The dam broke, and Mrs. Wylit pitched her face into his chest. Her sobs shook her uncontrollably as her loose fist beat the pillow and James' stomach. James let her strike him for a few moments before he anchored her arm under his. Her tears and spit soaked his shirt. He lay in silence and held her.
“Sean — never — forgave — me,” she hiccupped after several long minutes.
“You never forgave yourself.”
She bucked in his arms again and renewed her wails, though they were muffled against his shirt and suspenders. They went on for what felt like hours. James lay with her until he felt his muscles would give out from applying the constant pressure it took to keep her still. At last, he had to relax his grip. She was a stone woman in his arms. James eased himself away and settled her down on the pillows. Vi was fast asleep, her face that of a plaster saint.
He stepped away from the bed on trembling legs, folded the coverlet up to her chin, and shut the bedroom door.
It had been some time since they’d slept in any relative comfort or privacy. The flat had two bedrooms and a recently updated loo that James knew he ought to take advantage of— have a real shave and a shower, air out his clothes, wash a few items in the sink. Yet, he found himself on the sofa near the window with a random novel he’d found on a shelf. He pretended to read it in the low lamplight, and checked out the window every few moments for Arthur and Lance.
Despite what Mrs. Wylit had said, he became convinced, as the hours passed, that Lance and Arthur had been caught and arrested. Of course Arthur could defend himself in lock-up, and he would protect Lance. But if there was any notion, any inkling by prisoner or bobby as to their sexuality, they would be in real danger. There were criminal charges for that, too, layered on top of the trespassing and burglary.
James had just made up his mind to pick up the flat’s telephone and ask the operator to connect him to the local police station when elated laughter floated through the open window. He leapt out of his seat to look. There was Arthur, with Lance at his side, the two of them chuckling like a couple of school mates. Arthur carried a battered leather suitcase at his side. James' breath whooshed from his lungs and his muscles relaxed, so much so that he had to flop back down onto the sofa to avoid falling to the floor.
He rose to his watery legs as their heavy-footed steps stomped up the stairs. James managed to stand as Arthur opened the door with a hollow thud as it swung into the wall. “So then, so then I said,” Lance giggled from behind Arthur’s hulking shape, “so then I said, ‘who invited Buddy Holly?’”
Arthur’s shoulders shook as he tried to stifle the laughter and shove it back down his throat. “Ssshh.”
“Come in and shut the door,” James ordered, and Lance complied. “Where have you been? I was worried to death. Hush, now, Vi’s asleep.”
“She could sleep through Gabriel’s trumpet.” Lance kicked off his shoes and stumbled a bit to the side. He caught himself on the wall and grinned at James from beneath a sheaf of his wheat-blonde hair. Then he winced, righted himself, and gently rubbed his midsection and ribs.
“Are you drunk?” James looked from one to the other. Instead of answering, Arthur clomped over to the small oval table in the kitchen. James managed to move the candle holder and the doily beneath it out of the way before Arthur slammed down the suitcase.
“You’re both pissed, aren’t you?” Impressive, James thought. It took a solid ten pints for Arthur to really feel the effects. No wonder they’d been gone for hours.
“Well, we had to celebrate a... theft well-burgled.” Lance punched Arthur’s meaty shoulder. “And have a good long chat, right Artie?”
James gaped at them. Arthur had never let anyone call him Artie. James hadn’t ever wanted to, but even Arthur’s parents never called him Artie.
Lance winced and pulled his shirt free of his pants. He hiked it up to display his flat, hairless stomach. “Not bruised up yet,” he slurred, “but I’m sure it’ll be purple in the morning, eh?”
“What happened?” James demanded.
“Scuffle at the pub.” Arthur drove his elbow into Lance’s shoulder for a quick jab. “Got the suitcase, all right? Are we going to open it, then?” Arthur spun the case around to face James' side of the little table.
