Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Lizzie Rose looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Of course I won’t. I’m not a telltale. Anyway, Grisini would whip you too hard.” Her eyes flashed; for a brief moment she envisioned herself defending him from a furious Grisini. On the heels of that thought came another. “Parse —”

  “Wot?”

  “Today — I was talking to Mrs. Pinchbeck and she said there was a child that was kidnapped years ago. It was in Brighton. She said the coppers came after Grisini then, too.”

  Parsefall put one finger over her lips. He shook his head emphatically and pointed in the direction of Grisini’s bedroom.

  Both children listened. Grisini’s snores were regular and even. “He’s asleep,” whispered Lizzie Rose.

  Parsefall’s answer was almost inaudible. “What if he ain’t?”

  “Parsefall, do you know —?”

  “Shhh.” Parsefall was gathering up the blankets. He layered one over the other, making a tent over their heads. Ruby, who was not the sort of dog who tolerated being shut out, clawed at the tent and made piteous noises. Parsefall muttered, “Bloody ’orrible dog,” raised one corner of the blanket, and let her in.

  “Grisini don’t like it talked about. It wozn’t Brighton; it woz Leeds.” He counted on his fingers. “Four years ago.”

  Lizzie Rose protested, “Mrs. Pinchbeck said it was eleven years —”

  “No. I remember it. It was winter, and there was snow. We woz in Leeds, but we couldn’t do the shows, ’cos it woz too cold and we woz ’ard up. Then that girl went missin’. She was a rich man’s daughter. The coppers came and questioned Grisini. There was talk of locking ’im up. But then the little girl come ’ome safe and sound. After that, Grisini ’ad money again, so we come to London and lived with Mrs. Pinchbeck.”

  “But that’s two children,” Lizzie Rose whispered. “A boy in Brighton, eleven or twelve years ago, and the little girl in Leeds. Parsefall, what does it mean?”

  His breath was hot and sour inside the tent. “Dunno. Only Grisini don’t like it talked about.”

  Lizzie Rose leaned closer to whisper directly into his ear. “We ought to tell the coppers.”

  Parsefall grabbed her wrist and squeezed it warningly. “We can’t tell the coppers,” he hissed. “There ain’t nuffink to tell. We don’t know nuffink.”

  “We know that Grisini knew two other children who disappeared. It must mean something,” hissed Lizzie Rose. “Perhaps the coppers could find out what it is. It might help them find Clara!”

  “Grisini would kill us,” Parsefall said desperately. He dug his fingernails into her hand. “If we peached on him, he’d kill us. You don’t know ’im the way I do.” He heard his voice rise and lowered it again. “Promise me you won’t go to the coppers.”

  Lizzie Rose gave a little shiver. She wasn’t promising anything.

  Five nights after Clara’s disappearance, Constable Hawkins left the police station and headed home.

  He walked rapidly but remained alert. The night was misty, and he knew how many people lost their way in the city’s fogs; he had seen the bodies of men struck down by carriages and trampled by horses; he had examined the corpses of drowned Londoners who had fallen into the Thames. He made his way from streetlamp to streetlamp, keeping count of the cross streets as carefully as if he were blind.

  The fog curdled and thinned. A nearby church tolled quarter past ten. A dog barked shrilly. All the sounds of the night — the clop of hooves, the grinding of iron-shod wheels on stone — were distorted by the moisture in the air. For a moment he thought he heard someone call his name.

  A hand reached through the fog. “Sir —”

  The constable halted, pressing his arms to his sides to protect himself from pickpockets. He felt a surge of impatience. His wife was keeping supper for him, and he was hungry. He said gruffly, “What is it?”

  The fog receded, and he caught sight of the person who had touched his sleeve. A tall child with red hair, surrounded by innumerable dogs.

  “Please, sir — it’s Constable Hawkins, isn’t it?”

  The child spoke prettily, with just a trace of Welsh accent. All at once the constable knew who she was. “Why, it’s David Fawr’s little girl!” he exclaimed. His face softened. “What are you doing out so late, miss?”

