The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  Her head pounds fit to split open. The cap only partially screens her tender eyes. At least her face feels cooler now. The wind blows and chills the tracks on her cheeks. She narrows her eyes, shuffles on.

  Finally the crowd spews her out and she finds herself standing, small and insignificant before an enormous building that reaches right up into the clouds. It’s the loveliest thing she’s ever seen. There’s shiny coloured glass, prettily carved pointy bits and a statue that looks like an angel, climbing the side.

  She lays a palm against the rough stone. Maybe she’ll just curl up on the ground here, safe under the gaze of the angels.

  Something caws above her. Pearl flinches and peers cautiously up from beneath the peak of her cap.

  It’s a bird. He’s perched on one of the lower roofs: a coal-black thing with a patch of white and one glorious streak of blue down his wing. He cocks his head at her, caws again, then takes flight.

  Her watering eyes follow his swoop. Such a graceful, easy motion. Pearl wishes she could move like that.

  Reluctant to lose sight of the bird, she starts to totter after him, but her energy’s nearly all gone. In another few minutes, she’ll faint.

  With a last flap, the bird settles himself on a ledge supported by leafy pillars. That must be his home. Half-dazed, Pearl inspects the building, wondering what type of house a bird would choose for its nest. That’s when she sees the papercuts in the windows.

  Agnes’s papercuts.

  It’s the house from the map.

  Relief nearly fells her.

  She has no idea what she’ll say to Agnes; she doesn’t really care so long as there’s somewhere to sit down and drink, where it’s cool, and the shadow that’s following her will go away.

  Stumbling towards the door, she risks a glance over her shoulder. It’s still there, attached at her ankles.

  The door sits right underneath the bird’s nest; she can hear him squabbling with his family above her as she raises a hand and knocks as hard as she can. Only a feeble, hollow sound comes back.

  What will she do if Agnes doesn’t answer, where will she go? Too late she remembers there’s a murderer on the loose in Bath.

  An image flashes across her vision: the knife, the jaw. Maybe she doesn’t need to be afraid of killers any more; not now she’s a killer herself.

  The door creaks open a fraction, held back by a chain. Two beady eyes peer out from the darkness within.

  Pearl bursts into tears.

  ‘Cedric? Cedric!’ The chain rattles off the door and Agnes is out in the street, gripping her by the shoulders, before she realises her mistake. ‘Simon said you – Oh! Good God. Pearl, is that you?’

  She gasps, choked by sobs.

  ‘Pearl, is this blood?’

  ‘Let me in,’ she pleads. ‘The light, it’s too bright.’

  Agnes’s pointed face shows her astonishment, but she holds open the door and ushers Pearl inside without another word.

  Pearl staggers into a narrow hallway with a staircase taking up the left-hand side. There are darker patches on the wall where pictures once hung. For some reason they’re lying on the floor now. She sees some dead flowers in a vase upon a little pier table.

  She thought Agnes would live in a house much fancier than this.

  ‘What happened?’ Agnes urges. ‘Come here, into the parlour. Is it your sister? Did she beat you? I can send for Dr Carfax …’

  She goes wherever Agnes’s hands push her. The parlour’s blissfully dark, but it smells like the past has been bottled up inside and refuses to leave. Stacks of newspapers crowd the floor. Used plates and teacups litter the surfaces – one with paintbrushes sticking out of the top. She hears the low hum of a fly.

  A sofa stretches before the unlit fireplace and Pearl collapses gratefully upon it.

  ‘Dear child! You are worrying me to distraction. Are you ill?’

  She’s always ill these days, but this is worse, shredding the very inside of her. For the first time she understands why Myrtle’s chary of talking about Mother. Grief hurts. It really, really hurts.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she howls into the sofa. ‘My father’s dead.’

  CHAPTER 32

  The child sleeps deeply. If Agnes stands back from the sofa, she can easily imagine it is Cedric slumbering there. The oversized cap conceals the girl’s shock of wintery hair, and her thin, pale limbs are tucked underneath her. Only the rise and fall of the slender chest gives Pearl away; it does not undulate gently, as Cedric’s does, but jerks.

