Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Clara said wonderingly, “I’m hungry. I’d almost forgotten what that was like. Puppets don’t get hungry.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Lizzie Rose said in a low voice. “Parsefall said you were a puppet — and I saw you — I knew it was you — but there were times when I couldn’t believe it. How can a person be a puppet? And how did you change back again?”

  “It was the stone,” Clara answered. “The witch cast a spell on me, so that I could come back to life. Only in order for the spell to work, I had to be willing to steal the fire opal. And I was afraid to steal it, because it’s evil. Then tonight — when Parsefall —” She left the sentence unfinished. “I had to steal the stone, because I was afraid Parsefall would steal it —”

  “I would’ve stole it,” broke in Parsefall. “I woz going to use it to torture Grisini.” He pointed at Lizzie Rose. “Only, she wouldn’t let me —”

  Lizzie Rose took up the thread. “I held on to him —”

  “Then we ’eard you screaming like a stuck pig —”

  “And we followed you down to the lake —”

  “And both of you saved my life,” Clara said softly, finishing the story. She did not elaborate but gazed into Parsefall’s eyes. He reddened and smirked, ducking his head.

  “He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Lizzie Rose said proudly. She cupped her hand over Parsefall’s toes. “That’s better. You’re almost warm.”

  Parsefall disagreed. “Almost ain’t warm.”

  Somewhere upstairs a door slammed. There was a high-pitched sound, like the mournful cry of the wind. Lizzie Rose lifted her head. “That must be Ruby. I never heard her howl before.” She leaped to her feet. “I’d better see what’s wrong.”

  She hastened out of the room, almost running. Clara and Parsefall followed at her heels, up two long flights of stairs and down the passage. Just outside Madama’s room, they saw the triangular shape of the sitting dog. Ruby tipped back her head and howled again.

  “Why’s she ’owling?” demanded Parsefall. He sounded cross: a sign that he was frightened.

  Lizzie Rose felt her skin prickle with goose flesh. She recalled a ghost story her father once told her, a deliciously frightening story that she now wished she hadn’t heard. “They say when someone dies —”

  She stopped, but too late. Clara was as white as her frock.

  “I killed her,” gasped Clara. “I took the fire opal, and it killed her.”

  She looked as if she might faint. Lizzie Rose put an arm around her. But Parsefall said crossly, “No, you didn’t. Listen to ’er.”

  He was right. Beyond the doors, someone was sobbing bitterly. “Of course,” Lizzie Rose said, relieved. “That’s why Ruby’s howling. She always has to be with anyone who’s miserable.” She opened the double doors and let the dog into the witch’s room.

  Ruby bounded over the carpet and leaped onto the bed. Cassandra Sagredo caught her to her breast, squeezing so tightly that the animal yelped.

  The children stared. The witch was as red faced as a newborn child. She sat on a stripped bed; the bedclothes lay in heaps on the carpet. “Fettle took the dog away,” she wailed. Her voice was ragged from sobbing. “She took her. I hate Fettle. I wet the bed. So I wanted Fettle to put dry sheets on it, but she made a prim face at me, and I slapped her and told to get out. And then she took the dog.” She pressed her face against Ruby’s coat. “The dog was the only good thing. The only good thing.”

  The three children looked away, embarrassed. The old woman’s nightdress had risen to her knees, showing her mottled legs. Cassandra fastened her eyes on Clara. “It’s gone, isn’t it? You broke it.”

  “Yes, it’s gone.” Clara clasped her hands, her fingers curved as if she were holding a ball. “I took it to the lake, and it cracked into little pieces. It’s gone.”

  Cassandra pointed at the looking glass. “The other witch is gone, too. Look! She’s not there anymore.” She spoke so commandingly that all three children faced the mirror.

  There was nothing to see. The glass reflected nothing but their faces and the objects in the room. Lizzie Rose sniffed cautiously. The hot-wire smell was gone.

  “She’s gone,” Cassandra said hoarsely. “And the fire opal is broken. It was my power — and my beauty — and you killed it.” She glared through her tears at Clara. “It was all I had. And yet it gave me no happiness, none at all.” All at once a look of naked fury distorted her features. She released the dog, curled her hands into fists, and struck at the mattress so violently that Ruby leaped off the bed.

  “It was a sham!” she shrieked. “It was all a sham — a cheat and a torment! I could make people do what I wanted — I could see into their very souls — but it gave me no joy — not one moment’s happiness! None of it — none of it — was any g —”

  She stopped in mid-word. Her eyes blazed. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me.”

