The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  She pants, short of breath.

  Simon scrubs a hand over his chin. ‘Well,’ he says slowly. ‘What if it were? What would that mean?’

  She flicks a glance around the crowded tables. She must try to comport herself with more dignity; already an elderly lady is peering at them through her pince-nez.

  She takes a sip of ginger tea, which lights a flame in the back of her throat. ‘It would mean, Simon, that my sitters are dying. That may be a given in your profession, but it is rare in mine. What if people find out this death also had a connection to my business? The customers … And that dreadful Sergeant Redmayne would come back, upsetting me.’

  Simon draws his lips together, pats her hand awkwardly across the table. ‘Do not fret. I would never allow that upstart to hurt you. And let us consider. You say this man was just a study you took? In the gardens? Then no one will ever know. He will have no appointment scheduled, nothing that links him to you.’

  This is true, but she is not appeased.

  ‘All the same, it makes me uneasy. I should like to know for sure whether it was the same officer. I know it sounds superstitious and dreadfully silly, but I shall be frightened to cut another shade in case the sitter is … hurt … again.’

  A pause. Steam hisses.

  ‘You could not … retire from cutting silhouettes?’ he suggests gently.

  ‘We would starve!’

  ‘I would never allow that to happen. Do you need more assistance? You have only to ask. Let me extend my surgery, shoulder more of the load. Given our relationship, it would not be improper …’

  Her eyes begin to sting. When all else in life has been taken from her, does Simon really think she will surrender the one occupation that was ever truly hers? Her studio is the last room in the house where she feels herself; the only one that does not require Cedric’s presence to enliven it. She will not relinquish her last means of independent joy.

  Simon seems on the point of saying more, but Agnes pulls back in her chair.

  ‘Use your money to help Cedric establish himself, Simon. That is all I ask of you.’

  He hangs his head. Deep down, she thinks she knows what he was going to say next.

  He has been not saying it these ten years at least.

  ‘Thank you for the tea.’ She pushes the plate away. ‘I do not think I can manage the tart. I seem to have lost my appetite.’

  Morpheus swoops in and gobbles it up.

  Fresh snow has fallen outside. She is tempted to accept Simon’s offer of a sedan chair home simply to avoid the awkwardness of walking by his side. But when it comes down to it, the enclosure and its movement are too similar to that of a carriage. Any social discomfort is preferable to being reminded of the Accident.

  ‘We will walk slowly,’ he decides, setting Morpheus down on the pavement.

  The dog’s stubby black legs disappear beneath the drift, which reaches his belly. He whines. Simon ignores him and holds out an arm for Agnes to lean on.

  She takes it carefully. The friction of their disagreement seems to prickle through his coat.

  ‘You are not cold, Miss Darken? I will not have you catch pneumonia again.’

  Agnes assures him she is wearing her chest preserver and thickest boots. How does he suppose she managed to make her way to the tea shop in the first place?

  ‘We used to enjoy weather like this,’ she reminds him. ‘When we were young. Let’s wander up a little and see the gardens. They will look so pretty in the snow.’

  She had hoped to soften Simon with the memory, but the muscles in his arm tense. ‘Not the gardens. They are too far and perhaps treacherous. I would not wish for you to slip. In these low temperatures, we really should get you home as quickly as possible.’

  ‘So much for pleasing myself on the day of my birth.’

  The frown deepens on his face. ‘Well … Perhaps just to Crescent Fields.’

  Morpheus huffs and begins to push his way through the snow. It cuts a track for them to follow.

  Bath is a different city in the snow. White smothers every soot-stained building, every dungheaped road and every skeletal tree. This is how it must have appeared when the limestone mansions were freshly built and full of promise: a dazzling expanse of unclaimed space.

  Well, not quite unclaimed. Even in this enchanting tableau, the iron railings at the top of the Crescent ha-ha show dark against the glare. It is the divide between the private lawns of the rich and the public ground below. Everyone carefully contained and in their space.

