by Blythe Baker
“As only a bitter man would do, I banned Mr. Hill’s works from being shown at my gallery,” Mr. Sedgewick said with a shake of his head. “Foolish, I realize now, but I…”
His words faded to the back of my thoughts as an image passed through my mind.
The river Thames. Darkness. Water sloshing.
A long, rickety, wooden dock. A bright light in the distance. The glowing light of windows across the river, like stars glittering in the night.
And fear. Terrible fear. Unimaginable, heart-gripping terror.
Two silhouettes, just off the dock, in the water…struggling. Fighting.
Without question, I knew that one of those men was my father.
I was seeing the night that he died.
The image flashed, as clearly as if I was standing there in that moment, reliving it. All I could hear was the struggling, splashing, and the horrible, gut-wrenching gurgling as lungs filled with water instead of air.
“—feel deeply guilty about what happened,” Mr. Sedgewick went on. “The two of us could have been friends. Should have been, instead of enemies.”
My heart thundered in my ears and I had to look away from the painting.
Why had that come back now, of all times?
Was it the painting? Having returned to London? It was very likely both.
“It is always so difficult for artists to appreciate one another’s work,” Mr. Sedgewick went on, entirely unaware of the horrendous memory that I had just recalled. “It is a lonely profession.”
“Yes…” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady. My hands shook and I did not know how long I could keep my wits about me. I needed to be away from this painting. I could not let it trouble me as it was. “Thank you, Mr. Sedgewick, for showing this to me. I am sorry I could not be of more help.”
“No, no, that is perfectly all right,” he said. “I suppose I will never know if he would have forgiven me but at least I can give him this honor.”
“I apologize, sir, but I must be getting back to my lady now,” I said, turning back toward the hall.
“Of course, of course,” he said. “Perhaps bring her back here to see the painting before it is discovered by the rest of the people here today.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, inclining my head as I tried my best not to run from the room. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said. “You have helped me a great deal.”
Did his words hold some hidden meaning, some mysterious emphasis, or was it merely my imagination? I did not see how anything I had said could be helpful, nor did I have any idea whether I could believe his supposed regret over his quarrel with Mr. Hill.
Still, I had more pressing things on my mind now.
I made my way down the hall, my heart in my throat, hoping that Mrs. Montford would not be terribly cross with me for leaving her side. All the while, my stomach twisted into knots, my mind unable to shake the image of the dock, the lapping water, and the splashing silhouettes.
12
“Ma’am? Your nephew is here to see you.”
Startled, I looked up from my chair near the window. The book I had been reading while Mrs. Montford enjoyed her breakfast nearly slipped off my lap as I straightened.
Mrs. Montford, likewise, looked up from her newspaper, her spoon with the bit of egg halfway to her mouth. “Bring him in,” she said, but I detected a slight note of worry in her voice.
Mr. Fitzroy nodded and disappeared back out into the hallway.
Mrs. Montford shifted her eyes to me for a brief glance before settling back into her paper.
“They mention you and me here, you know,” she said, turning the page with deliberate slowness.
My heart skipped. “From the funeral?” I asked.
“If one could even call it that,” Mrs. Montford said with a derisive sniff. “But yes, in this flattering article by the ever charming Mr. Franklin, I read ‘And who should make an appearance at this somber event? None other than the lady who was graced by the great artist’s last moments. She was overheard saying, “He knew as much as I that those were his last moments, which is to say that he knew nothing at all. Whoever does?” What insight. How true…’”
With a rustle of paper, she thrust the newspaper down onto the table and grabbed her tea with a grimace set into her hardened face.
“To call themselves journalists,” she said, shaking her head. “To take what I said out of context, to make it seem as if I was implying some deeper, existential reasoning—”
“My dear Aunt Bea, is it not too early for existential reasoning?”
Mr. Jerome stood at the door, removing his hat from his auburn hair and tucking it beneath his arm as he pulled his leather gloves from the tips of his fingers.
Mrs. Montford let out a frustrated sigh, laying a hand over her heart. “Do not startle me like that, boy,” she said, glaring up at him. “You could have given me a terrible fright.”
“It seems I already have,” he said, sliding into the chair beside hers.
His head swiveled and his eyes fell upon me at once, as a homing pigeon finds its roost.
I looked away but I managed to catch a glimpse of his smile growing as I did.
Why must his presence always unbalance me so?
“What are you doing here so early?” Mrs. Montford asked, folding up the newspaper and setting it aside.
“I have come to speak with you,” he said. “I thought that would be obvious.”
“Enough with the jokes. I have little patience for them these days,” she said.
He chuckled a bit. “Very well, I shall not tempt you any further,” he said. “In fact, what I have to tell you might interest you as well, Miss Fairweather.”
I looked up, my eyes widening. “Me, sir?” I asked.
He nodded. “Indeed. Perhaps you should join us here.”
I glanced at Mrs. Montford.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at her nephew. “What is this?”
“It’s about Mr. Hill,” he said.
