“Mrs. Wylit!—” Lance’s mother’s exclamation cut off as Mrs. Wylit burst through the bedroom door with Alice at her heels.
“I need to go to the shops.” Mrs. Wylit hugged her arms over her chest. Her yellowed nails tapped madly on the crook of her arm. “I need cigarettes.”
And a bottle of whiskey, James thought darkly. “We’re right in the middle—”
“Now.” The wild hunger flashing in her bloodshot eyes urged him to cease his protestations.
“All right,” James relented. “You two have a look through the address book and try to decide where we’re headed. I’ll take her into the village.”
“I’ll do it,” Arthur stepped forward to loom over Mrs. Wylit’s frizzy head. “I can handle her if... well, you know.”
“No, I want James to take me.” Mrs. Wylit pointed a claw at her desired companion.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Mrs. Benwick backed up out of the doorframe and allowed Arthur to steer Mrs. Wylit outside by the shoulders.
She struggled. “No, you send James with me, I want James!”
“Careful, Vi, you’ll hurt his feelings,” James called after them.
Mrs. Benwick shot her son a look of pure, venomous annoyance. “Tonight, I want a peaceful house,” she said, her voice cool, but low, and dangerous. “I think we’re owed a bit of rest after burying your granddad.”
“Mrs. Benwick, I am so terribly so—” James tried, but she shut the door.
Lance turned to him, and scratched the back of his head, eyes squinted in a rueful expression. “We’ve got to shove off, or she might murder me.”
“I ought to apologize to you as well.” James knelt down to avoid Lance’s gaze, and folded up Mr. Marlin’s uniform with delicate fingers. “I can’t believe Mrs. Wylit followed us up here.”
“Well, I think she’s a holy fool.” Lance dropped his knees to help pack things away. “Or the jester in a Shakespearean play. Speaking the truth when nobody else can.”
The bedroom door shuddered and burst open again. Mrs. Wylit made it one step inside before Arthur’s meaty forearms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off her feet. “You’re not looking hard enough,” she shouted before being carried away back down the hall and out the front door. “Look for the yellow!”
She shouted on about yellow until the slamming front door cut her off. Lance jumped up and shut his door against the barrage of “bloody this” and “bloody that” emanating from his father’s chair in the living room.
“We’d better hurry.” Lance picked up the family bible and prepared to replace it in the box. As he did so, the ancient cover flapped open, and a small yellow envelope fell free from where it had been tucked in the pages.
Lance and James stared at it where it fell on the edge of the rug, one corner on the dusty wooden floor.
“L-look for the yellow,” James whispered, wide-eyed, and then knelt down to snatch up the envelope.
As he picked up the envelope, James turned to look at Lance, who was kneeling to position himself beside James. James bonked his eyebrow right into Lance’s knee, lost his balance from the balls of his feet, and fell sideways onto the floor. He saw stars for a moment before Lance’s concerned face swam into focus.
“Oh, now I’ve gone and done it.” Lance gathered James up by his elbows and hauled him to his feet. “Sorry, mate, entirely my fault.”
“It’s nothing.” James cupped his hand over his eye. His eyebrow stung, a dull ache beneath the surface. “Clumsy of me.”
“Let me see.” Lance took James' wrist and led him a step closer to the window’s summer light. “Move your hand.”
James dropped his fingers. He blinked with a series of rapid grimaces. The eye watered a bit, but seemed undamaged. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“I don’t think it’ll bruise,” Lance said.
And then, simultaneously, they each realized that Lance still had his warm hand attached to James' cool, slender wrist.
Lance let go immediately and James stepped back and cleared his throat. James’s cheeks prickled with heat. “Stay still this time, I’ll get it.” James bent and scooped up the envelope, which could have started its life as a creamy white, but had aged to a tell-tale yellow.
“What did I tell you? Holy fool.” Lance took it from James' outstretched fingers. The flap was unsealed, and Lance lifted out a bundle of thin papers. He unfolded them one at a time and set them out on his desk for James to see. They were letters, clearly, but the penmanship was haphazard, and each page was marred with savagely scratched out words and paragraphs.
