Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  “Father Joseph—”

  The priest ignored him and ushered James and the rest through the door, and then stepped out to help Mrs. Wylit up the stairs. Inside was a small, quaint sitting room upholstered entirely in faded floral prints, none of which matched one another. The priest helped Mrs. Wylit onto a couch and sat beside her. She fanned herself with her hand a few moments. “Don’t mind me,” she mumbled, “I’m just a little broken is all.”

  “I’m sorry your friend is poorly,” the sandy-haired man said to the trio that lingered near the door. He removed his glasses and polished them on his shirtsleeve. “But I’m afraid I don’t want whatever it is your selling. I hate to hurry you along, but it’s not a good time — my aunt is ill.”

  Arthur looked pointedly at James, who said, “Your aunt wouldn’t happen to be Mrs. Louise Galhad, would she?”

  “Why yes, she is. Do you know her?”

  “We do,” Arthur said. “She was with us at Willowind House during Operation Pied Piper back in ‘42.”

  “Remarkable,” the man exclaimed. “Father Joseph, did you hear that? These blokes were with that class of children that evacuated to Willowind House. That was back when Auntie used to cook for Lady Barlow!” He paused a moment. “And you are...” He raised a bushy eyebrow in Mrs. Wylit’s direction.

  “She’s our...” Arthur looked at James and shrugged.

  “Landlady.” James wasn’t much for the Bible, but it seemed wrong to lie to a priest.

  “Father.” Mrs. Wylit sagged against the young priest’s shoulder. “Walk me over to the church. I want to give confession.”

  Father Joseph’s boyish face glowed with sudden righteousness. “Of course, madam, of course. I can tell that you have burdens to unload.”

  “So many burdens.” As Mrs. Wylit wobbled to her feet, she tossed a little wink in James' direction. Father Joseph led her out of the house, and held her under his umbrella. They disappeared down the lane before Lance shut the door behind them.

  “Your aunt must be very ill,” James said, “if the priest is here.”

  The man snorted. “Oh, it’s nothing like that — just a cold. Father Joseph wanders over here because he knows I have butter biscuits from Sweden. Speaking of which, we were about to have a little nibble. Let me — please, sit, and I’ll get the tray. Auntie is napping, but I can wake her in a bit.”

  “Thank you.” They sank into the worn couches and chairs. James shifted uncomfortably as an errant spring poked into his arse.

  “I’m called Milo, by the way,” the man said as he returned with the tray.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m James Wilde. This is Arthur Pensinger and Lance Benwick.”

  “I’m sure Auntie will be thrilled to see you all grown up. Please, help yourselves. I’ll go wake her.” Milo disappeared up the narrow staircase, his pudgy hand gripping the white painted banister to keep his balance.

  The Swedish butter biscuits were everything they could have hoped for. And so was Mrs. Galhad. A little rounder, her hair now snow-white, but she was still kind and jolly; her small dark eyes glimmered with the same good humor James and Arthur had known all those years before. With Milo’s help, she descended the stairs wrapped in a cavernous flowered dressing gown, her feet stuffed into pink slippers.

  “James and Arthur! My Lord, I never thought you’d come for a visit.” She lurched into Arthur’s arms, and then squished James against her motherly frame. “And I’m sorry dear, I don’t remember your name — were you in James and Arthur’s class as well?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m Lance Benwick. Mr. Marlin’s grandson.”

  “Harold’s grandson? Oh, come here.” She squashed him as well before practically falling into what was clearly her favorite armchair. It had an imprint of her body that she fit into like a key. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to your grandfather’s funeral. I’ve been sick with this terrible cold for weeks now, and my doctor says I’m not to travel. I’m so terribly sorry to hear of his passing.”

  “Thank you.” Lance leaned closer so she could take his hand in hers to pat it like it was a soft kitten. “I miss him very much.”

  “Mr. Marlin was butler in Lady Barlow’s house, wasn’t he?” Milo stirred milk into his tea.

  “Yes indeed. Oh, he was a wonderful soul.” She sighed and clucked. Milo handed her a cuppa, which she accepted and drank as they talked and dipped their biscuits. “And isn’t it lovely that the three of you are friends.” Her eyes flitted from James' face to Arthur’s, and then to Lance’s. Her unspoken question was obvious enough to James — were he and Arthur still together? Yet, he couldn’t answer — not with Milo, an unknown, in the room.