  Is it safe to let her stay here? Mamma still hasn’t returned, and although Agnes tells herself that her mother is her own woman, quite capable of leaving the house if she chooses, she does not truly believe it. In her mind, Mamma’s disappearance is connected to the destructive presence that pushed her silhouettes from the wall. There is no evidence of it in the shady parlour at present. Is Pearl holding it at bay? She will keep everything dark. The darkness will protect them, somehow.

  Yet ghosts are not the only thing Pearl needs saving from. Now that her father has succumbed to his disease, she will be living alone with Miss West. Could Agnes retain the child at Orange Grove, in secret, and give her a better life? She never told Miss West her address, the horrible woman would not know to come looking for her sister here …

  But it would only take one mention of ‘Miss Darken’ to the police and that odious Sergeant Redmayne would be banging on her door. Simon has endeavoured to clear her name of suspicion at the station, and this would undo all his good work. No. As much as Agnes would like the company, and to offer Pearl a refuge from her cruel sister, she cannot keep the girl hidden here.

  As best she can in the scant light, she jots a note to Simon. He will be busy, visiting Cedric and running his usual practice, but she must tell him about Mamma, and she would like him to take a look at Pearl before sending her back home. No one can see the girl and suppose that she is healthy. They may have left it too late to act with poor Mr Meers, but Pearl is young. Perhaps she can still conquer her illness.

  The difficulty will be securing her aid without Miss West noticing. The girl has no money of her own, and Agnes’s purse is decidedly light. But what about Montague’s ring? It must still be on the floor in the upstairs room at Walcot Street, where it fell during the séance. The pawnshop would pay for real gold – enough, she is sure, for Pearl to buy medicine in secret. After a brief internal struggle, Agnes decides. She will tell Pearl where to look for the ring and ask her to keep it as payment for her services. Yes, that is the right course of action. Montague would understand. At least this way his token can deliver some of the good it once promised.

  Agnes leaves the house quietly and passes the note to her usual carrier: a boy who sits in the churchyard awaiting errands. Mamma is nowhere to be seen, but she is struck by the number of people who are walking abroad at dusk. Everyone seems to have forgotten about the murderer already. Some men even have their wives linked on their arm, as if there is nothing to fear.

  Were those lost lives insignificant in the grand scheme of things? She does not like to believe so. But if Simon has found Cedric, and those notes really were just relics of Constance somehow unearthed, it throws doubt on whether Agnes was ever being targeted at all. Maybe it was just coincidence that three men and a woman died.

  This is Simon’s way of thinking. She should have listened to Simon all along. It was folly to consult Pearl and bring the shadows of the past upon her home. What has she learnt, other than that ghosts do exist, and they are most of them frightened or in pain? That knowledge offers neither comfort nor earthly use.

  She should have left well enough alone.

  Now her elderly mother has wandered off, she has a phantom in the studio and a sickly child to nurse.

  Gently, she unlocks the door and creeps back inside the house. She need not have taken such care. Pearl is awake and is standing in the doorway to the parlour, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘I had hoped you would sleep a little
longer. How do you feel?’

  ‘Terrible,’ Pearl whispers.

  ‘Sit down again, dear. I will see if I can fetch you some refreshment—’

  Pearl shakes her head vehemently.

  ‘Perhaps my smelling salts?’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

  There is a mutinous expression on her small face. A streak of blood has dried on her cheek; Agnes wants to wipe it away, but she is worried to bring it to her attention.

  ‘Then … what may I do for you, Pearl? Why are you here?’

  ‘I never got my séance.’

  Agnes shoots a glance at the picture frames on the floor. ‘I am not sure it is wise to—’

  ‘You promised! We spoke to your people, now it’s my turn.’

  ‘Listen, dear, I have reason to believe there is an … unwelcome spirit in this house, and rather than calling things up, it would be better if we tried to send her back—’

  But something has snapped within Pearl, she has none of her usual timidity. ‘When I’ve had my séance,’ she cries. ‘Or don’t you mean to keep any of the promises you made to me?’