  Parsefall began “The tower’s fallen —”

  “I know that,” snapped Cassandra. “I heard it fall. It’s been rotten for years. What’s the other thing?”

  Lizzie Rose closed her eyes for a moment. Tentatively she said, “Mr. Grisini —”

  “He’s dead,” concluded Parsefall. “’E drownded in the lake.”

  Cassandra threw back her head and laughed. All at once she looked years younger, and she chortled like a spiteful young girl. “I’m glad. I’m glad he’s dead! God grant he burns in hell!” She inhaled so sharply that the breath sang at the back of her throat. “I was forty-six when I met Grisini. Forty-six, a fine age for a woman to make a fool of herself. And he was twenty-three! Twenty-three! Imagine what a fool — to think that he could love me! He couldn’t love anyone — and no one could ever love me, ever —” She dragged her wrist under her nose. “All the others — the men in the cabinet — I enchanted them. But then Grisini came along, and I thought — I believed! But it was my magic he desired, not my love. He stole the fire opal — but I took it back. Oh! How I punished him! I made him bleed, I did, I did! I was the stronger one. I could make men do what I wished; he could only jerk the strings of puppets!” She glowered at Clara. “He changed you — but that wasn’t my fault. And you.” Her face changed as she looked at Parsefall; for a brief moment, her eyes were profoundly sad. “He took your finger. I wouldn’t have done that. He was worse than me.”

  Then all trace of sadness vanished. She laughed aloud and threw up her hands. “Ah, but he was handsome when he was twenty-three! That young, young face — all sharp angles, and that queer cruel smile — and the graceful way he bowed and kissed my hand! I was a fool, but it’s all right now, because I can enjoy him being dead.” She sniffed violently. “But my head hurts. Why didn’t Fettle brush out my hair? I can’t undo the pin, and it frets me! No, I remember; I threw the hairbrush at her. And later on I slapped her and told her to get out, and she took away the dog. And now she’ll go away — all my servants will leave, now that my power is broken.” Her face was sober. “I shan’t have anyone to wait on me. I shall die all alone. I’ll die. I didn’t think I would have to — not really.”

  She raised her arms, fumbling with the pin in her hair. The snarl of hair around it defeated her, and after a moment, she let her hands fall and began to cry again. Lizzie Rose stooped by the bed and started to gather up the blankets. The witch’s head came up sharply.

  “Don’t you pity me,” she said, “Little milk-and-water miss! Little Goody Two-Shoes! I won’t have you staring at me — I don’t want you. The three of you have taken everything, and told me my last love is dead — and I won’t have you watching me die — get out, get out!”

  Parsefall was already at the door. Clara shadowed him, and Lizzie Rose laid down the bedclothes and prepared to follow. But Ruby shot forward and leaped onto the bed, sniffing and licking the old woman’s face. Cassandra wailed, stopping only to gasp for breath.

  Lizzie Rose said, “She’s crying.” It was not a thing that required poin
ting out. The two other children looked at Lizzie Rose with wonder. Nevertheless, Lizzie Rose repeated the words. “She’s crying.”

  “She’s wicked,” Parsefall countered. He thought a moment. “She ain’t as wicked as Grisini,” he said, conceding a point.

  “Grisini’s dead,” Clara reminded him.

  Lizzie Rose bent down and gathered up the blankets, beginning to tuck them around the weeping woman. After a second, Clara went to the other side of the bed and helped her.

  “Just ’cos she’s crying don’t mean she ain’t wicked,” Parsefall said. He drew up the stool from the dressing table and straddled it.

  Lizzie Rose sat sideways on the bed. Gently she finger-combed the old woman’s hair, loosening the knot that trapped the jeweled pin.

  On the afternoon before Grisini’s death, Dr. Wintermute sat in his library with a medical journal in his lap. He spent half an hour reading the first page of an article, only to realize that he had understood nothing. He fell into a sort of gloomy daydream and did not hear the opening of the library door. The voice of his butler made him jump.

  “Sir, there is a person who wishes to speak to you.”

  Dr. Wintermute lifted his head. His usual patients were not persons, but ladies and gentlemen. “Did the person give a name?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Bartlett. “She says her name is Mrs. Pinchbeck.” He sounded dubious. “I told her you were not to be disturbed, but she assured me you would wish to see her.”