James set down the candle holder and doily on the kitchen counter, and unbuckled the leather strips that held the case closed. The hinges were rusty, and the suitcase opened with a resistant moan.
It was sad, really, how little Mr. Blanchard possessed at the end of his life. Inside the case was a military dress uniform littered with moth holes. There were a few books, a stereoscope with a set of stereographs depicting images of the French Riviera, and a pile of old photographs.
“Look at this one.” James lifted a weathered image of a pack of Tommies lounging in front of a white tent. Some were seated on crates with their legs balanced on gunny sacks. They wore their uniforms, complete with forage caps, but were clearly at ease, arms around one another. “Lance, this has to be the young Mr. Marlin. He looks exactly like you. Look, there.”
The soldier farthest to the right sported a dark, swooping mustache, but otherwise seemed an exact copy of Lance’s face.
Lance smiled, and held the photo closer to the light. “That’s Granddad, all right. And one of these others must have been Mr. Blanchard.”
James set aside the crumbling photos with careful fingers, and moved a worn pair of shoes out of the way. There was a small box that contained a dried boutineer and woman’s wrist corsage, a couple of buttons, and a few foreign coins. The suitcase was empty now, except for a yellowed manila envelope. James lifted it and used two fingers to gently coax it open. He turned it over, and a packet of papers slid out onto the table.
“D’you think there’s anything to eat in here?” Lance groaned as he sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
“Really, Lance, now?” James sifted through the pile of papers. There were some old love letters, addressed to someone named Ellie, and Mr. Blanchard’s birth certificate. There were also two death certificates for a Mrs. Clara Blanchard and a Mr. Maximilian Blanchard. “Based on the dates,” James mused, as he squinted at the spindly handwriting of the county coroner, “these must be his parents.”
“Where did it say they’re from?” Lance asked as he opened and shut cupboard doors.
“Bath.”
Lance shrugged. “Well, I suppose we could go there and ask everyone in town if they knew the Blanchards.”
“We have their former address,” James said. “We could start there.”
“Seems like a long shot.” Arthur crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
“I hope we find something—” James' breath caught in his throat as he unfolded the final piece of paper from the bundle. His eyes shot over the page like a train cutting through the countryside. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.” He turned the paper to face them. It was curled on the edges and covered with professional-looking calligraphy and smeared typeface. “If I’m reading this correctly, this is the deed to a cottage in Portree on the Isle of Skye. And look here.”
James' finger indicated where someone, probably Mr. Blanchard himself, had penciled one word in the margin of the legal document. The word was MATTHEW.
They stayed up a few hours more speculating. Of course, after Matthew Barlow pretended to commit suicide, he’d need a place to live that was off the beaten path, a place no one would recognize him. Mr. Marlin or Mr. Blanchard had purchased the cottage in the far northwestern region of the Scottish Highlands. They couldn’t be sure he was still there, by any means, but it was a clue, a direction so desperately needed.
At last, exhausted, they turned in to sleep as the dawn pinkened the horizon. Lance curled up on the sofa in the living room. James checked on Mrs. Wylit. She hadn’t moved since he’d left her. He returned to the other bedroom to find Arthur undressing. James closed the curtains and turned out all the lights except the small lamp next to their be
d.
Arthur closed the door behind them.
It had been an endless span of days, it seemed, since they’d had a bedroom to themselves, and any semblance of privacy. Still, they had to be silent, but they were used to it — the walls of Mrs. Wylit’s house were thin enough to warrant caution.
They made love. After, James dozed in his partner’s arms as tiny fingers of dawn crept through the lacy curtains.
Arthur shifted, and James turned to him. They lay forehead to forehead. Arthur stared into James' face with the intensity of someone trying to, perhaps, memorize something they wouldn’t see again for quite some time. James was sleepy, but the sad wistfulness of Arthur’s expression needled him. He opened his mouth to speak. “What’s—”
“There’s—” Arthur said at the same moment.
James paused. “You first,” he prompted after a time.