  “Mrs. Galhad,” said Lance, “I must admit we’re here on a bit of an errand. Right before my granddad passed away, he said something about Lady Barlow’s son, Matthew.”

  As soon as the ‘thew’ left his lips, Mrs. Galhad’s pink cheeks washed white. She dropped her biscuit onto the front of her dressing gown.

  “He said...” Lance glanced at James, who nodded. “He said that Matthew is still alive. And he asked me to find him. I took it as his dying wish.”

  “Who’s Matthew?” Milo asked through the butter biscuit in his mouth.

  “Milo, dear, will you go to the shops and get me another bottle of cough medicine? Mine’s nearly gone.” Mrs. Galhad gave a cough for effect that spread crumbs over her hand.

  “I can go later... oh. Er — yes.” Milo read the expectant faces in the room, and to his credit, dutifully put on his wellies and mac, and left the house.

  “So.” Mrs. Galhad sighed and sipped her tea. “So he told you.”

  “Yes.” Lance leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. “But that was all he said. Only that he was alive and he wanted us to find him. We found your address in his things, and my mates here thought that since you were at the house when Matthew lived there, you might know what happened.”

  She pressed her lips together a moment before speaking. “Boys, I want you to think very hard about this for a moment before I go on. First, if I tell you, you must promise to never tell another soul. I don’t know if Mr. Marlin broke the law, but let me say that there were consequences for what was done. Second... sometimes it’s best to let the dead stay dead, if you understand me. Matthew Barlow drowned himself in the river when he was fifteen. That can easily be the end of the story.”

  “Then why did my granddad want us to find out the truth?” Lance fired back with sudden impatience.

  “That I don’t know.” Mrs. Galhad slowly shook her white head. The lines on the sides of her mouth deepened with her frown. “He made me promise to take the secret to my grave.”

  “Please,” James begged, and leaned forward like Lance was. “Please, Mrs. Galhad. Tell us what you know.”

  She bit her lip and let loose another sigh. “All right. But remember — I never told you this. And what I’m going to tell you never happened.”

  The trio nodded.

  “It was late one night. Lord and Lady Barlow had guests over, and I was up late with the kitchen maids putting things away and scrubbing down the pots. I sent the maids off to bed, but decided to stay up and... well, to sneak a bit of dessert. I was sort of, erm, hiding in the dark I suppose you’d say, having a bit of cake, and who comes into the kitchen but Mr. Marlin and Matthew. I was over in the corner on a stool near the stove, and they had nothing but a candle with them. Matthew held the candle while Mr. Marlin went into the pantry and filled a bag with things — sardines and biscuits and the like. I was silent, and they didn’t notice me over in the corner.

  “Matthew added the food to the rucksack on his back, and Mr. Marlin gave him instructions. He told Matthew to go to the river to leave tracks to follow, and then to put stones in his jacket pockets and toss it in the water. Then, Matthew was to follow a sheep trail through the hills to an old churchyard. There he said Mr. Blanchard would meet him. Matthew was crying, but he seemed... resolute. He and Mr. Marlin
embraced, and that’s when he noticed me, sitting there with a damn cake fork in my mouth.

  “Harold said that I must keep quiet and do nothing until he returned. His eyes... well, you know, you’ve got the same eyes, lad.” She motioned to Lance. “The way his eyes looked, I felt I had to listen. And comply. I knew Harold was a good man, and it seemed to me like Matthew was in some kind of trouble. About an hour later, Mr. Marlin returned through the kitchen door, and there I was, just as he left me, on the stool by the stove. He swore me to secrecy, said I was never to tell. He didn’t say what would happen if I did — and I didn’t ask. I respected him too much. I suppose he could have had me sacked. Doesn’t matter — he asked me to keep the secret and I did.

  “Well, the next morning the house was in an uproar. Lady Barlow found Matthew’s suicide note under her bedchamber door. A footman found Matthew’s jacket in the river. The authorities searched, but they never recovered his body. Of course they didn’t.” She gave a soft chuckle. “Matthew was alive. But he was gone. And Mr. Marlin had helped him fake his own death.”