  Lizzie Rose dodged the question. “It’s good of you to remember me, sir. I was wondering”— she stuck her foot in front of Punch, who was trying to mount Ruby —“if you’d heard any news of Miss Wintermute. The young lady who was lost. I wondered if she’d come home.”

  The constable’s smile faded. The last week had not been an easy one. Dr. Wintermute was a wealthy and important man. He had contacted the Home Secretary, who had made it clear to the police force that Clara Wintermute must be found soon and found alive.

  “She has not,” he said shortly.

  Lizzie Rose’s face fell. She looked down at the leashes in her hand. She hesitated, and the constable took a step closer. “Here, now, Miss Fawr! Is there something you want to tell me?”

  Lizzie Rose met his eyes for a moment and then looked away. He took her arm and half led, half pulled her to the nearest streetlight. He stooped a little to peer into her face.

  She looked tidier than she had the last time they met, though her efforts at sprucing herself up were rather sad. Her bonnet strings were new, and she wore a matching ribbon around her collar. The feathers on her bonnet were waterlogged, and her coat was threadbare.

  “You followed me from the police station, didn’t you?”

  “No, sir,” said Lizzie Rose. “That is to say — not exactly. I had to walk the dogs, you see, sir.” She averted her eyes, looking to the dogs for distraction. Pomeroy squatted and relieved himself heartily. Lizzie Rose, wincing a little, retreated to the utmost length of the leash. The constable kept pace with her. He spoke almost coaxingly.

  “Now, listen to me, Miss Fawr! If you’ve something to tell me, I want to hear it. It don’t matter what it is — I won’t be cross. Just you open your mouth and let it out.”

  Lizzie Rose raised imploring eyes to his face. “‘If it were done,’” she quoted, “‘then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ That’s from one of Father’s plays, and it’s true. If there’s something I don’t want to do — cleaning up after the dogs or clearing out the larder — it’s better to do it as fast as ever I can. So I thought I’d tell you that Professor Grisini — oh, it sounds like nonsense! — but there were other times when children disappeared, and he was there.” She took a quick breath. “Mrs. Pinchbeck told me Grisini was in Brighton eleven or twelve years ago, when a little boy ran away from home. And then Parsefall said there was a little girl who vanished — only that happened four years ago, in Leeds. And both times, the coppers — I mean, the policemen — questioned Grisini. They must have thought he had something to do with it. But in the end, the children came home again, so perhaps it doesn’t mean anything, and I shouldn’t trouble you. But I thought it was queer, sir.” She gulped. “And I thought perhaps I should tell you.”

  Constable Hawkins said slowly, “And you thought right, Miss Fawr.” He fell silent, digesting what she had told him. Grisini, with his foreignness and flamboyance, had made a bad impression from the first. During the last few days, Constable Hawkins had questioned the inhabitants of Chester Square and had found them above suspicion. The Wintermute servants appeared blameless. His thoughts had come to rest on Grisini more and more, if only because he had no one else to suspect. “Perhaps we ought to search the house again.”

  The girl took in her breath. “Oh, but she isn’t in the house! We’d know — Parsefall and I. And the dogs would know. If she was kidnapped, she’d have to be somewhere else. So I thought I ought to tell you that after the puppet show on Clara’s birthday, Grisini didn’t walk all the way home with us. We — Parsefall and Grisini and me — dragged the caravan as far as Wellington Square, and then Grisini gave us sixpence and told us to go the rest of the way by ourselves. That wasn’t
like him. The caravan’s too heavy for just Parsefall and me — and Grisini doesn’t hand over sixpence for nothing.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, sir, but then, he wouldn’t.” Lizzie Rose wrapped the dog leashes around her hand. “Mr. Grisini doesn’t explain himself, not to us. He tells us what to do, and we do it. But I can’t help wondering if he was looking for a place to hide someone. If he were a kidnapper, I mean. He’d need someplace to keep Clara hidden — a stable, or an empty house, perhaps.”

  The constable considered this. The girl’s theory was far-fetched, but it was not incredible. There were plenty of half-wrecked houses in Chelsea where Clara Wintermute might be hidden. It might make sense to search them — and to have Professor Grisini watched and followed.