  Today, Agnes is content to be on her own side. Those braving the fields do so with genuine glee. Laughter peals through the frigid air. She smiles at the children, who pelt each other with snowballs. Nurses scold and run after them, but they are powerless to stop the fun.

  ‘Do you remember …’ she begins, turning towards Simon, but the sentence dies in her mouth. The tears shining in his eyes tell her he recalls only too well.

  She lowers her head, chastened. Simon was born to a large family. Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there is only him left. She pictures the little Carfaxes running in the snow as they used to do. Their faces live in her memory, but she cannot reach all of the names. Nancy, the eldest, who used to hold Constance’s hand when Agnes would not. Edmund. Or was it Edward? There was certainly a Matthew.

  Now they are only silhouettes hanging in Simon’s hall.

  Morpheus wades past a trio of men in knee-high boots, then another cluster of young people building walls out of snow. In vain, Agnes searches for Cedric amongst the red-cheeked revellers. He should be out, on a day like this, playing with children his own age. She wishes she had the energy to pull him on a sled or teach him how to skate.

  The air smells pleasantly clean. While Simon is lost in thought, she steers him gently in the direction of the Victoria Obelisk. It wears a lace cap. She can almost make out the lions beneath, sprinkled as if with sugar. It gives her a strange satisfaction to see everything in chiaroscuro. She might have painted it herself.

  Trudging through the snow is tiring her and the box of marchpane now seems full of rocks, but she is determined to reach Victoria Gardens ere her birthday is done.

  Before they come within full view of the Victoria Gate, a sound snaps Simon from his reverie. Morpheus cocks his head and listens alongside his master. A man is calling Simon’s name.

  Releasing Agnes’s arm, he turns. A gentleman of perhaps thirty years of age, ill-dressed for the weather, is stumbling towards them. ‘Dr Carfax!’

  Two women titter and clear themselves from his haphazard path.

  The man sports a thin, dark beard which only serves to show the dreadful pallor of his face.

  ‘Mr Oswald?’ Simon cries.

  He skids to a halt and nearly collapses, but Simon catches him under the elbows.

  ‘Dr Carfax,’ he pants. ‘Thank heavens I have found you!’

  ‘Calm yourself, sir. Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Mrs Oswald.’

  Simon blanches. ‘The child is not … Not already … It is so early …’

  ‘I pray to God, no!’ The man gasps, trying to catch his breath. ‘But she slipped. She slipped on the ice and she fell.’

  ‘Where?’

  Mr Oswald throws out one arm. ‘Just there, further down the Royal Avenue. I knew I saw you, in the distance. Thank God I did see you! Will you come to her?’

  Simon hesitates. Glances at Agnes.

  ‘Go, go,’ she orders. ‘I shall come to no harm waiting here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The dog will protect me.’

  It is a bold claim to make on behalf of a fat pug, but Simon seems mollified.

  ‘Please,’ Mr Oswald urges, tugging at his sleeve.

  Simon nods and takes off through the snow.

  It is blissfully quiet after they have left. Agnes stands for a while, watching the breeze skim a fine layer from the top of the drifts. White specks wheel into shapes that abruptly collapse. If she lis
tens hard enough, she can hear the snow melting in the tops of the evergreens, crackling against the leaves.

  It seems the Royal Victoria Gardens are hers, after all.

  She walks to the gate and pushes it open. Snow falls from the black iron bars as they swing on their hinges; Morpheus whuffs and grumbles at her feet.

  No one else has braved the park. The lawns stretch pure as a freshly starched petticoat. There are no blemishes, no indication of where the footpaths and carriage drives lie buried. Agnes may choose her own route.

  She sets off straight, towards the lake, hugging a belt of mature trees. The earth is uneven underfoot. Somewhere down there, life slumbers, waiting to burst forth again: green shoots, daffodils. They will be a long time coming. They have not even made it through October yet.

  It is early, for snow, but then it has been a tumultuous year, what with the war breaking out and cholera in London over the summer. Everything is out of sorts. At least here there is beauty and peace.

  Morpheus toddles on ahead, curly tail twitching. She watches him sniff and forage, following a pattern of twig-like bird tracks underneath the trees.

