She never wants him to feel fear like that again, or to feel unwanted because of Simon’s behaviour. Cedric may not have been conceived in wedlock, and his parents may have had no attachment to each other, but he is precious: the only gem snatched from all the misery.
Agnes reaches out a tender hand to place it upon the lump beneath the covers and watches it sink, slowly, to the mattress.
Nothing. There is nothing there.
The floor seems to pitch under her. Her hands tear at the covers, the pillow, even push the mattress from the frame as if her nephew might somehow be concealed beneath.
He is not.
‘Cedric!’
She starts to rip the sheets, hoping to find him hidden inside.
‘Cedric!’ she screams. ‘Ced!’
He could not have left the house: it is not possible, everything was locked up tight.
She drops to her knees with a cry. She can hardly see, can hardly breathe for tears, yet her hearing is not at fault for her ear catches a distinct rustle of paper as she pounds the shredded bedclothes.
Searching, she feels a torn page at the bottom of the mattress. A note.
She snatches it up and staggers over to the window. The note is rumpled and a little smudged, she cannot make out the words … Moaning with frustration, she pulls the window shutter back and leans greedily into the light from the street.
She feared she would read too late again, but this is worse.
That slanting hand, now as familiar as her own, has written:
You both belong to me.
CHAPTER 21
Pearl thought she’d got off pretty lightly, all things considered. No spewing or fainting. She’d been tired when Agnes left, but not too tired to sleep, and after a few minutes tossing and turning feeling guilty about disobeying Myrtle, she’d drifted off.
This morning is different, though.
She feels queer, like the food she ate for breakfast was an ember that’s tracked a fizzing path down her gullet, into her belly, where it’s setting light to everything.
Myrtle eyes her across the table. ‘You peaky?’
‘A bit.’ She still can’t look Myrtle in the face. She’s going to have to become an awful lot better at this lying business if she’s really going to get Father out of here, to a real doctor …
Her innards lurch. It’s not just the fear of getting caught that causes her stomach to ache; it feels as if there’s something alive in there.
‘Well, see you recover before tonight,’ Myrtle orders. ‘I’m not cancelling this séance. These ones have money, and connections. We’ll clean up if we can impress them.’
Pearl stares at her jam-smeared plate. The crumbs on it seem to dance. ‘I didn’t sleep all that well,’ she excuses herself.
‘You still need to work. Christ! I don’t ask a lot of you, Pearl. You’re lucky you’ve got me for a sister. Others would be selling tickets to let people gawp at an albino like you. Maybe I should just bundle you off to the circus – you and your dad, both.’
Her stomach pitches and this time, there’s no controlling it. Pearl crashes down from her chair and hurries into her room, where she manages to sit on the chamber pot with just a second to spare.
It’s agony: ripping her body just like she rips away the veil to enter the land of the dead. Pearl folds in half, her head between her knees and her lips parted in a soundless scream.
The pain doesn’t go away when she’s done, but it does dull to a simmer. She’s left with a brand of disgust and shame. Who would’ve thought her body was capable of making those sickening noises, those smells. The room stinks nearly as bad as Father’s wound.
Nearly.
She uses the old copies of Missives from Summerland to scrub herself clean: it seems fitting. All those writers harp on about the beauty and the wonder of the spirit world. What’s that word they use? Ethereal. Myrtle says it means pretty and airy, but there’s nothing pretty about the ache pulsating deep in the pit of Pearl’s belly, or the contents of this chamber pot. Contacting the Other Side isn’t a pleasure cruise. If you want to talk to the dead, you have to go digging amongst the worms and maggots.
Grimacing, she manages to stand and holds the pot at arm’s length by its handle. God forbid someone should walk down the street while she empties this out of the window. She couldn’t bear the humiliation if anyone else were to see …
She blinks, her eyes watering. Is she really seeing this?
Fumes drift up from the pewter rim: spirit matter trying to make its way back to Summerland.