  He dug in his coat pocket. “I said I’d give you half a crown —”

  It was a mistake. Lizzie Rose raised her chin and reproached him with her eyes. “No, thank you, sir. That isn’t what I came for.” She gave the leashes a jerk, gathering the dogs into a pack. “Good evening, sir.” And by the time the constable had found the appropriate coin, she had gone, her dignity hampered but not overcome by her retinue of unmanageable dogs.

  Eight nights after his daughter’s kidnapping, Dr. Wintermute sat inside the family mausoleum, waiting to pay Clara’s ransom.

  From the outside, the mausoleum looked like a small Gothic church. Inside, it was cramped, dark, and bitterly cold. Narrow shelves for coffins lined three of the four walls. Dr. Wintermute sat on the center platform, which had been erected for himself and his wife. One day, they would lie together in peace, surrounded by the children they had lost. Four of his children were already entombed here; whenever he turned his head, he saw the caskets that held their mortal remains. Dr. Wintermute thought of how Clara had dreaded visiting this place, and he set his jaw. If Clara came back to him alive, he would see to it that she was never forced to come here again.

  He had received an anonymous letter three days ago. The writer had instructed him to go to Kensal Green Cemetery on the fourteenth of November. Dr. Wintermute was to hide himself in the family vault until dark, when the cemetery gates were locked. At midnight, he was to go to the road overlooking the Grand Junction Canal and listen for the sound of someone striking the brick wall with a stone. That sound would lead him to the proper place to cast the ransom money over the twelve-foot wall.

  For the hundredth time, the doctor raised his hand to his breast pocket, checking to make sure that the packet of money was still there. Ten thousand pounds. It had not been easy to raise so large a sum without attracting the notice of the police. Dr. Wintermute could only pray that he had been successful and that no police officer had followed him to Kensal Green. The kidnapper had warned him that any attempt to consult the police would be punished by Clara’s death.

  Clara’s father was no fool. He understood that the arrangements gave every advantage to the kidnapper. Until the next morning, Dr. Wintermute could not leave the cemetery. He would not catch so much of a glimpse of his daughter’s captor; he had only the kidnapper’s word that Clara would be released after the ransom was paid. Nevertheless, he had determined to follow the instructions in the letter. It had come with a spiral of glossy hair: one of Clara’s ringlets. The sight of that curl had robbed Dr. Wintermute of his last shred of common sense. He could think of one thing only: if there were any chance that Clara could be set free, the ransom must be paid.

  A light glanced off the stained-glass window. One of the night watchmen was passing. Dr. Wintermute’s lips moved. Silently he counted to five hundred, allowing the man time to go away. Then he struck a match and glanced at his watch. Six forty-nine. He blew out the flame.

  The time passed with infinite slowness. Thirty-four minutes past seven. Seven minutes past eight. He would leave the vault at quarter to twelve. It was a five-minute walk, no more, but he must not be late.

  He thought of his wife back in Chester Square. Ada shared his vigil. He could almost see her: silent, prayerful, with every muscle rigid and her eyes fixed on the clock. Her anguish over Clara’s disappearance had been so great that he had feared for her reason. Then the letter arrived. The dazzling, improbable hope that Clara might be ransomed had changed Ada into a woman he had never seen. Her eyes were tearless; she was charged with energy and decision. There was only one thing to do, she stated: get the money and pay the ransom.

  Dr. Wintermute agreed. He had assured the inspector that if he received a ransom letter, he would contact the police. Now he broke his word, sacrificing his honor. He believed the kidnapper’s threat. He dared not risk Clara’s life.

  His mouth twisted. Only a week ago, he had thought how little he knew his daughter. Now he seemed to know her through and through. Trifles came back to haunt him. He remembered the slippers Clara embroidered for him, and her frown of concentration on those rare occasions when he found time to play chess with her. He remembered the way she crept through the house on tiptoe when Ada had one of her headaches.

  He searched for a happier memory. As a tiny child, he recalled, she was boisterous and robust, a juggernaut of a little girl. Agnes, the nursery maid, had complained of her naughtiness. “Miss Clara’s as noisy and bold as her brother, Dr. Wintermute, sir. It’s a fine thing for a boy to have spirit, but a little girl ought to be more quiet-like.” It was not long after that Clara became quiet. The deaths of her brothers and sisters had silenced her.