Mrs. Montford rolled her eyes, a disgusted huff passing over her lips. “I do not want to hear that man’s name mentioned ever again,” she said. “All I want is to read in the paper that his killer has been found, and—”
“My dear aunt, if you would give me but a moment to speak,” Mr. Jerome said. “Please.”
She pursed her lips, her eyes flashing. “Well…” she said. “I suppose. Come over here, girl.”
I rose from my seat and hurried over to the table, slipping into one of the chairs across from him.
His smile grew as I chanced a quick look at him.
“Go on, then,” she said. “This had better be relevant.”
“Oh, it is,” he said.
To my surprise, he leaned on the table and fixed his gaze upon me, folding his hands before himself.
“I have good news,” he said. With a start, I realized that the whole conversation was directed at me. He had simply used his aunt as an excuse. “I have gone to speak to the authorities about that pub off the alleyway where Mr. Hill was killed.”
“You did?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Why?” Mrs. Montford asked.
“One moment,” he said. “Allow me to continue.”
She sighed. “Very well. Go on.”
“It seems they have been investigating the matter,” he said. “Which surprised me, if I am honest. I did not expect them to carry on looking into it all for very long. Do you realize how few murders are actually solved these days?”
“With as many as must happen in the city nowadays?” Mrs. Montford asked. “Hardly any.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Jerome said. “However, it seems this Sergeant Parsons has a good head on his shoulders and even better integrity to back it up. He went to the alleyway and also deduced that the proximity of the pub seemed far too convenient. He went in and questioned people there, many of whom go regularly, but none of them were willing to speak honestly to him, knowing what he and
his men were.”
“Police,” Mrs. Montford said with a nod.
“Precisely,” Mr. Jerome said. His eyes brightened. “He said he felt there was something terribly suspicious about that lot, though, and that the place had produced more than a few incidents in the past that needed to be dealt with by law enforcement. He knew they would not speak further to him, and considering that, I offered myself up to do what a policeman could not; be a spy, a mole.”
Mrs. Montford gasped and my heart quickened. Why would he do such a thing?
“Jerome, what in the world were you thinking?” she asked. “Putting yourself in such a dangerous situation? Have you lost all sense?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I knew precisely what I was up to.”
She glared at him.
“Aunt, I should warn you that I have committed myself to the matter,” he said. “I am terribly worried, as I know you are, that whoever it is that has done this horrific thing might very well try to come after Miss Fairweather if they were to learn that she was there at the end of the alley that evening and witnessed the murder take place. Obviously, any attack on your staff could endanger you as well, dear aunt.”
My stomach dropped.
“Surely, by now the killer will know that their deed was witnessed. The rumor of a servant stumbling upon the scene has spread far and wide. I want to do what I can to ensure that all in this household are kept safe,” Mr. Jerome said, all the while keeping his eyes squarely upon me. The warning in his gaze matched the seriousness of his words.
He was right, of course. The gossip at the gallery hall funeral had proven that. If others knew I had been there, how long would it be before the killer did, as well? If he did not already.
“Well…I certainly cannot argue with that sentiment,” Mrs. Montford said. “Of course, I want to ensure the safety of everyone in my home but to have you stepping in concerns me as well. I care for your safety just as highly and do not want you to risk yourself when the authorities seem to be handling the matter.”
“They are but not quickly enough,” Mr. Jerome said. “I know it would set both of your minds at ease if it were resolved sooner.”
“Yes, it certainly would,” Mrs. Montford said. “Did you come with a suspicion of who the killer is, then?”
I could hear the hope in her voice but it was not at all matched by the slight fall in Mr. Jerome’s expression.
“No…” I murmured. “But something else?”
I saw a glint in his eyes. “Indeed,” he said. “I managed to speak with the owner of the establishment, a charming place called The Iron Tankard. He told me that many people had come and gone from the pub the night that Mr. Hill was murdered. At the time when the police showed up, no one yet knew what had occurred outside.”
“How?” Mrs. Montford asked. “How was it possible for them to be unaware of an attack that occurred so close by?”
“A great deal could be missed by a group of men who had spent far too much time drinking their weight in ale,” he said. “Especially in a noisy environment.”
Mrs. Montford frowned.
“So, it could have been any of those people who left that night around the time of the murder?” I asked.
“Precisely,” Mr. Jerome said. “What I did learn of interest was that Mr. Hill was a frequent visitor of the pub, as he lived only a block away.”
“That close?” Mrs. Montford asked.
“Indeed,” Mr. Jerome said. “That is quite surprising, is it not?”
“It certainly is,” I muttered. He had been so close to home and had died so horribly.
“I suppose that could explain why the killer knew where to expect him,” Mrs. Montford said. “That is something I have wondered. How could they have anticipated his actions as they did?”
I looked up at her. I had not considered the question. How had the killer known? It had to have been someone who knew his routines.
“This person must have known him well enough to know that he would have gone that way, perhaps as a shortcut, to reach his home,” Mr. Jerome said. “Well enough to have known that he had been having a meeting with you and around the time in which the meeting was taking place.”