  Mrs. Galhad shook her head. “I never understood why they did it. Of course, we all knew that Matthew and his father were at odds — but so many sons and fathers are the same way. Matthew was fifteen, hot headed, stubborn... I had no idea he was so miserable. Mr. Marlin must have thought it best, even though it nearly destroyed Lady Barlow. I think that’s why he stayed with her to the very end, took such good care of her. He knew what he’d helped Matthew do to her. Why though, for God’s sake, I can’t imagine.”

  They sat in silence for several uncomfortable beats. “Mrs. Galhad.” James broke the country quiet. “I think I know why Matthew felt he had to do what he did. He was... like Arthur and I. If you remember.”

  “I do. I know what the church says, but the two of you were...” she smiled, for the first time since she’d begun her tale, “perfect,” she finished.

  “We also found some papers in Mr. Marlin’s things.” Arthur put his arm around James now that he was free to do so. “They were drafts of Matthew’s suicide note. It was clear. I think Mr. Marlin saved him.”

  “Saved him?” Lance sat up straighter and gave Arthur a quizzical look.

  “I think,” Arthur said as he squeezed James closer for a moment, “I think that if Mr. Marlin hadn’t helped him fake his death, he really would have killed himself. Mr. Marlin gave him another way out.”

  Mrs. Galhad sat back in her chair with a deep sigh. “I understand now. Of course Harold wouldn’t have wanted Lady Barlow to suffer more than she had to. If Matthew was set on ending his life, at least Mr. Marlin could spare her the pain of, say, finding his body, or seeing him dead. Matthew would simply disappear, and Mr. Marlin would be there to help his mother pick up the pieces.” Mrs. Galhad shook her head sorrowfully, and ate another biscuit. “Well. “ She dotted her lips with a small napkin. “Let’s say you chaps find him alive somewhere. What then?”

  James looked at Arthur, and then Lance. They turned back to Mrs. Galhad. “We don’t know,” James said.

  Chapter 16

  In a call box outside Nottingham Station, Arthur rang his mother, Matilda. As usual, she was ecstatic to hear from him, and rambled on for some minutes about his father’s new plastic surgeon, and the artist who had helped create a partial facial prosthetic that looked so much like him before the war that in dim light you could hardly tell the difference. “I know you hated selling that suit of armor,” she said after she’d paused to breathe. “But at least you were able to keep the sword. And you must know how much it meant to your father and me.”

  “‘S all right, Mum.” Arthur kept his voice low to prevent her hearing the nearly unconcealable disappointment threaded through it. “Didn’t fit me anymore anyway. Medieval blokes were shrimps.”

  She laughed gaily. There was a pause, and a crumpling sound as she put the receiver against her ample bosom a moment. “George?” she called. There was no response. She put the phone back up to her ear. “How’s our James?”

  Arthur’s mother knew. She knew everything about him, and he never had to open his mouth and say a single word. He supposed it came from all those years of stuttering — he’d rarely even tried to talk. She was a good mother, and she adapted, learning to read all of his nonverbal signals, sense his moods and needs with almost telepathic certainty. The first time she’d seen him with James, when they’d returned to London, she knew they were more than best friends.

  But they’d never told his father. It was never a “good time” to tell his father. Implying that his father had suffered enough. Mum always said that Arthur’s father, once they’d told him, would learn to accept it, but that his “heart was weak” or “he’s in so much pain.” Arthur had come to believe that his father would die not knowing who he really was.

  “James is...” He gave an impatient sigh, and tried to find the right words. “We’re traveling. I can’t say more. But is there any money from the armor left?”

  She exhaled in shock. “Well, yes. A little. Why?”

  “I need you to wire it to Lloyd’s Bank in Lincoln. Trip’s lasting longer than we thought.”

  “Arthur.” She said his name with suspicious slowness. “You aren’t in any trouble, are you?”

  “No, no.” He knew what she was thinking. Because his identity, who he was, who he loved, it was all illegal, wasn’t it? “Trying to get something done for a friend. It’s important.”