James lifted one of the letters between his fingertips and squinted at it. “Dear Mother, I regret to inform you that I plan to end my life... Though I love you... Father never understood...”
Lance tapped the desk and James set the delicate paper back down. Frowning, Lance stroked his square chin and studied the letters a moment before slowly rearranging their order on the desk. “Do you see it?”
“They’re drafts. Each one longer than the next. This one seems the most finished, do you agree?”
“Let’s see if we can make it out.” Lance opened his middle desk drawer and removed a magnifying glass to aid their toil.
Dear family,
I have lived in this world for fifteen years. Many of them have been miserable, but not all. I remember the happy times as a child. I remember Father picking me up and swinging me around, or playing soldiers with me all afternoon. I remember a time before Mother was afraid to kiss me or brush my hair, before she was accused of sissifying me. Life was happy. Life was beautiful. It is precisely because I remember what a happy life could be like that I have decided that I can no longer live in the misery my existence has become.
What kind of life can I expect to live? One of secrets, of shame? Shall I be an actor in a play, portraying a role for the rest of my life? Pretending to love some poor wife, forever keeping my true feelings in the shadows? Or should I loudly and publicly proclaim who and what I really am, and go to prison or to my death?
If these are the paths offered to me, I choose to steer off the road and over the cliff into the sea.
Mother, I know you tried to protect me as long as you could. I love you for that. But once Father knew, your protection wasn’t enough. I know you felt as trapped as I, limited by the laws and Father’s indignation. I know this will cause you pain, but it’s for the best. I can’t help but feel as though I never should have been born. I know you never said as much to me, but your late age at the time of my birth, with my siblings so much older, speaks for itself. I was an accident. I should not be here. I do not belong on this earth.
I do wish to extend my unending gratitude to Mr. Marlin and Mrs. Galhad for their kindness. There were countless times Mr. Marlin found me crying in the garden or in my chamber, and dried my tears. Of course, he knew nothing of why I suffered, but he offered silent solace and companionship. There were many nights that I sat up in the kitchen with Mrs. Galhad, drinking warm milk until past midnight and talking about everything in life. She, too, knew nothing of my secret, but offered a listening ear and unending patience. Strange how a young man’s servants should be closer to him than his own family. To Mr. Marlin and Mrs. Galhad, I am truly sorry for any trouble I caused you. For you both, it is better this way.
The moment that John and I were discovered in the forest was the moment my life crumbled away to nothing. I know it is too much to hope that whoever is reading this will carry my message, but please, please tell John how much I felt for him, and how sorry I am that he was dragged into this horrid predicament because of me.
I hope that death will not be painful, and that it will not take long to drown. I have put stones in my pockets. The river is deep, and the currents swift. I hope when we meet in heaven that we are able to love and understand each other once again.
Goodbye.
Matthew Barlow
“Crikey.” Lance squinted through the magnifying glass.
“It
’s Matthew’s suicide note,” James said. Lance glanced up in surprise at the sound of his utterance, its cracked quality. James swiped the heel of his hand against his face hurriedly, then sniffed and coughed casually. “These must have been his attempts before he got the words right.”
“Here I was, ready to make a little joke — lad’s rather hyperbolic, I mean, fifteen, you know — a little gallows humor, perhaps — but you’re upset.” Lance squeezed James' shoulder with his free hand, and his gesture of reassurance made his eyes leak further.
“I’m all right.” James sighed and accepted Lance’s handkerchief. “I feel like all I’ve been doing is crying these past few days. For God’s sake, he was your granddad, wasn’t he? But this...” He sniffed again and gestured to the note. “Don’t you see? Matthew... Matthew was like Arthur and me. I remember Nim told me as much. And all of his pain, written out here, God, it’s... it’s like I wrote it myself, do you see?”
“I do. I understand.” Lance kept his large palms on James' shoulders, and squeezed them again to emphasize his promise.