  This hits home. Agnes hangs her head. ‘I do regret that Dr Carfax was not able—’

  ‘He’s dead!’ – Pearl is almost shrieking – ‘You told me I’d be able to cure my father, and now he’s dead. Does that sound like you’ve kept up your end of the deal?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘So either you’re going to help me talk to him, or you’re a bloody liar. Which is it?’

  Misgiving wallows within her. What choice does she have? The poor girl is sick and half-mad with grief. Agnes must humour her, keep her occupied until Simon arrives. From the way she is breathing, she is very ill indeed.

  ‘One séance,’ Agnes concedes. ‘Just one. And then we put the ghosts back, for good.’

  Pearl sighs in relief. Then she throws up.

  No candles burn this time. It is pitch-black, but Pearl is a faint, indefinite outline in the dark. She is propped up against pillows, determined to proceed no matter how eloquently Agnes entreats her not to.

  The house still smells of vomit. If Agnes possessed better eyesight, she would have sworn that the liquid had glowed. She scents something acidic, corrosive, like the very reek of death.

  ‘Give me your hands,’ Pearl demands.

  Agnes obeys. It is like holding a bunch of wet sticks. She closes her eyes and prays for Simon to arrive quickly.

  The grandfather clock pings.

  Her eyelids snap open. That clock has not made a sound in days. She waits for it to tick, but nothing happens; there is just a taut, expectant hush.

  ‘Father,’ Pearl whispers passionately. ‘Father, come to me. I’m so sorry. I tried my best.’

  A single flame crackles into life in the fireplace.

  Agnes attempts to tug her hands back, but Pearl clings to them like a drowning girl.

  This is wrong, it is all wrong. The flame is a light, however small, and light creates a doorway for the shadows to come slithering out.

  ‘Father,’ Pearl pleads. ‘Don’t be angry.’

  Agnes holds her breath. There is anger in the air, palpable but invisible; it seems to pulse and thicken. They should stop, they really should stop.

  ‘Talk to me!’ Pearl cries.

  The hands of the grandfather clock start to move; faster than any mechanism could push them. The pendulum begins to swing.

  ‘Pearl—’

  Sweat stands out on her ivory forehead. The girl is straining with all her might.

  Agnes watches, helpless, as the fire climbs in the grate.

  Papa once spoke of the French revolutionaries dancing ‘La Carmagnole’. The way the shadows caper is like that: savage, with the inherent threat of violence.

  A log bursts, spitting sparks.

  ‘Pearl, stop!’

  The girl opens her colourless eyes. The flames reflect in her pupils.

  Round and round goes the clock; the fire burns higher and higher. Agnes yearns to run from the room, but she is held fast.

  Where is Simon? Why hasn’t he come?

  Pearl’s breath catches. Steam issues from between her lips; she is out of control. The entire séance is beyond her command.

  Shadows close in around them like hungry wolves. Agnes gasps, tries again to yank her hands out of Pearl’s slick hold, but it is impossible; it is as though the girl is focusing every last atom of her strength on this circle.

  The grandfather clock chimes. Agnes’s eyes flick towards it and she freezes.

  There’s something there. Unfolding in the corner.

  The shadow of a woman rises to her feet. She is tall and slender in profile. Familiar.

  Pearl’s back is turned to the grandfather clock, she can have no conception of how the shadow raises its hands and stretches long, long fingers towards her.

  Agnes tries to make a noise, but nothing comes out.

  The hands are like twigs on a tree. The branches reach out, grow larger, longer. One of them touches the tip of Pearl’s chin.

  ‘Look!’ Pearl exhales and her expression is beatific. ‘Agnes! I … I see her!’

  With one final wrench, Agnes tears her hands away.

  Pearl seems to come with them. She pitches forward, face first, onto the floor. The fire snaps out, the grandfather clock wheezes its last.

  ‘Pearl? Pearl!’