  He thought of her face on the night she disappeared: her swollen eyelids and the eyes that pierced him like a lance. He had feared then that she guessed his terrible secret, and the thought returned now to torment him. Had she known that in his heart, she must always be second to Charles Augustus? It had been true, but it was true no longer. If she came back to him, he would find a way to tell her so; he would clasp her tightly and tell her over and over how much he loved her.

  He reached to make sure that the ten thousand pounds was still in his pocket. Clutching the money through his coat, he longed for his daughter and tried not to weep.

  The witch dreamed that she was lying on her funeral pyre. Veils of white-hot fire surrounded her, and the brass monkey capered in the smoke. He gibbered and bared his teeth at her. Cassandra moaned. The fire opal on her breast was so heavy that she couldn’t draw breath.

  She opened her eyes. The flames around her bed trembled, changing from fire to brocade. The curtains of the bed were drawn aside. Grisini stood before her.

  He was young again, and somehow she was young, too. He wore an embroidered doublet, like a prince in a fairy tale, and his eyes were tender, his smile dazzling. He stooped as if to kiss her mouth, but what he did was sweeter still. With infinite care he slid his fingers under the phoenix-stone, lifting the burden from her heart.

  Cassandra cried out. Tears of relief spilled down her cheeks.

  Grisini removed the stone from its cage of golden wires. He turned and passed it to the children who had gathered around her bedside. Cassandra croaked his name: “Gaspare.”

  The mantel clock chimed half past eight. Cassandra’s eyelids opened. This time she was fully awake: alone, decrepit, and in pain. The fire opal weighed upon her heart. Grisini was no fairy-tale prince but the man she hated above all others.

  She sat up wearily. Why must she dream of Grisini? And if she must dream of him, why did she dream of him as her rescuer instead of her mortal enemy? She stared into space, pondering the question. Then she flung back the bedclothes and slid out of bed. She hobbled to her dressing table, opened the drawer, and took out an iron key.

  It had been days since she left her bedchamber, and months since she entered the Tower Room, which was her stronghold. Cassandra had built Strachan’s Ghyll around the ancient tower, discarding the architect’s warning that the structure was on the verge of collapse. She had cast her most elaborate spells from the Tower Room. It was her fortress and her laboratory.

  She unlocked the tower door and bolted it behind her. Fumbling a
little, she struck a match and circled the room, lighting the candles in the wall sconces. Panels of black lacquer and mirror glass hung from the walls, multiplying the light from every flame. Cassandra set the last taper in the wall bracket and crossed to the cabinet opposite the door. From it she took a crystal globe as large as a child’s head. She set the crystal on the table and dropped into a chair, peering into the depths of the globe.

  At first there was nothing to see, only a splotch of dim white — the reflection of her nightdress — and a constellation of tiny flames. Cassandra yawned. She had never been gifted at crystal gazing, and before five minutes had passed, she had given up the struggle to concentrate. Her eyelids drooped. Then her head jerked upward and her eyes grew wide. A mist was rising inside the glass globe.

  Inside the mist was a city — not Venice, with its soft colors and shimmering water, but London, with its lead-gray fogs; and in London, Grisini — not the enchanted prince of her dreams, but Grisini as he might be now: cadaverous, seedy, and no longer young. Beside him were three small and shadowy figures. Cassandra clicked her tongue in frustration. She could not understand what the children were doing there. But the crystal, unlike her sleeping mind, did not lie. If the crystal foretold the future, the mysterious children had some role to play in her life — and so did Grisini. Always she came back to Grisini, with his claim to secret knowledge, his damnable unless.

  Cassandra shoved her chair back. She was too weary to think anymore. She heaved herself onto her feet — and stepped back.

  The mirrors around her were alive. Each mirror held a wraith of a woman, burning. The sheets of glass reflected the image over and over again, like colored beads in a kaleidoscope. Cassandra lifted her hands to cover her eyes. The women lifted their arms with her. Each pair of blazing hands moved in rhythm with her hands. Each tortured face was her own — and as she recoiled from them, she smelled smoke.