A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

Or the hushed phone call notifying Anderson of the boy's passing, telling the constable where the body could be found, and a warning to Anderson and his men to keep clear of the apiary: “There is something amiss with my bees, so be careful. If you will tend to the boy and inform his mother, I will tend to the hives and then reveal tomorrow what was learned.”

  “We'll be right there. And I'm sorry for your loss, sir. I truly am.”

  “Do hurry, Anderson.”

  Or his self-reproach for having avoided Mrs. Munro, rather than dealing with her directly—his inability to convey his own remorse, to share something of his agony with her, to stand at her side when Anderson and his men entered the house. Instead, stupefied by Roger's death and the very idea of facing the boy's mother with the truth, he had climbed upstairs to his study, shutting and locking the door, forgetting to return to the apiary as planned. Then he had sat at his desk, jotting note after note, scarcely cognizant of the meanings of his hastily written sentences, paying some mind to the comings and goings outside, the impromptu sorrow of Mrs. Munro rising from down below (her guttural wails, the breathless sobs—a profound grief that coursed through the walls and floors, echoed along the corridors, and soon ended as abruptly as it had begun). Minutes later, Anderson had knocked on the study door, saying, “Mr. Holmes—Sherlock—” So Holmes had reluctantly allowed him entrance, though only for a short while. Nonetheless, the particulars of their discussion—the things Anderson had suggested, the things Holmes had agreed upon—were inevitably lost on him.

  And in the silence thereafter—once Anderson and his men had left the house, taking Mrs. Munro in one vehicle and the boy in an ambulance—he went to the attic window, seeing nothing beyond except complete darkness. But still he perceived something, that disquieting image he couldn't shake completely from memory: Roger's blue eyes out there in the pasture, those wide pupils seemingly intent in their upward gaze, yet unbearably vacuous.

  Going again to his desk, he rested for a while in his chair, hunched forward, with thumbs pressed against his shut eyelids. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Is that so?” he then said aloud, raising his head. “How can that be?” He opened his eyes, glancing about as if expecting to find someone else nearby. But, as always, he was alone in the attic, seated at his desk, a hand now reaching absently for his pen.

  His stare fell on the work before him, the stacks of pages, the clutter of notes—and that unfinished manuscript bound by a single rubber band. In the subsequent hours preceding dawn, he wouldn't think much more of Roger, nor would he ever conceive of the boy sitting in the same chair, poring over the case of Mrs. Keller and wishing for the story's completion. And yet, on that night, he suddenly felt compelled to finish the story anyway—to reach for fresh sheets of writing paper, to begin fashioning a kind of closure for himself where previously none had existed.

  Then it was as if the words were arriving well ahead of his own thoughts, filling the pages with ease. The words propelled his hand forward while also taking him back, back, back—past the summer months in Sussex, past his recent trip to Japan, past both great wars—to a world that thrived in the flux of one century's conclusion and another century's outset. He wouldn't cease his writing until sunrise. He wouldn't stop until the ink had almost been emptied.

  16

  III.

  In the Gardens of the

  Physics and Botanical Society

  As documented in John's short sketches, I was often not above the unscrupulous when working on a case, nor was I always selfless in my actions; for, in that regard, to be honest about my intentions concerning the need for the photograph of Mrs. Keller is to confess that I had no real need of it whatsoever. Indeed, the case was finished before going from Portman's on that Thursday evening, and I might have revealed all to Mr. Keller then had the woman's face ceased to beguile me so. Yet by prolonging the outcome, I knew I could again witness her in person, but from a better vantage point. The photograph, too, was wanted for my own reasons, with some desire for it to remain among my possessions in lieu of payment. And later that night, sitting alone near the window, the woman continued to stroll effortlessly through my thoughts—her parasol held high against the sun as if to shield the alabaster whiteness of her skin—while her diffident image gazed up from my lap.