  Shakily, Agnes endeavours to prop her up again, but the girl’s head lolls. It cannot be, it should not be …

  She touches a hand to the clammy flesh at her neck. Nothing pulses beneath.

  Her translucent eyes are fixed open, staring at the image they so earnestly sought, and poor little Pearl is dead.

  CHAPTER 33

  The police call it the Dead Room. Agnes knows, because she has been there before: a space of cold white tiles and metal instruments. It is no place for a child.

  Naturally, she is not allowed inside with Simon and the other doctors while they probe and examine. Instead she sits waiting outside on a bench, with a sympathetic clergyman keeping watch over her.

  Occasionally Sergeant Redmayne checks up on them and offers cups of tea. All the previous suspicion has fled from his demeanour. Agnes does not think to ask why. She cannot think of much at all. She feels trapped inside a bell jar, the air stale and all sound muffled.

  The death of a child is not a particularly rare event. Everyone knows that many tiny souls depart from this world before their fifth birthday, especially down in the slums. But it feels as if time should stop, or that at least the city should go about its business with more gentleness and decorum.

  Nobody can quantify what has been lost. Pearl might have influenced many lives as she grew into womanhood, and now they will never know. Generations of possible children and grandchildren all perished with her last breath. There is nothing more tragic to Agnes’s mind than the future that never was.

  And where is Pearl now? Not in there, on a slab. She did not have the faith of a Christian, so Heaven is doubtful too. After the child’s sufferings, it would be terrible to think of her wandering the earth, as lost as one of the spirits she so feared.

  All Agnes can picture are those dark hands, reaching out.

  I see her, Pearl had said. She looked happy. Agnes would like to believe it was the girl’s deceased mother, come to claim her and take her home at last. But to her eyes, the figure had resembled someone else. Someone she last saw in the Dead Room.

  A shouted curse shatters her torpor. The bell over the street door jangles wildly, and a chair crashes to the floor. Agnes looks up to see three policemen grappling with a young woman. She is all teeth and hair. Although her wrists have been shackled, she has not given up her attempts to escape. She jerks, feints, tries to bite.

  ‘Steady,’ one policeman warns the other.

  A fourth officer comes forward with a leather truncheon. Clearly he has no compunction about striking a female. He cracks her hard on the shoulder; her head flies ba
ck, parting the curtain of her loose hair.

  The face beneath belongs to Miss West.

  ‘It weren’t my knife,’ she spits, ‘I never—’ But the truncheon swings again, and she is hustled into a side room out of view.

  Agnes blinks. Were it not for the clergyman’s pursed lips, she would doubt the scene had actually taken place.

  What can Miss West stand accused of?

  Of course Simon went to the police when he finally arrived and found Agnes with the lifeless body of Pearl. No doubt he told them where to find the child’s next of kin. But she did not expect them to fetch Miss West to the station bound.

  She said something about a knife. Agnes remembers the smear of blood she spotted on Pearl’s cheek. She assumed that had rubbed off from her father’s jaw as he lay dying, but perhaps not. Just what horrors was the girl fleeing from?

  After another half hour of dismal uncertainty, a door opens at the opposite end of the corridor to the one Miss West was spirited down. The clergyman stands up.

  Simon has returned to them.

  His shoulders stoop low. He no longer wears a coat, and his shirtsleeves have been rolled back to the elbows. Carbolic soap has scrubbed his hands and arms clean, but Agnes knows exactly what they have been doing.

  Her chest turns over.

  She keeps her head bent while Simon exchanges a few words with the clergyman and takes a seat by her side. She cannot bear to think of his hands moving over Pearl, or of what substances lay embedded beneath his fingernails.

  ‘Miss Darken,’ he says softly.

  ‘Is it done?’

  She feels, rather than sees him nod.

  ‘And do you know … ?’

  Simon exhales heavily. ‘The coroner found the cause of death I was anticipating. Miss Meers died of phosphorus poisoning.’

  It makes little sense – yet what has of late? She is no doctor. For all she knows, being confined in that house with Mr Meers might have caused the infection to leach through into Pearl, like tea leaves colouring water.