The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  Agnes glances at the magpie and realises it cannot be the chick’s mother. It has plundered the nest of a wood pigeon.

  ‘Oh! Well, you had better let it be. Do come inside, Cedric dear.’

  ‘But I want—’

  ‘This instant, young man.’ Her upbraids never sound convincing. No wonder he often ignores them.

  A couple strolling gaze in their direction. Agnes smiles tightly at them, attempting to appear in control of the situation.

  ‘Do as you are told, there’s a good boy.’

  It is the magpie that moves, kicking the chick, making it scream.

  ‘Why is it doing that?’

  She seizes his arm. ‘I must show you something, Cedric.’

  ‘No, don’t!’

  Before he can fend her off, she pulls him inside the house. The stick clasped in his hand leaves a dirty scrape along the hallway wall.

  She elbows the front door shut just in time. The next sound from outside is a terrible squelch.

  Of course she has seen it before: the cannibalism of magpies. It never ceases to appal her. Cedric may love his stories of monsters, but she does not want him to really see a bird turn on its own kind, picking off the young and weak with no compunction for its atrocity.

  ‘Auntie Aggie, you’re hurting me.’

  She drops his arm at once. ‘Do forgive me, Ced. But I would not have to pull you about if you heeded me when I speak to you. Those birds can spread all manner of disease and I want you far away from them. It is for your own good, dear.’

  He cocks his fair head to consider this. Or perhaps he is listening to the disturbing, wet noises creeping through the door.

  ‘Is the baby bird eating his breakfast?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ she says hurriedly. ‘Yes, he is eating. Now you must go along to the kitchen and eat too. I have made your favourite: egg fritters. Chop-chop.’ She shoos him with her hands.

  Sighing, Cedric trudges towards the back of the house, dragging his stick on the floor behind him, as if she has denied him some unparalleled treat. A great knot of love and frustration tightens inside her chest.

  Much as she enjoys seeing him play, he should be above games by now. They take boys into the navy at the age of twelve and can you imagine one of those little midshipmen disobeying an order or running around with a hoop and stick? It is partly her own fault. She has indulged him, bought him Penny Dreadfuls instead of sending him out to work as other families would do. But she thought his father would have made plans for him by now.

  Cedric should have an education. An apprenticeship. He is likely to get neither unless the widowed Mrs Boyle coughs up some coins.

  She picks up her parcel, unfastens the front door and squeezes herself through the smallest opening, taking care to snap it shut behind her so Cedric does not see the magpie’s gruesome work.

  Yesterday’s shower has left puddles on the streets. No rain yet this morning, but filthy rags of cloud strewn across the sky pose the threat. The abbey clock chimes ten. Already nurses are wheeling the crippled and infirm to the Pump Room. One man with a bald pate slides his vacant eyes in Agnes’s direction and she feels a jolt of his confinement. To be trapped, in that manner. Unable to walk where you will. She remembers the days lying sick with pneumonia and quickens her pace, just to prove that she still can.

  By Union Street she regrets it. Her lungs protest with a spasm and her heart gives that great swoop that often proceeds a fainting fit. Chastened, she relapses into her habitual dawdle and turns away from the shops of Milsom Street and Bond Street. A cart has spilled some of its vegetables into the road, where they lie, rotting; a heap of bulbous shapes so dirty that Agnes cannot identify them. The same might be said for all around her. Dull, hopelessly dull. Gritty ash in the air. Birds wheeling like charred scraps from a fire.

  How can bright young Cedric find his future in a place like this?

  Beneath her glove, she twists the ring on her finger. It is the only way she can believe that Montague ever walked these streets. Montague, that man of vivid and impossible colours. He carried something of the places he had seen: a certain spice that spoke of the West Indies, even Africa. He told her of an ocean like aquamarine, so clear you could see the fish swimming in its depths. Rocks where the coral grew orange and pink at the waterline. Miraculous things she would scarcely credit from another mouth, but they are real and they are still out there, somewhere. Beyond her reach, because Montague has left her; left her with nothing but black and white.