Every inch of her skin crawls. It was bad enough with the smoking vomit; now they’re in her evacuations, too. Spirits and ghosts are tucked into her every nook and crevice, seeping through every pore. She’s never felt so dirty.
She looks down at her slender trunk and wonders just how much of herself is left under the skin.
She twitches the curtain aside and raises the window sash, not even cringing from the daylight. She’s so full of pain, her body simply won’t absorb any more of it. Her waste sloshes out of the chamber pot onto the pavement outside and she shuts the window quickly, before the fumes can get back in.
Drained, Pearl staggers back to her bed and lies down. Even with her eyes shut the world is spinning. Dimly, she hears Myrtle cleaning up crockery and padding softly to Father’s room for another session of Mesmerism. Another waste of time, she adds mentally, before a bolt of pain erases the thought.
The fact of the matter is, she doesn’t know who to believe. Myrtle says doctors are useless butchers; Agnes says Mesmerism won’t help the sick – they can’t both be right. The only sure way to save Father is to play both sides.
Everything depends on Pearl now. She must keep doing her regular séances so Myrtle doesn’t suspect anything’s afoot, and she must put in extra work for Agnes in secret so that the doctor will come and help Father.
But all that means she’ll be giving herself over to the misty hands of the dead more and more each day, and her body’s telling her, louder than the spirits ever speak, that it’s too much.
If she keeps pushing herself, she can save Father’s life. Maybe she’ll save lots of lives, by catching the killer. But she has to be brave and accept the truth: that all this hard work might just claim her own.
CHAPTER 22
The police station waxes various shades of brown. Drab beige plaster coats the top of the walls; below the dado rail it darkens to umber. Someone has tacked up handbills announcing rewards, items lost and found, but these too have become parched, curled up like decaying leaves.
Behind a walnut structure that resembles the bar of a public house, a policeman stands, avoiding everyone’s eyes, looking only to his vast, leather-bound book. A brass lamp shines on him; he has a brass bell at his side too, as if he might call for assistance, or tea.
Agnes thinks she may scream.
Some people do. They are all here: the dregs of Bath. Men with black eyes and cuts; guilty-looking, flea-ridden youths; women wrapped tight in their shawls, rocking back and forth. The din would be unbearable, if it were not in tune with Agnes’s inner wail.
The police are too slow. Their station looks like it has been dipped in treacle and that is how they move: painstakingly, with no comprehension of how urgent her errand is, even though she has impressed it upon them several times. No doubt everyone is here on important business. But Cedric—! A missing child! Why are the policemen not galvanised with horror?
Perhaps she has gone mad. It feels possible: she is living at a rate twenty times faster than their insipid pens can scratch. Where, oh where is Sergeant Redmayne? Anyone of importance is shut away from her, behind doors with panels of frosted glass.
This place sparks memories of the Accident. How different that was. Back then, the policemen seemed to be ricocheting around the room at speed, firing questions with the rapidity of a locomotive train. Even the kindly inspector with a moustache, who had tried to prepare Agnes for the sight of her sister’s body
, had spoken quickly. She only absorbed a handful of his words: caught up … dragged behind … spokes … axle … velocity. None of them were adequate to describe the smashed, skinned wreck she had finally identified.
Papa had once complained that Constance must be pure black inside. She was not. She was very, very red.
‘Miss Darken?’ Her head shoots up. Sergeant Redmayne has materialised from nowhere. His face is as large and stony as she remembers; it does, however, register a hint of surprise to see her. ‘This way, please.’
She stands up so fast that she nearly trips over her skirts.
‘My nephew,’ she begins, before they have even reached the little room he is escorting her to. ‘Sandy hair. About … four feet, three inches tall?’
Now that she has someone to listen to her, the words come confused and garbled. She has not slept. It must have only been yesterday that she stood in the wardrobe, but it might as well have been years ago; she feels that she has died, come to life and died all over again.
