by Blythe Baker
She looked up at the casket with admiration.
“This is worthy of him and his legacy.”
His legacy? I wondered. Had he not come into significance in the last two or three years? How could someone possibly leave a legacy in such a short period of time?
I looked around at all of the people in the room, the throngs of guests and those who had come to pay their respects to the late Mr. Hill. Many carried flutes of some bubbling drink and others nibbled on small sandwiches that had been set out in a part of the gallery that we had yet to see.
This is not how it should be, I thought. What would they all think if they knew precisely how he died? Would they still chatter and giggle if they had heard his crying out in fear as he was stabbed to death?
I thought back to what Lady Fitzwilliam’s maid had said…how it was almost poetic, the way he had died. Tragic and gruesome, suitable for an artist. That should not be what anyone aspired to.
“Mrs. Montford, Mrs. Montford!”
A group of five or six young women came flocking over to us like a gaggle of swans preening and shaking their feathers out.
Mrs. Montford turned, her brows rising as she surveyed the girls, all of whom wore similar bright dresses and had their hair cut into fashionable bobs just a few inches shorter than my own.
The blonde woman at the front stared up at Mrs. Montford as if she were some sort of angel. “Mrs. Montford, is it true? You were the last person to see Mr. Hill alive?”
The other girls behind her all leaned forward, pressing closer, their eyes expectant. They reminded me a great deal of curious hounds, waiting for a scrap of food to fall from the table.
Mrs. Montford looked over each of them and I could see the debate in her face about whether or not to answer them.
“I was his last client,” she admitted, skeptically looking around at them all. “How did you know?”
“Oh, that news spread like fire,” Mrs. Myers said. “My question is, how were you able to find an opening in his schedule? My niece wanted him to do a portrait for her husband for Christmas, yet he said he had no time.”
“I simply asked,” Mrs. Montford said. “There were no shenanigans or any such things, such as you might be implying.”
Mrs. Myers eyebrows rose as well and she pinched her lips shut.
“Please, Mrs. Montford,” a girl with blonde hair and a violently purple dress said, taking yet another step toward Mrs. Montford. Her eyes, as blue as the summer sea, were almost wild. “Please, you must tell us what Mr. Hill’s last words were. We have all been dying to know.”
Mrs. Montford’s expression hardened. “Do you have nothing better to do?” she asked. “I can hardly see how that is at all relevant to any of you.”
“Oh, have you not realized?” Mrs. Myers asked. “Surely, that is why you were invited in the first place. People want to know. Those words will likely be an important part of his history.”
Mrs. Montford pursed her lips, her brow furrowing. “I can hardly see how what he said to me would be of any importance.”
“You are missing the point,” Mrs. Myers said. “When people write about him, they will want to know precisely what these girls are asking. If I were you, I would relish the chance to share this man’s story…or the very end of it.”
Mrs. Montford grimaced.
I understood. This disturbing fascination of all of these people with Mr. Hill’s last moments… They gawked at Mrs. Montford, hanging onto her every word, as if she were giving them some sort of divinely inspired speech.
It was deeply unsettling and I did not want to be any further part of it.
“He said nothing of significance,” Mrs. Montford said sharply. “If you are hoping for some sort of philosophical words or enlightened dribble, then you will be sorely disappointed. We merely scheduled the next time he would come to continue his work and then he left.”
The blonde girl’s mouth fell open and she took a step back from Mrs. Montford, the other girls who had flattened themselves together following suit.
“You are hoping to find some meaning in his last moments,” my mistress said, frowning around at them all. “But he knew as much as I that he was going to die, which is to say that we knew nothing of it. Whoever does?”
Then Mrs. Montford sighed, shaking her head. “I do not mean to be so curt. But what you are looking for is not what I can provide. You would be better to look into his last completed work of art to see what he truly thought of life and all aspects of it.”
The young girl frowned and turned to whisper to her friends, once again like the twittering of birds.
“But Mrs. Montford,” asked one of the girls at the back, with gleaming skin and dark eyes. “Did I not hear that it was a member of your household that saw him perish?”
Mrs. Montford froze. For a brief moment, I saw a flash of nervousness in her eyes. Then, her gaze hardened and her lips turned into a frown. “I do not know where these rumors have come from but I will ask you kindly not to repeat them. Did the man die just a few short blocks from my home? Yes. Was I one of the last to see him alive? Indeed I was. Apart from that, I can tell you nothing, as it is now being handled by the police. I should very much like to leave it in their hands.”
The girl’s eyes widened but she hung her head. “Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.”
“I realize how cherished this artist was to many here,” Mrs. Montford continued, staring around. “But the extraneous details of what happened before his death mean nothing. All I care is that his killer is found, so that I may know with confidence that my neighborhood is once again safe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said several of the girls together.
Mrs. Montford did not meet my gaze but I could see her mind working.