“Nothing,” Arthur said. “You were saying...”
James swallowed. “N-nothing. I forget what I was going to say.” He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so exhausted.”
When he turned back, Arthur was still staring at him.
“Aren’t you tired?” James asked.
“Yes.”
“We should get some rest.” James kissed Arthur’s lower lip, a brief peck, and closed his eyes.
“Suppose so.” Arthur turned away from him and pulled up the blankets.
James stared at the back of Arthur’s head, dread gnawing at his guts, until he had no choice but to fall asleep.
Chapter 24
James closed his fingers, still pink and wrinkled from his morning bath, around the cool porcelain door knob and turned it. Mrs. Wylit’s room was dark, and the air was stale and close. A scent lingered, but he was unable to place it — the smell was a bitter mix of old cigarettes, perfume, dust, and human body, but something else, too. Something salty. A scent of sorrow.
Mrs. Wylit lay in the exact same position he’d left her the previous night. Her hair was slick with sweat, and stuck in clumps on her pale face. Shadows hung beneath her eyelashes.
James reached out to shake her shoulder, but his fingers froze in mid air. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. A horrid thought clawed its way through his mind — what if she was dead? He could imagine the terrible stiff coldness of her flesh were he to touch her skin.
Instead, he went to the window and pushed the curtains aside. With some effort, he drew up the window sash. Mellow summer morning light barged in, along with the sounds of cars and tourists on the street, but she did not move, even as the light fell over her bed.
He waited a few moments more, and then opened Mrs. Wylit’s shapeless bag to gather her belongings. He laid out her blouse, which had dried overnight, the wrinkles pressed away with a warm cooking pan. As he straightened the doilies and china nicknacks on the dresser, he paused a moment to click on the wireless. With luck, it would rouse Mrs. Wylit.
It was the serial drama “Legends of Camelot.” James laughed aloud. It felt like years ago when he’d last tuned in. God, was that the day of the coronation? It seemed an unfathomable distance. A lifetime ago.
“-broken, Merlin,” the actor playing Arthur lamented over the airwaves. “My beloved Guinevere, the beautiful queen of Camelot, the apple of my eye, has been unfaithful to me.”
“It was as I foresaw in my crystal ball,” Merlin reminded His Majesty, a rather rotten dig at an already broken man, James thought.
“And if that was not painful enough,” the king went on, “my most valiant knight, a man I called my brother...” his voice caught in a crackle of static, “...Lancelot.”
“What is to be done with them, Arthur?” the creaky-voiced wizard asked.
“Some are—” The king’s voice hitched once more. “Some are calling for the queen’s execution. By fire. The same death suffered by witches for time immemorial.”
“It would fulfill your subjects’ thirst for justice.”
“Lancelot will be banished forevermore,” Arthur proclaimed, “though it pains me greatly to think I will never see my friend again. And I cannot— I cannot see how I could harm Guinevere. The Abbess of Carfax came to visit, and she offered Guinevere a place in the nunnery. She would spend the rest of her days in prayer, and ministering to the sick.”
“Perhaps you should accept her offer, my king.”
“What is your wisdom, great Merlin? Please, old friend — I am in desperate need of your council.”
The old man sighed. “I am afraid the decision is yours, Majesty. But I can tell you that the age of our great kingdom — the Age of Camelot — is drawing to a close. The sun sets upon us, Arthur.”
The king groaned in sorrow. “What am I to do?”
The radio announcer broke in. “Tune in next week for the stunning conclusion of ‘Legends of Camelot’.”
An advert for dish soap came on, and James blinked. He realized he’d been rooted to the spot, staring at the wireless, locked onto the actors’ words. He shook his head and turned.
Mrs. Wylit’s vast, watery eyes stared at him beneath her matted brown curls. “Whatever will King Arthur do? It’s too bad, really. Merlin warned him something like this would happen.”
James' cheeks flooded with blood. “It’s an asinine program. It’s hardly based on the old legends or even the source material. De Troyes and Tennyson must be rolling in their graves.”