Sergeant Redmayne ignores her rambling and opens a door. Nothing much lies inside: a deal table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs, plus a pair of iron cuffs on reserve in case conversations should grow too heated.
‘You’ve remembered something about Boyle?’ he enquires, showing manners at last by letting her enter the room first. ‘Or Lewis? Your brother-in-law said he’d bring you down here for questions when you were feeling better.’ He produces a pocket notebook and throws it on the table before closing the door behind them. ‘There’s a few things in there I want you to help me clear up.’
‘Anything. I will tell you anything you like, only please send someone to search for him this minute! He could be in danger, he is all I—’ Tears throttle her. She is so exhausted that she has no defence against them.
The sergeant catches her out of a swoon and guides her to a chair that creaks as it takes her dead weight.
‘Dr Carfax told me you’d been seriously ill,’ he says with a gruffness that is very nearly concern. ‘I suppose he’s right. Should you be back home, miss?’
She shakes her head. ‘Cedric,’ she gasps.
‘Who?’
‘It’s my nephew. Sergeant, he has been taken. Abducted.’ She raises her chin, gulps in breath. ‘The killer was targeting me all along, I can prove that now.’
Were she not so wretched, she would triumph in the fact that she has finally managed to make the impassive sergeant blink.
‘I’d better fetch the Inspector.’ He stands, strides for the door and swings it open.
Simon is waiting there. Redmayne sighs. ‘I was wondering when you were going to show up.’
‘Where is she? Where is Miss Darken?’ Simon pushes inside, red and sweaty. When he sees her, he picks up her hands and clasps them in his own. ‘I have just this moment received your note.’
‘Oh Simon! They took him. Took him. Why would you not listen to me?’ For all her scolding, she is relieved to see him. Simon will take charge, he will make everything right, somehow. ‘Dr Carfax is the child’s father,’ she tells Sergeant Redmayne. ‘It was too late for letter carriers, so I sent him word by the first boy I could grab. I was not certain my message would get there.’
‘All right. Good. The Inspector will want to talk to both of you.’ He turns to leave, but Simon’s imperious voice arrests him on the threshold.
‘Wait!’ More softly, he adds, ‘A moment, Sergeant.’ He pats Agnes’s hands, returns them gently to her lap. ‘Alone, if you please.’
The policeman’s chest heaves beneath his uniform in another weary exhalation, but he gestures to the corridor, as if to say they may speak outside.
‘But Simon—’
‘I know, I know. Have no fear, Miss Darken, we shall return presently.’ He has regained his poise. Smoothing back his scanty hair, he follows Sergeant Redmayne and shuts the door behind him.
Once more, Agnes finds herself on the wrong side of the frosted glass.
It would be enough to vex any woman. What can they be speaking of, if she must not hear it? Vague mumbles reach her: a droning she recognises as the base note of Simon’s professional voice. Had she more strength, she would stand up and press her ear to the door.
She is Cedric’s real blood relation. She has spent more time attending to his welfare than either of his parents ever did; she has earned the right to be involved in this conversation.
A conversation that is apparently going to take a long time.
She hears the words, ‘terrible accident’, and ‘loss of mother’, then ‘dredged up old associations’. Simon is clearly explaining how Cedric came to be in her care, rather than his own.
She rests her elbows on the chipped table. Misery and guilt seem to be ingrained within the wood. She wonders how many people have sat here in utter despair. One of her predecessors has carved shapes with their fingernails; another has left a stain that looks like blood. She shudders, imagining the miscreants and blackguards who must have occupied this very same chair.
Her stomach growls. She cannot remember when she last ate. It is hard to focus on anything except Cedric. What is she going to tell Mamma? Anything but the truth. She shakes her head, unable to believe she has been such a colossal fool.
Each time she has an item or person of value, she loses it.
The door creaks, making her jump. Simon enters, alone.
‘What is it, what did he say?’