  Dr. Wintermute laid aside the medical journal and stood up. His heart was pounding. “She is quite right. Please show her in.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “It will not be necessary to inform Mrs. Wintermute that we have a caller.”

  “No, sir,” agreed Bartlett. His tone of voice was neutral, but Dr. Wintermute fancied he saw a flash of sympathy in his butler’s eyes.

  Left alone, Dr. Wintermute tried to prepare himself for what Mrs. Pinchbeck might say. He had asked her to call on him if she discovered any clue as to Clara’s whereabouts. Desperately, he tried not to hope. Mrs. Pinchbeck was not respectable, and she undoubtedly drank; when he last saw her, he had rashly given her a sovereign. No doubt she had come for more money. He resolved to weigh her words carefully and keep his head, but he felt his stomach churn with excitement.

  He had not long to wait. Mrs. Pinchbeck swept past the butler and paused in the center of the room. She stood with her head up and her shoulders flung back, as if she were about to take a curtain call. The pose allowed Dr. Wintermute an opportunity to take in the details of her dress.

  He felt a hysterical urge to laugh. The first time he had seen the woman, she had received him in a soiled wrapper and curl papers. Now she had taken pains with her appearance, and the effect was electrifying. She wore a pansy-yellow gown, suitable for a girl of sixteen, and a short jacket that would not button over her bosom. Both garments were much ornamented with cheap trimming. Dr. Wintermute beheld Mrs. Pinchbeck befeathered, beribboned, crinolined, corseted, frizzled, and festooned, though not washed. With some effort, he maintained a grave face. “Please be seated, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Pinchbeck chose a soft chair before the fire. “That man of yours tried to tell me you wasn’t at ’ome. Spoke to me as if I was common, but I said he’d better show me in. I told ’im as how you gave me a sovereign last time, and if you gave me a sovereign when I ’adn’t anything to tell you, you’ll be bound to see me when I ’ave.” She held up her hand. “Here, now! I didn’t say I know where your daughter is, because I don’t. On the other ’and, the last time we met, you was asking me about little Lizzie Rose. What I brought might lead straight to her. Or even Mr. Grisini, if it comes to that.”

  Dr. Wintermute slipped his hand into his pocket. Mrs. Pinchbeck drew herself up, tossing her head like a horse refusing the bridle. “Ah, sir, you insult me! Don’t think I come in search of sovereigns! No! If I knew where your daughter was, I would tell you and never take a shilling! Nor even a farthing! Not if I was starving! I may be a poor woman, sir, but I am not without heart!” She heaved herself to her feet, gazed rapturously toward the far side of the room, and laid one hand over her swelling bosom.

  Dr. Wintermute blinked. He had not attended the theatre for many years and did not realize that he was looking at a Picture. He said apologetically, “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Please be seated.”

  Mrs. Pinchbeck sat. She looked a little cross. Dr. Wintermute saw that he had somehow fallen short of what she might have expected of him.

  “You had something to tell me,” Dr. Wintermute prompted her.

  “I do, sir.” Mrs. Pinchbeck reached into her bosom and drew out a rectangle of crumpled paper. “You said if I was to find out anything about Lizzie Rose or the boy, I was to tell you, and you’d give me another sovereign. Which isn’t why I come, sir, but it was what you said.”

  Dr. Wintermute held out his hand. It took all his self-control not to snatch the paper away from her. “You have a letter —?”

  “Not a letter, sir. A n’envelope. Addressed to Gaspare Grisini.” She smoothed it out, turning it so that he could read the letters. “From a place called Strachan’s Ghyll, Windermere, up north. I didn’t think anything of it when I first saw it. I wasn’t feeling meself, and I was looking for the — the medicine bottle, sir, and I saw that one of the dogs ’ad been naughty under the sofa, so I took up one of Lizzie Rose’s old aprons to wipe up the mess. And I felt there was something stiff in the pocket, and it was this envelope. I didn’t think anything of it, because there was the dogs to see to — they miss her, sir, no doubt about that, and the house is in such a state as you’d never credit —”

  Dr. Wintermute could restrain himself no longer. He nipped the envelope out of her hands and examined the postmark. “This was sent to Professor Grisini after he disappeared.”