  But several days passed before I was afforded the opportunity to consign my full attention to her. During the intervening time, my energies were spent on a matter of supreme importance which the French government had engaged me to settle—a sordid affair revolving around an onyx paperweight stolen from a diplomat's desk in Paris and, eventually, stashed beneath the floorboards of a West End stage. Even so, the woman persisted in my mind, manifesting in an increasingly fanciful manner, which, while being almost wholly of my invention, was as enticing as it was disconcerting. I did not, however, lack the insight of realising that my ruminations were based on fantasy and, therefore, were probably inaccurate; yet I cannot deny the complicated impulses which arose when I was preoccupied by such foolish reverie—for the tenderness I felt was, for once, extending beyond my sense of reason.

  So it was to be on the subsequent Tuesday that I disguised myself accordingly, giving a fair amount of consideration towards the persona which might best suit the ineffable Mrs. Keller. I settled on Stefan Peterson, an unattached middle-aged bibliophile with a kind-natured, if not somewhat effeminate, disposition; a myopic, bespectacled character, attired in well-worn tweed, who had the habit of nervously running a hand across his unkempt hair while tugging absently at his blue ascot.

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” I said, squinting at my reflection in the mirror, assuming what I believed would be my persona's polite and shy first words to Mrs. Keller. “I'm sorry, miss—begging your pardon—”

  Adjusting the ascot, I realised that his predisposition for flora was to rival her love of all things which bloomed. Tousling my hair, I was positive that his fascination for romance literature was unsurpassed. He was, after all, an avid reader, preferring the detached solace of a book above most human interaction. Yet at his core he was a lonely man, existing as someone who, as he had grown older, had begun to contemplate the value of steady companionship. To this end, he studied the subtle art of palmistry, more as a way to make contact with others than as a means for divulging future events; if the correct palm were to rest briefly within his hand, he imagined that the fleeting warmth of it could sustain him in the months thereafter.

  And now it is here that I cannot envision myself concealed behind my own creation—rather, when recalling the moments of that afternoon, I am removed from the proceedings altogether. Instead, it was Stefan Peterson walking into the declining light of day, his head lowered and his shoulders drawn toward his chest, a floundering and pitiable figure gingerly ambling in the direction of Montague Street. The sight of him garnered no lingering glances, nor was his presence notable by any manner. He was, to those who brushed beside him, an imminently forgettable soul.

  Yet he was resolute upon his mission, bringing himself to Portman's prior to Mrs. Keller's arrival. Entering the shop, he went silently past the counter, where, as before, the proprietor gazed at a book—magnifying glass in hand, face hovering near the text—and was unaware of Stefan's fleeting proximity; only then, as he roamed down an aisle, did the proprietor's hearing come into question, for the old fellow had not been stirred by the shop door squeaking on its hinges, or by the OPEN placard bumping against the glass after the door was shut. He wandered along the veiled corridors of bookcases, crossing through the dust motes which swirled amidst the scant rays of sunlight; the farther one went within the shop, he discerned, the darker it became ahead—until everything to the fore of him was blanketed by shadow.

  Reaching the stairwell, he climbed seven steps and crouched there, then, so that he might clearly observe Mrs. Keller's entrance without being noticed. And, in due course, events would at last commence thusly: the armonica's mournful vibrations began from above—the boy's fingers slid
ing upon the glasses; moments later, the shop door swung back and, as she had done on previous Tuesdays and Thursdays, Mrs. Keller came in off the street with her parasol slipped under an arm and a book held in a gloved hand. Paying the proprietor no mind—nor he her—she drifted into the aisles, pausing at times to survey the shelves, occasionally touching the spines of various volumes as though her fingers were impelled to do so. For a while, she remained visible, yet her back was kept away from him; he watched her glide slowly towards the darker recesses, becoming less and less apparent. Finally, she moved from his view completely, but not before he saw her place the book she was carrying on a top shelf, trading it, then, for another volume, which she seemingly chose at random.

  You are hardly a thief, he told himself. No, you are, in truth, a borrower.