“There were so many times when I... when I thought about...” He took a breath and tried again. “When I thought about doing the same thing to myself, Lance. Arthur was the same way. Even as little children we contemplated it. Throwing ourselves in front of a train, diving into a river, drinking poison — and we were children! If we hadn’t found each other during Pied Piper, with Nim’s help, and Mr. Marlin’s protection, this same thing might have happened to us.”
Lance shifted his weight awkwardly and dropped his arms. He bit his lip. “Don’t... don’t think about it, James. Look, ah... well, you did find each other, and Granddad said Matthew is alive, so perhaps he never went through with it all.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being childish.” James wiped his face and gave Lance the handkerchief back.
“It’s all right.” He accepted the damp cloth back and tucked it in his pocket. “It’s that I can’t stand to see you like this. It’s breaking my heart.” He knuckled James' face with a gentle fist. “So chin up, yeah? Look, if you ask me, Matthew was dead set on making it appear as though Mr. Marlin and Mrs. Galhad knew absolutely nothing about his secret. I mean, what that says to me is that they did know. They must have known, based on how close they seemed to be. I bet Matthew took them into his confidence.”
“I think you’re right.” James' voice returned to its usual cadence. “Well, unfortunately we can’t ask Mr. Marlin. But perhaps we could ask Mrs. Galhad. She might know what happened all those years ago.”
“Right. Let’s see.” Lance stepped over to the bed and picked up Mr. Marlin’s black book to flip through the entries. “Here.” He tapped the book with a triumphant finger, and read the entry to James, “Louise Galhad. Church Lane, Welby. Lincolnshire.”
Chapter 7
Arthur knew that the bottle in the brown bag Mrs. Wylit had in her hand when she left the shop wasn’t cough medicine, but he didn’t speak up. James, he knew, would have said something. Despite his small stature, James always spoke up when it counted. Arthur wasn’t as brave or as forthcoming, at least not when it came to causing a scene. It was bad enough being the tallest person in the village tagging along after the perpetually rumpled Mrs. Wylit like her guard dog, with all eyes glued to them as they went from shop to shop.
“Did you get everything you needed?” he asked as they strolled down the lane in the vague direction of the Benwick cottage. Arthur was in no hurry to return — stalling Mrs. Wylit would give Lance and James time to figure out their next move, and prevent Lance from being slapped to death by his mother.
“For a tall man, you do like to drag your feet.” Mrs. Wylit hustled him forward. “Come on, will you? We need to get back there.”
“So they can toss you out properly? The last time wasn’t enough?” Arthur grumbled as Mrs. Wylit scurried ahead with her parcels, a trail of smoke behind her. “You’re not going back there, you do know that, don’t you?”
Mrs. Wylit stopped, and let Arthur catch up to her. “James and that boy,” she started, then groaned, and put her fingers into her temples a moment. “Why is it so bloody bright out?”
“It’s daylight.” Arthur stepped aside on the walk so a couple of old ladies could pass by with their shopping bags. The gray-hairs stared unabashedly at them as they shuffled past. “Morning.” He nodded to each of them. When they finally turned away, he leaned closer to Mrs. Wylit, who dug fruitlessly in her purse for something. “Why don’t we go sit on the green? It’s a lovely day.”
“Lovely and burning me eyeballs out of me skull.” Mrs Wylit rammed a pair of scratched tortoise-shell sunglasses onto her face. “Now, we really ought to go back. You know I can’t tell you, well, you know I can’t tell you exactly why, but—”
“Hush.” Though Arthur had been mired in the stares of other people all morning, and should have been immune to one more person, something caught his eye. There was a man standing in front of the book store, looking at the sales rack out on the walkway. However, as Arthur’s eyes adjusted for the sun’s brightness, and the distance, it was clear the man was watching him, as well. The man was wearing an old-fashioned long brown coat, much like the one James had mentioned. He couldn’t say for certain, but it was too much of a coincidence for it not to be the same man he’d seen loitering about after Mr. Marlin’s funeral.
“Come.” He took Mrs. Wylit’s arm in a steely grip. She squawked in protest, and tried to light a cigarette and shuffle along next to him at the same time as he strode toward the bookshop up the road. Her protestations drew many looks, and easily alerted the man in the brown coat. As it became clear that Arthur was intent on approaching, the man stepped into the book shop. Arthur dragged Mrs. Wylit inside, past the brick storefront’s hand-painted sign and flower boxes spilling over with begonias, vinca vines, and purple and pink petunias.