  Queen Square is quiet. A few tortured-looking oaks occupy the garden at the centre. Wind has already stripped them, burying their roots in the brown compost of their own leaves. A squirrel watches her from a naked branch, so still it might be a taxidermy model.

  Agnes finds the Boyles’ residence almost at once. There is the telltale straw laid out before it to deaden the sound of wheels and the windows are shuttered fast. She adjusts her grip on the package. Perhaps this was not a wise notion, after all.

  Black material swaddles the brass knocker. It makes a muted, pathetic sound as she lets it fall. Some moments later, the door opens like a tender wound. Behind it is a squat woman dressed in mourning, but the expression upon her face is one of harassment, not grief. Her hands show coarse and red – evidently, Mrs Boyle is comfortable enough to keep a servant.

  ‘I am here to offer my condolences to your mistress.’ Agnes inserts her calling card through the narrow opening before the domestic has a chance to demur. ‘She will not recognise my name, but I was acquainted with her late husband.’

  The woman frowns at it, as if the letters mean nothing to her, but the thick quality of the card must make some impression, for she bids Agnes step inside.

  ‘Don’t know if she’s up to receiving,’ she warns. ‘I’ll check.’

  Still staring at Agnes’s card, she walks through an inner door and shuts it behind her. Agnes can hear the servant’s clomping footsteps and the rumble of voices in conversation.

  She had forgotten all of this: the stale, oppressive atmosphere that follows a death. Unaired rooms, mirrors covered in black fabric. A clock hangs on the wall, but its hands are stopped at ten and she wonders where this time has come from. Mrs Boyle cannot know the minute her husband breathed his last. Is this the hour they discovered the body, or when she received the news?

  It was a mad, half-baked scheme to come. What is she doing here, uninvited, trespassing on a stranger’s grief? She is tempted to slip back outside when the domestic returns, this time without the card.

  ‘She’ll see you. This way.’

  Queen Square has not been a fashionable address for many a year. No one would suspect the Boyles of being wealthy, but they exude respectability. Agnes eyes the covered shapes of paintings and the nap on the drawn curtains, feeling the contrast with her own home forcibly. It was not always so. When her father was alive … But perhaps Mrs Boyle will find herself overcome by a similar onslaught of retrenchments and economies. Perhaps her days of keeping this dumpy servant are numbered.

  The widow sits by the light of a spermaceti candle. What a profile she would make, with her aquiline nose and double chin! However, she is quick to cover it, flicking down her veil before standing and exchanging a formal curtsey with Agnes.

  ‘Miss Darken. How kind of you to call.’ Red cheeks burn beneath the netting of the veil; Mrs Boyle has evidently been crying.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion, I …’ Agnes gazes helplessly at the maid, whose eyes are pinned to the floor.

  ‘Leave us, Mary.’

  Mary bobs a curtsey and trots away.

  The forced darkness is unnerving. Mrs Boyle extends a black-gloved hand to gesture at a chair on the other side of the table, and for a moment she looks like one of Agnes’s full-length shades come to life.

  Warily, Agnes perches on the edge of the seat. Her parcel fills her lap and she worries at the string with her fingers. ‘Thank you, Mrs Boyle. I shall not detain you for long. I simply heard what had happened a
nd I …’ She wets her lips. What can she say? What can anyone say to atone for this? ‘I am so terribly sorry,’ she supplies feebly.

  The widow sits opposite her with slow, heavy movements. ‘Thank you. You are in mourning yourself?’

  Agnes glances down at her own black dress, momentarily bewildered. She has not worn a coloured garment in so long that she forgets how it must appear to others. But Mrs Boyle is unlikely to comprehend the general, lingering melancholy that causes her to prefer dark clothing. ‘A distant relation,’ she embellishes. ‘God rest them.’

  The veil wafts as Mrs Boyle nods. She has certainly gone all out on her weeds – she must have emptied Corbould’s mourning establishment. Tassels, jet buttons, a ring already mounted with her husband’s grey hair. But then, who would not do the same? This is not simply a bereavement: the affliction of murder calls for shades deeper than a warehouse can supply.