  Once she had passed from sight, he could only surmise her exact location—somewhere close, yes, as he caught the scent of her perfume; surely somewhere amidst the near pitch, if only for a few seconds. As it happened, what followed next was expected and offered little surprise, although his eyes were not quite prepared: a sudden bright white flash illuminated from the shop's rear, flooding the aisles momentarily with its brilliance, vanishing as swiftly as it had erupted. He promptly descended the steps, seeing still the afterglow upon his pupils of that light which had swept inside and, he knew, now enveloped Mrs. Keller.

  He travelled along a narrow passage between the double row of bookcases, inhaling the powerful, guiding fumes of her fragrance, and stopped within the shadows by the far wall. As he stood facing the wall, his eyes began adjusting to the surroundings, and he whispered lowly, “Right here, and nowhere else.” The muted sounds of the armonica continued falling quite distinctly upon his ear. He glanced to the left—precarious stacks of books; then to the right—more piles of books. And there, directly in front of him, was the portal of Mrs. Keller's departure—a back exit, a shut door framed by the same brightness which had stunned his vision. He took two steps forwards and pushed at the door. It took all his self-control to prevent himself from rushing after her. With the door swinging wide, the light again spilled into the shop. Yet he hesitated in going past the threshold, and cautiously, as he squinted outside at the trellis screens forming an enclosed walkway, gradually eased onwards with a shuffling, reserved gait.

  Soon her perfume became obscured by the even richer odours of tulips and daffodils. Then he could compel himself no farther than the walkway's end, where he peered through the vine-covered latticework and beheld a tiny landscaped garden of the most elaborate design: Herb beds thrived beside a somewhat oblique topiary pruned from dense hedging plants, and perennials and roses cloaked the walled perimeter; such an ideal oasis the proprietor had fashioned in the heart of London, one which was barely glimpsed from Madame Schirmer's window. The old man had, likely in the years preceding his failing eyesight, tailored his garden to the differing microclimates of his backyard: Where the roof of the building kept sunlight from reaching long into places, the proprietor had planted variegated foliage in order to highlight the darkened areas; elsewhere, the perennial beds hosted foxglove, geraniums, and lilies.

  A path of river stone curved towards the garden's centre and concluded at a square patch of turf which was encircled by a formal boxwood hedge. Upon the turf was a small bench, and near it was a large terra-cotta urn, painted with copper patina; and upon the bench—her parasol across her lap, the book she had taken gripped by both hands—sat Mrs. Keller within the building's shade, reading while the armonica's sound drifted from the window above and down into the garden like an enigmatic breeze.

  Of course, he thought, of course—thinking this when she glanced up from the book, cocking her head to one side, listening intently as the playing slackened for a moment and, eventually, then swelled into a refined, less dissonant performance. Madame Schirmer, he was certain, had now taken Graham's place at the armonica, showing the boy how the glasses should be properly manipulated. And while those masterful fingers pulled exquisite tones from the instrument, transforming the very air with its lulling textures, he studied Mrs. Keller from afar, observing the subtle rapture in her expression—the gentle exhaling of her breath between parted lips, the loosening of her rigid posture, the slow closing of her eyes—and the hidden presence of something pacific about her which emerged, if but for a scant few minutes, in accord with the music.

  It is difficult to remember how long he remained there, face at the trellis screen, watching her; for he, too, was captivated by all that had come to enrich the garden. Yet his concentration would at last be broken with the squeaking of the rear door, followed thereafter by the violent cough, which hastened the proprietor across the threshold. Wearing the soiled smock and brown gloves, the old man entered into the walkway, a hand clutching the handle of a watering can; soon enough, the proprietor would lumber past the figure pressed nervously against the trellis screen, stepping into the garden while never once giving heed to its trespassers, then reaching the flower beds just as the last strains of the armonica ebbed away, the watering can slipping from the hand and landing upon its side and emptying most of its contents.