  “I noticed that, too, sir,” agreed Mrs. Pinchbeck. “But somebody opened it — and it must’ve been Lizzie Rose, because it wasn’t me, and the boy can’t read. But it was what the pawnbroker said that started me thinking — for there’s no denying I’ve fallen on ’ard times, sir, with my lodgers gone and Mr. Vogelsang behind with the rent. And as I was sayin’, Mr. Grimes, the pawnbroker, told me as how Lizzie Rose come in just before Christmas and pawned a gold watch. He said it was a fine gold watch, and he thought it might’ve belonged to Mr. Pinchbeck, my poor departed ’usband. But Mr. Pinchbeck never ’ad a gold watch, so the watch had to ’ave been Grisini’s. He ’ad some very nice pieces of property, Grisini did — jewelry and ladies’ things. I’ve an idea he once knew better days, poor Grisini, and I sometimes wondered if he might’ve been saved by the love of a good woman.” She pressed her palms together and rolled her eyes heavenward.

  Dr. Wintermute was not keenly attuned to Mrs. Pinchbeck’s theatrics, but he was aware that in her he beheld the aspect of a Good Woman. He murmured, “Admirable,” and wondered what he meant by it.

  Mrs. Pinchbeck averted her head and made a little circle with one wrist, as if waving away a tray of sweets. “I often thought Mr. Grisini admired me,” she confided. “Only, I could never fancy any man except Mr. Pinchbeck, sir. He was the only man I ever loved.” She shook her head regretfully. “Struck down by an omnibus in ’is prime. I never got over it, and I never shall get over it. Lord love you, sir, I know how the faithful ’eart grieves! Which is why I come, sir.”

  Dr. Wintermute said, “I’m much obliged, ma’am.” He tried to think of some words of sympathy for the fate of the late Mr. Pinchbeck but found himself unable to concentrate. “You were telling me about the pawnbroker, ma’am?”

  “Why, I just said,” Mrs. Pinchbeck said irritably, rubbing her nose. “Mr. Grimes said as ’ow Lizzie Rose pawned that gold watch, and he asked me how I’d spent the ten quid so quick. ‘Ten quid!’ I said to him. And he said yes, he’d given ten quid. And I said as ’ow Lizzie Rose ’ad run away, and how it broke my heart, living without her, and the dogs being as bad as dogs can be, sir — which is considerable. And
he said as how the girl ’ad been asking about trains to the north country, to this Windermere that’s on the envelope. So I thought to meself, that’s where she went — her and the boy — and who knows but what Grisini might be there, too?”

  Dr. Wintermute gazed at the envelope in his hands. It was quivering like a live thing. He forced himself to speak calmly. “It may mean nothing. The whereabouts of the other two children may have nothing to do with Clara.”

  “That’s so,” Mrs. Pinchbeck conceded with a lucidity that floored him. “But it might mean everything. It’s a mystery where your daughter’s gone, and a mystery where the other two’ve gone, and maybe it’s one mystery instead of two. Whatever you might say, there ’asn’t been any bodies found, and where there’s life, there’s ’ope. Now, when Mr. Pinchbeck was struck down by the omnibus, he was killed right away.” She gesticulated and made a noise, giving a vigorous and surprisingly vivid impression of wheels rolling over a man’s body. “Crushed the breath out of ’im! There wasn’t any ’ope then, I can tell you. But with your daughter, sir, there isn’t any homnibus, and when there’s no homnibus, there’s ’ope. An’ if I was you, sir, I’d go to this Windermere and start asking questions.”

  Dr. Wintermute folded the envelope and put it in his breast pocket. “I shall do so. I’m very much obliged to you, ma’am.” He put his hand back into his pocket. “Pray allow me —”

  Mrs. Pinchbeck became coy. The conversation that followed took longer than Dr. Wintermute could have dreamed. Mrs. Pinchbeck insisted that she would not take money from him, all the while pointing out that any other woman as hard up as she was might have felt it her duty to accept a sovereign. Naively Dr. Wintermute assumed that the interview was over, but Mrs. Pinchbeck seemed in no hurry to go away. It was some time before it dawned on Dr. Wintermute that she was waiting for him to force the money upon her. He was quite willing to part with a sovereign or two, but he was even more eager to part with the woman, and it maddened him that she could not be rushed. He argued, coaxed, and sympathized; he emptied his pockets of a five-pound note — and still she would not leave. At last he rang for Bartlett and instructed him to find Mrs. Pinchbeck a hansom cab. By the time Bartlett ushered the woman out, Dr. Wintermute felt that he had been through a long and shattering ordeal. He dropped into the chair before the fire and took out the envelope to study it.