  If she is reasonable – and she tries to be – she can understand why Simon grew prickly at the mention of Montague. His objections against the man are probably just. Her own should be stronger. But the difference is, she forgives him. If that makes her despicable as a woman – well, she would rather be happy than prudent.

  Let her assume Simon is right: the drowned man is somebody else entirely. It hardly makes circumstances much better. She is still faced with the question: why are her sitters dying?

  Agnes regards the humped shapes of box, laurel and privet hedges. They look like furniture covered by dust sheets, or perhaps ghosts in their shrouds. Her mind returns to that strange, vibrant young woman in Walcot Street and her outlandish claims of seeing auras. What colour did she say Agnes’s was? Ash of roses. She imagines the pink seeping out from the bottom of her skirts into the snow, a circle spreading to reach Morpheus who is digging beneath the trees. It must be interesting for Miss West to see everyone like that: tinged with their own hue. Agnes views them in lines of black and white.

  You should talk to the Sylph. Just to know for sure.

  It might be that Miss West’s sister could contact the dead and tell Agnes what happened to her clients. But even if Spiritualism is real, it is wicked, a kind of devilry that should not be meddled with. She knows this. She tries to remind herself.

  A pigeon breaks free of a group of conifers and takes wing.

  When all is said and done, Agnes should trust Simon. Accept that both deaths were unfortunate mischances and no incidents like them will ever occur again.

  Morpheus barks.

  It is odd, because Morpheus is not usually a barking dog; he vocalises through grunts instead. Yet here he is, yowling over and over in distress. His paws scrabble wildly, flinging up powdery snow.

  Agnes doesn’t know what she is supposed to do.

  ‘Bad dog,’ she tries. ‘Come here!’

  He starts to obey but then dashes back yapping.

  After four repeats of this charade, Agnes realises the dog wants her to follow him.

  ‘For heaven’s sake.’

  She pulls up her skirts. The snow is deeper at the edge of the gardens. She will struggle to wade out there, and for what? A rabbit hole? A half-eaten squirrel? But she can hardly return to Simon without his precious dog.

  ‘What is it, then?’

  Morpheus is barking so hard that his feet seem to lift off the ground. She proffers the box of marchpane, hoping it will tempt him out to her. It doesn’t.

  Morpheus never refuses food.

  Ducking beneath a snow-laden branch, she toils towards the dog. He looks half-frantic. His eyes roll.

  There is a sharp, fungal smell. She glimpses the frozen earth Morpheus has uncovered and the pale tree roots writhing up from the ground.

  ‘What—?’

  She cannot finish her question.

  The box of marchpane falls silently from her grip into the snow.

  Erupting from the white hill in front of her are three grey-blue fingers of a human hand.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sergeant Redmayne has brought company to the house this time. His fellow officers are no more courteous than the man himself; their voices bray so loudly from the parlour that they carry up the stairs and through the open door of Agnes’s bedchamber.

  Morpheus has flattened himself against the landing, cowering with ears back, while Cedric pets and tries to comfort him.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here, sir. Again,’ she hears Sergeant Redmayne say drily to Simon downstairs. ‘And you just happened to be in the park when the lady discovered the body, too?’

  Chuckles from below. One of the other officers pipes up with: ‘Quite the old beau, ain’t you?’

  Agnes is grateful they cannot see her angry blush. When Simon replies, his tone is dangerously polite. ‘Yes, I was escorting my sister-in-law on a constitutional walk. And thank goodness I was. She took ill at the sight of the dead man, as any lady might.’

  The police stop laughing. ‘You didn’t mention your relationship last time I called,’ Redmayne points out. ‘Said you were her physician.’

  ‘I act in that capacity also. What does it signify?’

  ‘Everything matters, sir. And where might your lady wife be?’

  ‘Deceased. I am a widower.’

  Snow drops down the chimney and makes the fire hiss.