“Do you suspect the culprit was spying on me?” Mrs. Montford asked.
My heart skipped. Another thought I had not considered.
“I do not believe so,” Mr. Jerome said. “I do not see how you would have had anything to do with his death. Your hiring him was nothing more than a factor in the murderer’s choice of where to meet him.”
Mrs. Montford’s expression displayed the same unease I felt about the matter.
“Nevertheless, it is deeply disturbing,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “And no one in the pub knew anything else?”
He shook his head. “No…but I am meant to go back and speak to some more of the regulars. I believe I can find the truth, if given a bit more time.”
Mrs. Montford sighed. “There was nothing on Mr. Hill’s body? No useful evidence found on the street around him?”
Mr. Jerome shook his head once more. “Not from what they were able to tell me.”
“Surely, there must have been something distinctive, something that would make sense of it all,” she said.
My stomach clenched as I thought back to the moment the attack occurred. My vision swam and my thoughts instinctively scrambled to bury the scene but I refused to let my mind pull back.
“There might be something…” I said, looking up.
Both Mrs. Montford and Mr. Jerome turned to look at me.
“What is it, girl?” Mrs. Montford snapped. “What have you been hiding?”
“I have not hidden anything,” I said. “I simply thought one detail I saw meant nothing. But perhaps I was wrong, perhaps it is a clue.”
“What did you see?” Mr. Jerome asked intently.
As I looked up at him, the same doubt washed over me as when I had considered the information the last time he and I had spoken. “It likely means nothing. That is, if I even saw what I thought I saw—”
“Enough,” Mrs. Montford snapped. “Speak.”
I licked my dry lips. “I believe… I believe I saw a star that night…in the killer’s blade.”
Mr. Jerome’s head tilted slightly and Mrs. Montford’s eyes narrowed.
“Star?” she repeated. “What sort of star? In the sky, reflected off the metal?”
“No,” I said. “Etched or carved through the blade itself. Black as night but a perfect shape. A five-pointed star. I would not have seen it at all had the struggling men not moved beneath a narrow strip of light from a streetlamp. It was only a brief glimpse.”
Mr. Jerome sat back, scratching the length of his jaw, leaving a pink trail of agitated skin behind.
“I cannot explain it myself,” I said. “I thought it strange, thought I must have imagined it.”
“It is unlikely that your memory can be fully trusted,” Mrs. Montford agreed. “As frightened as you must have been, relying on details that must have come and gone so quickly is foolish.”
“Still…” Mr. Jerome said, considering. “It might be all we have to find the killer.”
“What if there was no star?” Mrs. Montford asked. “What if it was nothing more than a trick of the light? He was some distance from you.”
“Yes, I thought the same,” I said. “Yet the shape itself seemed so distinct.”
Mrs. Montford studied me for a long, hard moment, her eyes unreadable. “I want nothing more than to believe you,” she said. “But how much do you believe it yourself?”
I hesitated. “I…do not know, ma’am. I cannot be certain it is what I saw.”
Mrs. Montford sighed. “That is what I was afraid of.”
“I believe her,” Mr. Jerome said.
I looked up, surprised at his confidence that even I did not share.
“Now is not the time to be noble, Jerome,” Mrs. Montford said. “The authorities will need something more
tangible. More provable.”
“It may be the key,” he said.
“I realize that the authorities mean well, but as you said, it seems they may not continue the search for much longer,” Mrs. Montford said.
“Which is why this detail could prove to be very important,” Mr. Jerome said.
She sighed, searching his face. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why have you so inserted yourself into this matter?”
“As I said, I wish to protect you,” he said, and then looked at me. “To protect you both.”
“That is very honorable,” Mrs. Montford said. “However, you—”
“My dear aunt, I know that you want for me to leave this in the hands of the authorities,” he said, cutting her off. “However, they may not pursue it the same way, or with the same intensity, as they would if this were happening to a member of their own family.”
Mrs. Montford considered those words and said nothing in response.
“As your nephew, I feel it my duty to ensure that you and all your household remain safe,” he said.
He then looked across the table and said the words to me.
“I will do whatever I can to make sure that nothing happens to you. I swear it.”
13
“I do not understand it,” I told Selina as we rearranged the parlor in preparation for a Christmas party that Mrs. Montford was to throw that evening for some of her friends. “What drives his insistence on solving this matter? Perhaps investigating the death of his uncle has caused him to develop a taste for danger. Does it thrill Mr. Jerome to insert himself into dangerous situations?”
Selina looked up from the tray she was arranging gold-trimmed glasses upon, rolling her eyes. “Some might well ask you the same question,” she pointed out, lifting the tray and carrying it to the buffet along the side wall. “Perhaps you both share the same weakness, the same need to answer all the questions that might be better left alone.”
I frowned at her as I hoisted another pillow from the sofa and gave it a few good shakes to fluff the stuffing within. “It seems so bizarre,” I said. “He knows as well as I that it is quite a risk he is taking—”