She had protected me. I knew that by doing so, she had protected the whole of her staff, nevertheless, it gave me comfort to know that she did not wish to subject me to the same questions that she had been receiving about the matter. If she had known she would be bombarded as she had been, perhaps she would never have come in the first place.
The other question that plagued me was how these girls had heard I had seen him die? Was it someone in the house who had said something to someone in town? Was it at all possible the police had publically shared the information? How had people found out?
I imagined Mrs. Montford wondered the same thing and knew that she would look into the matter as soon as we returned home.
“Well…” Mrs. Myers said, her eyebrows rising. “Why don’t we continue on, then? I can show you some of the other highlighted pieces, if you would like.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Montford said.
They turned to start walking down the row of paintings, the unease in the air dissipating a bit.
I would have followed but, suddenly, something closed around my arm.
Before I could say a word, I was tugged backward through the crowd, the people filling in the space behind me as waves might crash together in the sea.
11
I looked over my shoulder to see who it was that dragged me away and found that a man I did not recognize had latched his hand around my wrist and started to pull me away from Mrs. Montford.
“Ex-Excuse me, sir,” I stammered, nearly tripping over my own feet as I stumbled backward. “Excuse me, what are you—”
He swung me around, in an almost elegant twirl, as if we were dancing. In the whirl of motion, I noticed his handsome face, short dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and high cheekbones. He could not have been more than five or ten years older than I.
Instead of drawing me close to him, he released me in a fluid motion and let go of my hand, taking a deliberate step away from me.
My breath had been stolen from me, my heart left fluttering.
We stood away from the crowds of people just inside a hall that broke through the walls of white and art. A quieter part of the gallery, removed from the vast majority of the chatter and hubbub of the others in attendance.
My heart tried to leap from my chest, prevented only by the cage in which it resided. “Pardon…?”
He glanced down the hall back to the main room from where he had pulled me and hesitated as a couple wandered down the hall past us, speaking in low voices.
The hall, as white as the rest of the place, was lined with more priceless pieces of art but these did not seem to hold the attention of the rest of the attendees like the room with the casket.
He waited until the people passed, striding through another gap in the hall, which I could only assume to be another room of the gallery.
Then he turned his face back to me. “Are you the one who witnessed Mr. Hill’s murder?”
With a flash of fear, I stared into his blue eyes, like shards of solid ice.
How was I to answer him? How did he know? How had he found out?
I could only stare at him and take a nervous step back toward the main room.
He took a sidestep along with me, keeping himself between me and the way into the room.
I tried to swallow but my throat was tight.
“Are you…” I uttered, my eyes glancing back toward the main room with longing and regret. How had I allowed myself to be stolen away as I had? “Are you the one who…killed him?” I couldn’t help asking.
“No,” the man said, his eyebrows screwing up into a crumple on his forehead. “No, of course not. Why would you ask me that?”
“Why else would you pull me away in such a strange manner?” I asked, my fear giving me the courage to speak. “Why could you not have spoken with me in front of my mistress?”
The man studied me for a moment before dipping his head. “My apologies,” he said in a tone of frustrated humility. “It was not my intention to frighten you. My name is Sedgewick. I am the curator for this museum.”
“Mr. Sedgewick…” I said.
The man who despised Mr. Hill so much that he refused to allow his art to be shown in the gallery? Although it seemed he had discovered a change of heart since Mr. Hill’s death…
“Yes,” he said. “Welcome to my gallery.”
I looked around, my heart still thundering in my chest.
He let out a heavy sigh, running his fingers through his dark tresses. “Again, I did not mean to frighten you. I simply overheard your mistress speaking to those young women about his death and I wondered if you might have been the one to see him, hence why she asked you to be in attendance at his funeral.”
My face turned scarlet and I knew that would be all the answer he needed. Once again, my attempt at dressing the part of any other guest had failed to disguise my status as a servant. Or perhaps it had been my manner of hovering at Mrs. Montford’s elbow that had given me away.
He is a clever one, I thought. He was correct about the reason Mrs. Montford wanted me to come.
“How did you hear about Mr. Hill?” I asked.
“The same way as everyone else,” he said. “Through the word of mouth of my attendees. I was having a gallery opening when I overheard one of them speaking about it. They had heard from a friend who worked with the police Sergeant investigating the matter. That is how I learned that it was one of Mrs. Montford’s servants who saw the event occur.”
I did not know whether or not I should confirm it. If Mrs. Montford held her tongue, then I should do the same. I knew truth was the best option, all the same, so I tried for a middle ground. “I do not believe I am at liberty to speak on these matters. If you want information, you should be speaking with my mistress.”
“I certainly could. Very well, I will not ask any further. I understand the desire to keep your privacy. And do not worry, I will not tell your secrets.” he said, turning and starting down the hall, waving me along with him.