She said nothing. Her eyes were those of an old animal, a dog perhaps, sick or injured, aware in some instinctive way that it was dying.
“They brought back the suitcase of Mr. Blanchard’s things last night.” He pointed to her clothes, laid out carefully on a nearby chair. “We found the deed to a cottage in Scotland. He’d written ‘Matthew’ right on it in pencil, if you can believe it. So, you might want to get ready. I went to the market for breakfast things. After we eat, Lance is going to the train station for tickets. We’ll leave this afternoon.”
Mrs. Wylit sat up in bed and attempted to smooth down her hair. Her hands quivered violently, the quaking white claws tipped with chipping red.
James went to Mrs. Wylit’s bag and removed the liquor bottle he’d managed to buy from a man mopping up last night’s pub mess. He uncapped it and tried to hand it to her.
She pushed it away.
“Doctor’s orders, remember?”
She nodded and took a swig, her eyes averted. “I can dress myself,” she said after a time. “I’m not the queen.”
“All right.” He left, and closed the door.
Hours later, they’d returned the flat keys to the owner by way of a trusted bookstore owner, and boarded an overnight train to Inverness. Mrs. Wylit was ill. She shook and clung to James, even when he pleaded with her for release after several hours. People in the observation car stared at them openly as he helped her back and forth to the loo. He managed to convince her to take a few sips here and there. After what seemed like ages, Arthur seemed to have sensed James' discomfort and took over. It wasn’t like him, James thought, to be so unobservant, so downright unresponsive to James' needs.
James excused himself to one of their two sleeper cabins to lie down and marinate in his knowledge that everything was terrible. It had been, ever since they’d stayed the night in the church. Come now, he scolded himself as he put his arms behind his head on the stiff train mattress. We’re almost there. Matthew’s got to be on Skye somewhere. Or someone who knows what became of him. You’re doing right by Mr. Marlin. The end is near — it has to be.
But these thoughts did not soothe him, and neither did the rocking of the train. Because when it was all over, of course he would be relieved, pleased even, to have fulfilled the quest given to them by a dear friend on his deathbed, but what about after? After they returned to London, to the flat. Would things between him and Arthur still feel so... strained? Strange? And what about Lance? Would he make good on his promise and move to the city, or would he return to his old life? Part of James hoped the latter was the case. In one way it
was awful to think of, but if Lance was out of their lives, perhaps there would never be a need to tell their secret.
He groaned and rolled onto his side. After a time, his sulk bored him, and he returned to the observation car. Mrs. Wylit, apparently, had hobbled to the smoking car on her own, and left Lance and Arthur to discuss Matthew, Mr. Marlin, their adventures over the last several days, and eventually, the cricket scores. There was something exclusive and chummy about how they spoke to one another now. Bonded, James thought, over their burglary of the suitcase. Either way, he felt sulky and excluded again, and decided to check on Mrs. Wylit.
He found her clinging to a cigarette, hunched up on the window, a ragged doll crammed against the seat. She eyed him as he sank down next to her on the cushioned bench.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugged, eyes on the window and the deep evening countryside. “Rotten. Sick. But it’s odd. Also a bit... light.”
It was times like these (rare times, but they did happen) that James wished he smoked. It would give him something to do with his hands. “You never—I mean, well, Arthur and I...” He fumbled for a few long moments. “You never mentioned.”
“My daughter?” She exhaled fumes.
He nodded.
She tapped ash into the tray built into the arm of the seat. “My mum used to think our house in Whitechapel was haunted. It wasn’t far from one of the places where Jack did his business.”
She put the stick in her mouth and inhaled. He watched her arm shake.
“But she wouldn’t let us talk about it. When something strange would happen, she’d make some big show about it being ‘the ghost’ but if we asked questions, she’d shake us and say, ‘the more you speak of it, the more power it has.’”
She gently extinguished her smoke.
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