Shirley in the workhouse? She’s quite a character.”
“Marguerite Shirley?” Henry said aloud. “Was she the old bird who used to be on stage?”
“That’s her. She’s been at the workhouse for years. She was even given her own room due to her circumstances.”
“I remember her now.”
“I used to visit her from time to time.” Audrey’s heart ached at the memories. “We’d chat, and she’d tell me of her life in the music hall. She was so vivacious. She was a breath of spring in that old building.”
“She must be.”
“I brought her some peppermints. I wanted to do something nice for her after she lost her friend.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Audrey took a deep breath. “Henry, she’s dead. She died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You liked her very much.” He sounded sincere.
“I did.” She looked down at her hands and then across the desk at Henry’s hands. He had strong hands. Capable hands. She liked the look of them. Graceful. Manly. She looked up into his face. “I want to show you something. Can you make me a promise before I show it to you?”
He held her gaze. “Name your promise.”
“Can you keep an open mind? Don’t jump to any conclusions. Just read it and then tell me your thoughts. As if you had no connection to the workhouse. Can you do that for me?”
“You intrigue me. I will keep an open mind.”
She pulled out the diary. “I found this before she died it and read it. I didn’t know what to think of it, and I still don’t. I would like your thoughts.”
“Very well.”
She handed him the slim volume, and he pulled the gas lamp closer to him as he took his cup and saucer in hand and took a sip. She watched his hands as he flipped through the pages of the diary. He passed by the numbers and initials and said nothing.
Audrey watched him as he read the words, but no emotions crossed his face. She heard the ticking of the mantel clock and the gas lamp burning next to him, but no other sounds could be heard.
As the writings began, he seemed to take his time, and she watched and waited. Finally, after an eternity, he looked up. “Where did you find this diary?”
“In her room.”
He flipped through the rest of the diary, but it was blank. He closed the book and handed it back to her. “What do you think it means?”
“I would like to hear your thoughts,” Audrey returned.
Henry took another sip of his tea and met her eyes. “It could be the ravings of an old woman.”
“It could be,” she said, purposefully vague.
“What do you make of the initials and numbers in the beginning?” he asked. She was about to speak when he continued. “I know. You’d like to know my thoughts.”
“Yes.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Well, if I’m perfectly honest, I don’t know what to make of the beginning. Numbers and initials.”
“I had an idea about that part,” Audrey offered.
“Tell me.”
“I thought maybe the numbers were money and the initials were people. Perhaps she owed money or was owed.”
“That’s possible,” he agreed.
“But the rest…”
“She was afraid of something,” he agreed. “She locked her door at night. They killed Alistair. She thinks she’s next.”
“Exactly,” Audrey agreed. “But Alistair died of consumption. I’m sure of it, Henry.”
“Why are you sure of it?” Henry asked.
“Because my father died of consumption and the coughing used to hound me. I would have nightmares of coughing. When I met Alistair, it was the same. That hacking cough.” She would never forget the sound coming from her father.
“Hmmm. But let’s look at this logically.” Henry leaned forward. “Alistair was an inmate in the workhouse. He probably had no money and very little to his name. Maybe a few books and some clothes he came in with. So, if someone did kill him, why? What’s the motive?”
Audrey bit her lip. “I know. I thought the same when I read it. A harmless old man. Who would want to kill him?”
Chapter Eighteen
Henry was quiet for several seconds and then said, “Unless he wasn’t harmless.”
She frowned. “Wasn’t harmless?”
“Yes. If Alistair was killed and he had no worldly possessions, then there must be another motive for his murder. If it was murder.”
Audrey shivered suddenly. “What could be the motive? It makes no sense. He worked backstage at the theater. I can’t imagine him doing anything that would make someone want to kill him. And let’s say for the sake of saying it, he was killed. What about Marguerite? In the diary, she said they killed Alistair. That she was next. What did she do that prompted her murder?”
Henry shrugged. “At this point, we’re guessing. We may never know anything for sure. And it could be that Marguerite, who lived the life of an actress, was performing once more but this time in the form of a diary.”
“You mean she was making it up.”
“It’s one theory, among many.”
“Yes.” Audrey looked down at the diary she held in her hands. “It is a theory among many.” Henry took another sip from his tea before replacing the cup in its saucer, and Audrey realized she probably needed to go. “I’ve interrupted your work for some nonsense. I should leave you to it.”
“I was going to take a break anyways. I’ve been working since we parted earlier.”
“Thank you for being so obliging. I should return home,” Audrey said, standing.
“If I can be of any further assistance,” he offered, “find me.”
“Thank you.”
After Henry had secured a cab for Audrey, he returned inside to his office. He turned up the gas lantern a bit and worked another hour into the night. He could hear the sounds of the night outside. The horses’ hooves on the stones. The boy calling out to passersby, selling the evening paper. The familiar sounds comforted him.
He tried to concentrate on his work, but his mind kept replaying the conversation with Audrey and the strange diary she had found. He was a fan of puzzles, and the numbers and initials Marguerite had written intrigued him. What did they mean? He sat back in his chair, thinking again of the first pages. It had not been difficult to commit to memory. It was a single number followed by initials. They must have been important or else why bother to write them down?
Audrey’s theory seemed plausible enough. The numbers represented money that was owed and the initials were the people who owed it. But inside the workhouse, money was one thing most inmates had little of. If anything, it was the reason they were there. Lack of funds. That Marguerite might be some sort of lending bank made little sense. Sh
e didn’t have that kind of cash.
Marguerite had been one of the longest inmates at the workhouse, and money was something she simply didn’t have. He shook his head. It made such little sense. He pulled another sheet of paper close to him and continued his work.
Audrey paid the cab driver and began the long walk from the main entrance of the workhouse to the cottage at the far back of the property. Her mind churned. Marguerite was dead. She had liked the old woman and had enjoyed hearing her stories of the music hall days with her many admirers.
She had felt a bit of a kindred spirit with Marguerite, as they had both been stuck in a place out of necessity and both had made the best of their situation. Even though Audrey needed the workhouse as a place to keep her family safe, she wasn’t exactly thrilled with it. Despite whatever her mother might think.
She sighed as she felt the chill in the air. It must be past ten at night.
She had shown the diary to Henry in the hopes of getting his opinion, but he had not had any ideas. Whatever her own guesses were, they might never know the truth. Mad ravings, money owed. She shook her head. None of it made sense. What exactly was Marguerite really writing about?
Audrey thought again of the words in the diary. I see what no one else sees. Things are not what they seem. He died of consumption and that’s what they want everyone to believe. They know that I know.
Of all the words written in the diary, those interested her the most. They know that I know. Who were the “they” Marguerite kept writing about and what did she know? It was possible that there was a group of inmates causing trouble. That made the most sense. Many inmates inside the workhouse had nothing to do but provide the labour they worked for. Some of the labour could be hard and intense, and to pass the time, maybe a group had started problems.
If so, perhaps Marguerite had found out what they were up to. But why kill Alistair and then Marguerite? What had they done that warranted their deaths? Audrey shook her head. It made no sense. It was a puzzle to be solved, and at this moment, it was gibberish.
Among the Darkness Stirs Page 19