  ‘I have not been receiving visitors,’ Mrs Boyle admits. ‘I have an abhorrence of their pity and their … questions.’ She places a hand on her chest, as if to put her emotions in order before continuing. ‘But I recognised your name. From the engagement diary. You … you saw him that day, didn’t you?’

  The string pings from Agnes’s fingertips. She knows. Naturally, she knows. What a simpleton Agnes was not to think of it before. The policemen would hardly requisition the engagement diary without keeping Mrs Boyle abreast of their investigations.

  Rather than answering, she pushes the package across the table.

  Mrs Boyle unfolds the paper with painful exactness. This low candlelight is the perfect illumination for Agnes’s art. Little bronzed details glint – hair, a coat collar, the shell of an ear. Mrs Boyle draws in a breath.

  ‘There was to be a second appointment. A collection. Alas …’

  The crumpled papercut is there too, on the widow’s lap. She does not heed it. Instead she strokes at the glass, leaving smudges.

  In paint, the line of the face is softer. There is something angelic about this black and gold rendition of Mr Boyle. He is a mate for the shadow bride behind her veil.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Boyle croons. ‘Thank you, Miss Darken. What a blessing. He said there was to be a surprise. That was his way.’

  ‘For the anniversary of—’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without the package, Agnes’s hands feel obtrusive, too large. She could let matters rest here; retreat and leave the poor widow with her memories.

  But that squashed papercut is like a rotten tooth: she cannot help worrying at it, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see its black curl. Someone else needs to share the horror of this coincidence.

  ‘I included my preliminary cut in paper, madam. You will find it there, loose in the package. I am afraid it became rather damaged, but …’ She trails off as Mrs Boyle picks up the shade and smooths it out.

  Agnes watches intently, unable to close her mouth or breathe until the widow speaks.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  That is all.

  The anticlimax is so great that her shoulders drop. Can Mrs Boyle not see it?

  ‘He told me to expect a surprise,’ Mrs Boyle repeats. ‘He must have known that you would come.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  The widow’s expression is opaque through her veil. ‘I spoke to him, Miss Darken. Across the divide. The things that are possible, these days. When I think back to my youth, I would not have credited such discoveries. Railways, telegraph, spirit mediums like the White Sylph … Why, the Abolition of the Trade was thought radical enough!’

  Agnes shivers. This is not the first time she has heard of spiritualists, although she usually keeps such talk at a distance by saying she does not believe. A more honest statement would be that she does not want to believe. She wants the dead safely caged in Heaven or Hell, not wandering, watching her through the cloudy eyes of a corpse. But a small part of her acknowledges it could be true. It feels true, when Mrs Boyle speaks it.

  ‘And the … spirit …’ Agnes gulps. ‘He did not give any hint as to who ended his earthly life?’

  Mrs Boyle shakes her head. ‘He has moved beyond such concerns. He does not call for justice or vengeance. He is at peace, and I suppose I should be also. I shall endeavour to be. But it is very difficult. How can I forgive those brutes?’ Sudden as a gust of wind, Mrs Boyle’s composure blows apart. The paper on her lap begins to rustle. ‘Heaven help me! Was it not enough to cut his throat and take his precious life? Why must they be so cruel as to obliterate his dear face too?’

  Agnes cannot stop her ears pricking at this new intelligence. The sergeant never mentioned a cut to the throat. If that was the injury that killed Mr Boyle … well, it puts her artwork in a less sinister light. There is no incision there. Footpads slit Mr Boyle’s throat and smashed his face for spite. Or, as the sergeant proposed, to delay identification of the body. She must have been beside herself to think otherwise. This was a fool’s errand.

  ‘I have trespassed on your grief long enough,’ she begins.

  Mrs Boyle bids her remain seated with a motion of her hand. ‘No. No, I beg your pardon. I should not have become agitated.’

  Agnes would rather leave this suffocating room, but perhaps the widow is lonely.

  ‘You shall not want for anything, Mrs Boyle?’ she asks gently. ‘You have family?’

  ‘Our daughter is married to an excellent man. My grandchildren will keep me occupied, no doubt. I shall be as comfortable as one can be, once the joy of her life is gone.’