The bookshop was cramped, the walls lined with built-in shelves and the floor dangerous with haphazard piles and half-unpacked crates. Near the front was a large wooden counter topped with an ancient cash register. Behind it sat a young woman with fine white-blonde hair. She didn’t acknowledge them and instead gnawed on her fingernail, eyes wide, fixated on a copy of Other Voices, Other Rooms. The author’s rather sensual portrait on the back of the dust jacket made Arthur look twice before scanning the small shop for the man. Nothing.
“Did a man just come in?” Arthur demanded, without greeting or explanation.
“Oh, I’ve been wanting to read that one.” Mrs. Wylit thrust the tip of her cigarette in the shopgirl’s direction.
The girl started, and slammed the book down so that the cover was pressed up against the wood of the counter. “Yes, what? Oh, this? Someone in the village ordered it, it’s not mine.”
“Did a man just come in?” Arthur repeated. “A man in a brown coat?”
“A man in a brown coat? Erm... well, I don’t see anyone in here.” The shopgirl craned her slender neck to look around the shop. “Why would anyone be wearing a coat? It’s delightful out. Though my gran says rain this afternoon.”
“Is there a back door? A loo?”
“Right through there.” She pointed to a small dark hallway that led off of the main shop.
“Stay here.” Arthur sidestepped the piles of books and darted down the hallway with long strides.
“I ought to evict you for dragging me around like this. I think you’ve bruised me.” Mrs. Wylit’s words grew fainter as he moved down the cramped hall with the peeling plaster. He shoved open the flimsy door to the grimy restroom. Empty. At the end of the hall was another door. Arthur shoved it open and found himself in the alley next to a rubbish bin. The old cobbled alleyway was empty save for a scabby cat that regarded him with contempt from a low wall.
Arthur cursed, and went back to the front counter, where Mrs. Wylit was enjoying a good chinwag with the shopgirl. “Now, what you’ve got to read next is Orlando.”
“Oh yes. I can’t wait to get into that one.�
� The girl brought the cigarette that Mrs. Wylit had undoubtedly given her to her mouth in a jerky, unpracticed motion. She tried to inhale and coughed.
“Hold on, luv, let me get you something to wet your—”
Arthur’s hand closed around Mrs. Wylit’s wrist as she reached into the parcel bag for the bottle. “No. We’re leaving now.”
“I was only being personable,” Mrs. Wylit protested as Arthur dragged her out into the sunshine again. “Now where are we going? Who was that you were chasing?”
“I don’t know.” They crossed the lazy street, headed back toward the Benwick cottage. “But he saw me notice him. And he did a runner. I need to tell James.”
“Oh, so now we’re going back because you want to.” Mrs. Wylit flicked her cigarette into the flowerbed of a nearby home.
They returned to find James and Lance on the front steps of the little house, sitting in front of the packed luggage, their knees close, heads bowed in confidential whispers. Something circled Arthur’s heart and gave it a sudden, sharp squeeze; he burped, and blamed it on the greasy breakfast. The feeling slid away. As he opened up his mouth to tell James about the man in the brown coat, Lance leapt up from the stoop and tossed Arthur’s suitcase at him. He caught it with a small grunt.
“Great reflexes, mate.” He gave Arthur’s shoulder a playful punch. “Did you play rugby?”
“What, and endanger everyone on the field?” James stood as well, and smiled up into Arthur’s face, cheeks pink with humor and pride. His smile melted down the sides of his mouth when he saw Mrs. Wylit’s laden grocer’s bag. “Good God, Vi, how much liquor did you buy?”
“There now. You’ve made a rhyme.” Mrs. Wylit struggled to light a cigarette with her free hand. “It’s provisions for our journey, of course.” She tipped the bag lower so he could see the apples and biscuit boxes inside. “Lot of thanks I get, trying to keep you healthy and fed.”
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