The color in my face deepened. So, he had discerned the truth. Anger bubbled up, not at him but at myself, for allowing myself to be so open with nothing more than a reaction I had managed to let him see.
“Come with me,” he said. “There is something that you should see.”
Confusion washed over me. He treated me as if we were acquaintances or as if the knowledge that he had garnered somehow…changed something. Why should I follow him?
He stopped when I did not do as he asked.
He turned to me once more. “What is it?” he asked.
I hesitated. What should stop me from simply going back to Mrs. Montford?
He shook his head. “I can see why you would not trust me. Why would you? Given everything.”
He came back to me, scratched the side of his head, and looked me square in the eye.
“I am sorry for putting you on the spot as I did. But you having seen him…having watched what happened to him…” He licked his lips. “I cannot explain it, but in a way, having never resolved the dispute I had with him personally…”
“Sir, I cannot make amends,” I said, taking a step back. “I do not have that sort of authority. That remains with only one that I know of—”
“I realize how ridiculous it sounds,” he said. “But you must understand, I have shared this with no one…”
He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the break in the hall once again.
“Please, if you come with me, I will explain it. And perhaps it will give you some solace as well.”
I stared at him. Could I trust his word?
He told me that he was not the one responsible for the death. He had looked me straight in the eye when he told me he was not the one who killed Mr. Hill. I knew true murderers, those who had lost all sense of themselves, were rare. Most people killed out of passion, in some fashion or another, whether it was from hatred or jealousy. Would he have been able to so confidently lie to me when it was likely that the painter had been murdered in an act of raw, reactionary emotion?
Yet, if I am wrong and he was responsible and I follow him into a room where there may not be any other people…
Mrs. Montford would surely scold me for this later.
The only reason I considered it was what he had said at the very end, that it would give me solace.
Heaven knows I need some solace.
“All right,” I said, feeling the color drain from my face.
I followed him down the short stretch of hall, wondering if I was being a fool but unable to deny my curiosity. If he was the killer, surely he would not attempt any harm on me when help was only a scream away, would he?
He stood aside as I entered and he gestured to the far wall.
A single painting hung, a light shining down upon it like a beam from the heavens above.
I gasped as I made my way toward it.
I recognized it at once.
“Humility…” I murmured, staring up into the picture.
It really was the painting I had heard of. I recognized the scene from the way that Mr. Hill had described it. A moody scene beside the river Thames, with dark, rolling clouds pressing against the horizon. A ship floated by on the still river, reflected in the water like a perfect twin. The moon pierced the bottom of a cloud just over the city, washing the water in its cold light.
The man depicted stood along the riverbank, staring into the city’s distant lights. He held the hat in his hand at his side, just as Mr. Hill had said. It looked as if he was about to drop it, to let it fall to the ground, where he might perhaps leave it, and in the process, leave his whole life and past behind.
It evoked something within me. My heart stirred and I felt…sorrow.
I never had before seen a painting that affected me so.
At once, I understood the reason why Mr. Hill had been as popular as he had been. As revered as he had been. Even if he never painted another painting, he would have been admired.
“It is breathtaking, isn’t it?”
Mr. Sedgewick had walked up beside me, also gazing at the painting.
“How�
��how did you get this?” I asked. “I heard that you—”
I stopped, uncertain.
“Heard about our rather tenuous relationship?” Mr. Sedgewick finished for me.
I turned to see him smirking mirthlessly up at the painting.
“Yes, you are not wrong. I can see how you might suspect I was the one who did him in. But no, it was not I. Honestly? I had hoped you would be able to tell me who did it.” He turned his blue eyes to me. “I assume you cannot?”
I shook my head. “No, sir…I cannot.”
He smirk inched up the side of his face but he seemed more miserable than before. “I thought not. I want to know who…well, I would say that they stole a chance from me but I know that is a lie. I stole the chance from myself.”
He took another step toward the painting, close enough that he could have touched it.
“I had this piece hung here today, in a place where, quite frankly, it should have been all along. I hope that Mr. Hill would…well, that he would forgive me, if he knew.”
I looked up at the man standing along the river and a feeling brushed up against the far corner of my mind, like a distant, echoing call of my name.
What is that?
“I suppose I am a petty man,” Mr. Sedgewick said. “And it took Mr. Hill’s death for me to realize. I should have been more welcoming to him, but to be perfectly honest, I was jealous of his success.”
He gestured to the painting.
“This is what I have wanted to do,” he said. “To capture an image—no, a moment—in such a strong, moving way. It is my dream.”
His dream…
“I am not merely a curator, you see,” he said. “I am a painter myself. Nothing more than a budding artist, a novice, but when I saw this… I knew that he would outstrip me, and standing beside him in a gallery, I could never achieve such greatness.”
I looked at the painting again and the water seemed to move the longer I stared.
The echo in my mind suddenly sounded closer. Murkiness pressed in at the edges like shadows creeping across a forest floor at sunset.