  Agnes swallows. ‘I am glad to hear it. You are fortunate. When my own father died …’ She nods at the silhouette on Mrs Boyle’s lap. ‘Well, you can see. My pastime was obliged to become a trade.’

  Mrs Boyle shuffles uncomfortably beneath the paper wrapping. She glances from the profile to Agnes and back again, as if it had not occurred to her that women of her class might fall into penury. It had not occurred to Mamma, either. If Agnes had not risen to the occasion, and Simon was not so kind, all three of the Darken women could have ended up in the workhouse.

  Clearing her throat, Mrs Boyle reaches into the folds of her skirt. When she speaks again, the tone is more formal. ‘And you are most competent, Miss Darken. Permit me to contribute a little something for your trouble.’

  Agnes holds out her hand and a silver shilling drops into it. The Queen’s profile, grimed in dirt, stares indifferently. One shilling for all this heartache. The charge for bronzing would usually be more, but Agnes would not dream of saying so.

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  Mrs Boyle sniffs. ‘I shall call for Mary to see you out.’

  She closes her fingers over the coin. Was her hint so tactless? Surely she has done no wrong. She does care, she has not come purely for the money, but she needs it. She wants to be independent, not reliant on Simon for charity.

  Of course, she will never be able to explain this to a woman like Mrs Boyle, who has coin to spare on frivolities such as spirit mediums. Patiently, she waits in silence for Mary to answer the bell and lead her through the gloom to the door.

  ‘Good day,’ she says with a curtsey.

  Mrs Boyle nods.

  Compared to the twilight of the widow’s parlour, the autumn day in Queen Square now seems perfectly bright. Agnes dawdles homewards, glad to have put Mr Boyle’s death to rest. Her art is innocent. She has done nothing amiss – although she has been made to feel like an impertinent beggar woman.

  She pulls the brim of her bonnet low to shield her face from passers-by. After Mrs Boyle’s cold look, she does not want to meet the eyes of the square’s other haughty residents.

  It is not often she misses Constance, but she feels as if she would take comfort in speaking to her sister now. Constance would tell Agnes how little store she should set by the opinion of such dullards as the Boyles. She might even claim that the murderers had done a public service by putting an end to Mr Boyle.

  Horrible, unforgivable things like that.
/>   Still, they would make Agnes feel better.

  CHAPTER 4

  Pearl doesn’t remember living in London, and she doesn’t see a lot of Bath either. There’s the parlour, the kitchen and the hallway, plus three other small rooms, which they use as bedchambers.

  Sometimes, lodgers arrive and live in the rooms upstairs, but they never stay for long. The landlord won’t let Pearl and Myrtle up there. They’ve only paid to rent the ground floor of the house. He might be hiding treasure or caged tigers above them for all she knows. She ought to check, but she’s too afraid.

  Today is market day, when she ventures to the front door to get some air. Her chair rests just inside the threshold and an old coal-scuttle bonnet screens her eyes from the worst glare of the daylight.

  Her glimpses of the world outside are slight, like a tongue darting between the lips and slipping back in again. She sees cows shambling over the cobbles, their tails swishing at flies. A mass of black bricks and chimney stacks. Wafts of steam from Ladymead Penitentiary, where Myrtle sends their washing.

  It’s the smells Pearl enjoys the most. Even the straw and the dung. There’s something alive about the scents in the street. They make her sit up and take notice.

  Myrtle’s already been out into the throng and returned with a punnet of blackberries for their favourite jam. Now she stands in the kitchen, behind Pearl, pulling them apart and pulping them.

  Pearl turns and watches her sister. It’s at times like these she tries to imagine Myrtle’s father, Private West. He’d be a tall man, definitely. Probably handsome too, because he was Mother’s first husband, and she married him at sixteen. You wouldn’t marry that young if it weren’t for the wildest romance.

  Pearl always wonders what would have happened if Private West hadn’t been killed in action. With a different father, she might have been born with Myrtle’s lustrous eyes and widow’s peak. Or maybe not. Maybe Mother wouldn’t have birthed a second child at all. She’d still be on this side of the veil and it would be Pearl’s soul wandering in that mist, without a home.