Simon spreads his hands in that conciliating gesture of his. ‘The police will do everything within their power. They have instructed me to take you home, in case the boy returns.’
Go home? That would feel as bad as giving up, resigning Cedric to his fate. ‘But I have not told them—’
‘I knew how upsetting it would be to explain the … circumstances surrounding Cedric. Consider the matter in hand. The police shall deal directly with me from now on.’
Her mouth falls open. She has never felt more impotent, more inconsequential. Does Simon really expect her to sit at home and do nothing? It was his reluctance to act that caused this mess in the first place! And he cannot have given Sergeant Redmayne the full story, because he does not know it himself. There is so much she has not told him.
Her shaking fingers fly to her reticule. ‘But the proof! The notes. Surely they need this? It is evidence!’
Simon examines the heap of paper she has tipped out upon the table. His face turns white. ‘Where – where did you find these?’
‘I told you before: in Cedric’s bed, in his pocket, under the door. I told you the murderer was writing me notes.’
He is holding himself remarkably stiff and still. His eyes do not leave the pieces of paper; it is as though they have turned him to stone. Agnes has a wild urge to slap him, spit at him, do something to shake him out of this lethargy. Any other man would be frantic with worry for his missing son, even if he is only a son by law.
‘Do you recognise the writing, Simon? It is familiar to me, although I cannot place it … We both agreed it could not be Montague. He would not do such a thing.’
Simon draws out the other chair from under the table and sits down opposite her: she the culprit, he the interrogator. He even looks a little like Sergeant Redmayne now, with his frozen features.
‘No, it cannot be Montague,’ he says at last. ‘I can assure you that he will never make a claim upon the boy now.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
He hesitates. ‘I took the opportunity to consult the naval lists after our last conversation. I wanted to put your mind at ease on one score, at least.’ A forlorn smile plays about his lips. ‘You used to check them yourself, constantly. You were always looking for Lieutenant Montague … Tell me, when did you stop?’
She lowers her gaze to the table. ‘I cannot recall. I suppose I listened to you, Simon. You said that it was not a healthy occupation for me.’
‘Nor was it.’ He drums his fingers upon the wooden table. They both stare at them, seeking answers in the
rhythm. ‘I have been considering how best to tell you this, Miss Darken. At times, I doubted whether I should tell you at all. But I think you have a right to know.’
Her breath catches. ‘You found him?’
‘I found a Captain Montague, of the HMS Raptor.’
He made captain! Why does that still cause Agnes’s heart to swell with pride? ‘Good God,’ she gasps. ‘You have really found him, after all these years. Where?’
She must write to him. Tell him that her nephew is missing – she need not explain the full truth. She could simply beg that he use his influence and put pressure upon the police. With a naval captain and an eminent physician demanding answers, surely they will make it a priority to find Cedric?
The man she knew would not hesitate to be of assistance. He had possessed a great regard for her father. He only went away because he thought it was best for the family, but now it is clear that Constance has gone and Agnes needs him … Is she being too optimistic to believe that he might sail back?
But Simon is biting the peeling skin on his lower lip. He has not answered her question.
‘Please tell me where he is stationed!’ she urges.
‘My dear Miss Darken … I cannot.’ Simon bows his head. ‘He has recently … passed from this world.’
All air leaves the room.
‘H-he what?’
‘I am afraid he succumbed to yellow fever.’
She can feel nothing, which makes no sense, for this is the most pain she has ever been in.
Montague is gone. Gone forever.
She cannot make herself believe it.
‘Miss Darken? Do you need me to fetch your salts?’
Salts! She nearly bursts into laughter. What use are salts? Simon may be a doctor, but he cannot stitch up what is beyond repair. To lose Montague and Cedric both, in one day!
Wearily she leans down, places her forehead on the rough wood of the table.
‘Let me take you home.’ Simon’s worried voice sounds far away. ‘The shock has been too great. I should not have told you. You must rest …’
The Shape of Darkness Page 16