  At that instant it was over: The armonica had fallen silent; the proprietor was stooping by his rose beds, feeling upon the lawn for what had escaped his grasp. Mrs. Keller gathered her belongings and stood from the bench, going towards the old man with that by-now-familiar manner of leisure; her form cast over him as she bent in front of his outstretched hands, righting the watering can, and the proprietor, without having fathomed her ghostlike presence, promptly seized hold of its handle and coughed. Then like a cloud shadow passing easily upon the earth, she moved off in the direction of a little ironwork gate at the back of the garden; there, she turned the key which sat within the lock, allowing the gate to swing wide enough for her to leave—the gate opening and closing with the same mixture of rattles and scrapes. And then it seemed, to him, that she had never been in the garden or in the shop; she was, in a way, immediately nebulous to his mind, receding into nothingness like the final tones spun from Madame Schirmer's instrument.

  Rather than hurrying after her, however, he found himself turning away, returning instead through the bookstore, and out upon the street; and, by dusk, he was mounting the steps leading to my flat. Yet while en route, he cursed the paralysis of his will, which had held him back, keeping him bound to the garden even as she ventured from sight. Only later—once the attributes of Stefan Peterson had been removed, folded neatly, and put within my chest of drawers—did I contemplate the very nature of one so deficient in resolve. How, I wondered, could a man as versed and knowledgeable as he become discomposed by such an unassuming wisp of a woman? For Mrs. Keller's passive countenance betrayed little that was unbridled or exceptional about her. So had the gap of isolation and detachment which surrounded his lifetime of study—the solitary hours spent absorbing all manner of human behaviour and thought—given him no amount of insight into what was required of him then?

  You must be strong, I wished to impress upon him. You must think more as I do. She is real, yes, but she is also a figment, a longing formed out of your own need. In your loneliness, you have settled on the first face which has caught your eye. It might have been anyone, you know. You are, after all, a man, my dear fellow; she is only a woman, and there are thousands like her scattered throughout this great city.

  I had a single day in which to plot Stefan Peterson's best course of action. On the forthcoming Thursday, I decided, he would keep himself outside of Portman's and watch from afar as she entered the shop—at which point, he would make his way into the alley behind the proprietor's garden and wait, out of range, for the back gate eventually to open. Without fail, my plan was realized on the next afternoon: At approximately five o'clock Mrs. Keller exited through the back gate with her parasol raised and a book in one hand. She began walking immediately, and he went after her, maintaining his distance. Even when he wished to draw closer, something kept him at bay. Still, his eyes dis
cerned the hairpins in her thick black hair and the minute bustling of her hips. Every so often, she would pause and tilt her head to the sky, allowing him to catch sight of her profile—the outline of her lower jaw, the almost transparent smoothness of her skin. Then it would appear as if she was speaking beneath her breath, and her mouth mumbled without sound. Once her utterances were finished, she would stare ahead again and continue forwards. She moved through Russell Square, journeyed down Guilford Street, turned left upon Gray's Inn Road, headed across the intersection at King's Cross, and travelled for a short time on a side street, where, soon deviating from the footpath, she proceeded alongside railway tracks near St. Pancras Station. It was an undirected, circuitous route; yet from the deliberate movement of her steps, he understood that this was no mere stroll for Mrs. Keller. And when, finally, she passed through the large iron gates of the Physics and Botanical Society, the late afternoon had begun its transformation into early evening.

  The park in which he found himself as he followed her beyond the high redbrick walls presented as great a contrast to the area as there could be: Outside, on a wide artery which conveyed the city's traffic, the roadway was packed with commerce streaming in either direction, while the footpaths were swarming with pedestrians; but past the iron gates, where olive trees stood amidst winding gravel pathways and beds of vegetables and herbs and flowers, was 6.4 acres of lush, pastoral terrain surrounding a manor house which, in 1772, had been bequeathed to the society by Sir Philip Sloane. There, in the shade of those trees, she went on ahead while lazily rotating the parasol; veering right from the main pathway, she took a slender trail, going past echium and Atropa belladonna, past horsetail and feverfew, stopping on occasion to touch the flowers lightly, whispering as she did. He, too, was there with her, but he was not yet willing to close the distance between them, even as he became aware that they were the only two people walking upon the trail.