  Agnes lays her head carefully back on the pillow. She doesn’t want to listen to the discussion taking place downstairs, but nor does she want time alone to think. Sleep is no relief. Each time she closes her eyes she sees again the frozen rictus of horror.

  He must have been there since the early hours of the morning, at least. Maybe days. She cannot remember when it first started snowing. Someone must have dug in the drift to bury him, knowing that any later snowfall would further conceal their sin. Out there, on the edges of the park, he would not have been discovered until the thaw, were it not for one busy little dog.

  The abbey bells toll.

  Part of her is glad they found him. His poor remains did not deserve to lie alone in an icy grave for any longer. But she wishes she had not seen the face. How it had changed. The eyelashes and brows flared shockingly white. His hair had clumped into one semi-transparent shape, like wax that had melted and set. Patches of the skin showed black. Scorched by fire, she thought, until she realised: the cold can burn, too.

  The floorboards creak. Simon’s voice rumbles downstairs. ‘I can answer for Miss Darken. Neither of us has seen the unfortunate gentleman before in our lives. Did he have nothing about his person to suggest his identity?’

  ‘We’ve a lad reported missing. The family are on their way to view the body.’

  ‘Well, then. We can hardly be of further assistance.’

  ‘But if we could talk to Miss Darken herself—’

  ‘Absolutely not. I made it clear to you that the lady is unwell.’

  ‘It’s a murder inquiry, sir. Can’t stand upon niceties.’

  Simon fumes: ‘So you would have another death upon your hands, would you? I am telling you that as her physician, I advise against it. She very nearly died in ’52. Can you not wait a few days until she is recovered?’

  ‘We’d prefer to—’

  ‘I see I will have to speak to your superior. But let me make this plain now: if you continue to harass my sister-in-law, I will not be answerable for the consequences to her health.’

  Agnes’s hand grips the bed sheet. Simon is exaggerating, but she really does feel ill. The walking, the cold and the shock have overwhelmed her. If Sergeant Redmayne appeared in her room, she thinks her heart would stop.

  There is more movement downstairs. Cedric leaps up from his position beside Morpheus on the landing floor and scurries back inside his own chamber.

  She hears some last, muffled words and the slam of the fro
nt door. The stairs groan. Morpheus’s tail begins to thump as Simon makes his way up, a mug in hand.

  He enters the bedchamber with eyes respectfully averted. Sweat beads his brow. She detects its slight tang beneath his usual scent of carbolic soap as he approaches the bed and offers the cup.

  ‘Drink this. It is not laudanum, I promise, just hot flip. It will help you sleep, without the dreams.’

  Agnes shuffles into a sitting position and takes it from him. His manner is odd, and she senses it is not just because he is inside her bedroom. She feels as if she has misbehaved, disappointed him in some way. ‘I forgot to ask after Mrs Oswald.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The lady who fell.’

  ‘Oh, she will recover. Merely a sprained ankle. Her child is unharmed.’

  Agnes takes a sip of her drink, wincing at how alcoholic it is. ‘Small mercies.’

  He remains silent. Concentrating, although she does not know on what.

  While she drinks, her eyes shy away from Simon to survey the room. It is in a bad state. She needs to dust the dressing table and pull the hair out of her brush. Some pencils have found their way in here, and the silhouette of Constance …

  She frowns.

  The shade that fell from the broken frame is propped up, beside her mirror. She could have sworn she put it away in her book.

  ‘I imagine the police will return,’ Simon sighs. ‘Especially if no one identifies the body.’

  ‘Ned,’ she whispers. ‘His name was Ned.’

  Now the moustache shading his upper lip will never grow. She remembers his self-effacing smile, even his pomade, and it is impossible to reconcile them with the thing they pulled from the snow. But Agnes was not mistaken. The body was certainly his.

  ‘Why would you not let me tell them I had met him and knew his name, Simon?’

  He bridles. ‘You ask me why? What of the business you were so worried about at teatime? Do you think this news will help matters?’

  He has rarely been this short with her before. A tear slips down her cheek as she takes another mouthful of drink. ‘I just … I worry they will find out he was a client here anyway.’