  “All right. There should be a little over forty quid waiting for you, if you think it’ll be enough.”

  “More than enough.”

  “When will you be home?” Matilda asked, no doubt threading the phone cord through her fingers as she always did, ever since he was a child. She was a knitter; her hands hated idleness.

  “Dunno.”

  “Oh, Arthur.”

  He sighed and tried again. “Sorry, but I really don’t know.” What would James say? “The situation is... delicate. ‘N a long story.”

  “Swear to me on Excalibur that you aren’t in trouble.”

  “I swear.”

  “Please ring me as soon as you get back.”

  Arthur rang off and exhaled to make his chest as small as possible. This was necessary to fit out the door of the call box. He pushed to exit and looked up at the plump clock tower that adorned the red brick station. He'd meant to check the time, but found himself musing at the tower’s charmingly pudgy shape. If James had been there at that moment, his first instinct would have been to laugh and share his observation. But James was in the station waiting with Lance and Mrs. Wylit. One of the most important things in his life, Arthur thought, as he shoved his meaty fists into his pockets and hung his head, was that he had someone that he not only loved, but could share everything with, every thought and whim, without fear of judgment or reprisal. He only hoped that James felt the same, that there would never be any secrets between them. But ever since they'd begun this journey, James seemed somehow remote, far away. Arthur longed to be back at the flat, with Mrs. Wylit tucked downstairs, the two of them on the couch watching the new telly.

  They had about an hour to wait for the train to Lincoln. Arthur fingered the coins in his pocket, and went to the newsstand for a paper. Then he returned to the bench where the rumpled crew lounged, baggage tucked between their feet.

  “How’s your mum?” Mrs. Wylit leaned forward toward the match flame that Lance offered her.

  “She’s well.” Arthur tucked the paper under his arm. He locked eyes with James and jerked his head towards an empty bench about three meters away. James stood and followed him. They sat, and Arthur handed him the front page whilst he spread the sports on his lap.

  “Something you want to talk about?” James asked after a few minutes of half-hearted flipping.

  “Wanted you to myself for a few minutes.”

  James gave him a secretive, sideways smile and a chuckle. “Selfish, selfish.”

  “I should apologize properly.” Arthur turned the p
age and pretended to examine the cricket scores. To the passerby, they were two young blokes reading the news. Maybe they didn’t even know each other.

  “For what?”

  “The man in the brown coat.” Arthur licked his finger to flip the page. The newsprint came up black on his thumb. “Should have told you right away about what I saw back in Meopham.”

  “There’s loads of things on your mind right now. On all of our minds. I could see why you...” James trailed off.

  “I didn’t forget about it.” Arthur put his elbows on his knees with a smart snap of his newspaper. “I chose not to say anything.”

  “Arthur.” James dropped the news into his lap and turned sharply toward his boyfriend.

  “Lower your voice.”

  James obliged him, and lifted the newspaper over his face again. Arthur stole a glance from the corner of his eye. James' cheeks were pink and his eye twitched, his jaw tight. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Thought you were... under stress. I was worried. Didn’t want to play into it if it wasn’t real.” He paused, bit his lip. “But I did chase him for you. ‘N now that you’ve seen him again, I believe it all.”

  “You mean now that Lance has seen him. Look, perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this, all right?”

  “I’m trying to apologize.” Arthur’s hands crumpled the sports page.

  “No need.” James said it breezily, but the color didn’t leave his cheeks. He took a breath, and handed Arthur back the newspaper. “Let’s forget about it.”

  “Don’t you want to try and solve it?” Arthur hissed after him, but James had already walked away. Lance had Mr. Marlin’s little black book, and was triple-checking the last known address of a Mr. William Blanchard.

  ***

  The summer rain began again as their train pulled away from Nottingham Station, headed up to Lincoln. It was a short ride, and the little storm had worn itself out by then, a child throwing a temper tantrum. As the clouds cleared, James' tea called to him, and he left their cabin to find the loo. He was forced to pass three chaps in football scarves who loitered in the hallway, probably on their way to a match. James walked quickly, with his shoulders hunched, as images of Morgan and the gas mask flitted through his brain. They ignored him, God be praised, too busy shoving one another’s shoulders and laughing.