A Child Lost

by Michelle Cox

  “So I did,” he said, smiling at her. “But with a child underfoot?” he went on, his smile disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared. “A child who is not yours, and one who is ill and will not ever get better? A child who will probably never go to school and who will always be a burden?” His voice caught a little.

  “I can teach her,” she said softly after a few moments.

  “No,” he said, looking down at her hand that he still held.

  Elsie was near despair now, fearing that she might never be able to convince him of what was so obvious to her. Her mind was racing as to what to say next when it suddenly came to her, an inspiration that she could only describe as divine.

  “Light, so low upon earth,” she began unsteadily, quoting Tennyson’s poem she had once read in his journal and subsequently memorized, for what reason at the time she did not know, perhaps just as a way to feel closer to him, but which in this moment seemed miraculously clear . . .

  You send a flash to the sun.

  Here is the golden close of love,

  All my wooing is done.

  Oh, all the woods and the meadows,

  Woods, where we hid from the wet,

  Stiles where we stayed to be kind,

  Meadows in which we met!

  Light, so low in the vale

  You flash and lighten afar,

  For this is the golden morning of love,

  And you are his morning star.

  Flash, I am coming, I come,

  By meadow and stile and wood,

  Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart,

  Into my heart and my blood!

  She paused and took a deep breath before continuing on, slowly and clearly . . .

  Heart, are you great enough

  For a love that never tires?

  O heart, are you great enough for love?

  She could see the tears in his eyes, which caused fresh ones to fill hers, too. Huskily, her throat aching, she said the last words . . .

  I have heard of thorns and briers.

  Over the thorns and briers,

  Over the meadows and stiles . . .

  “Over the world to the end of it, flash for a million miles,” he said in unison with her, and paused for only a second before he encircled her with his arms. He did not take her roughly or swiftly but looked deeply into her eyes as if to confirm her feelings, and as if to somehow mark this moment, to perhaps commit it to memory. Just when she felt she could endure it no longer, he slowly leaned toward her and brushed his lips against her trembling ones. Elsie returned his kiss in full, giving herself to him completely. He was so lovely, so good, and she felt she might die, right this moment, the ache of a million miles inside of both of them.

  “Elsie,” he said hoarsely, pulling his lips away but resting his forehead against hers. “Are you sure?”

  Her answer was to nod, a small smile on her face.

  “Then I must ask you and not have you beg, as you put it,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. He paused for several moments. “Elsie Von Harmon,” he said solemnly, looking lovingly into her eyes, “will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”

  “Yes,” Elsie said, her heart full to breaking. “Yes,” she said, crying now for joy in the very room in which she had cried so many lonely tears over Stanley and Harrison, she leaned her head on Gunther’s chest. “Yes, I will be your wife. Over the world to the end of it, flash for a million miles.”

  Chapter 25

  “There’s nothing really there,” Clive said, tossing his fake badge onto the table in front of Davis. “She hasn’t broken any laws, so there’s nothing to charge her with.” He took a large swig of the whiskey he held. They were back at the Trophy Room.

  “Nothing?” Frank Davis asked skeptically. “That’s hard to believe. Sure she didn’t hypnotize you with her voodoo?” he asked with a laugh, wiggling the air with his fingers.

  “Fuck off, Davis,” Clive said irritably.

  Earlier in the week, Davis had telephoned him at Highbury, asking if he’d gotten anywhere with the Madame Pavlovsky case, as he himself received yet another annoying call from Mr. Tobin demanding some sort of justice. Clive had relayed to Davis that they were making progress, just that there were one or two things he still wished to clear up and he would get on it right away. But there hadn’t been a chance to go back to Madame Pavlovsky’s since the fateful séance, nor had he much time to think about it, really, not with the concern at the firm over the Kalamazoo plant and Henrietta’s obsession—nearly fatal, as it turned out—with Dunning. How had what started as a simple case of a missing person ended up as a case involving nothing less than a deranged killer? he thought for the hundredth time. Just thinking about the sight of Henrietta running from Dunning, her hospital gown billowing about her, streaked with blood and grime, her hair wild, still caused a wave of sweaty angst to course through him. It was like something out of Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights—one of those silly books, anyway, that he had been forced to read at school—and it had nearly unhinged him.

  He had been nearly frantic by the time he found her that night, scooping her up in his arms as she collapsed. Joe the orderly was not far behind her, as well as one or two others—but they all turned and ran in the other direction when they caught sight of Clive. As much as Clive had wanted to go after the bastards—clearly something terrible had happened—his first concern was to tend to Henrietta. Quickly, he ascertained that she was not fatally injured despite her bleeding hand and then swiftly carried her back to where Fritz waited with the car. All the while, various guards could be seen scurrying around the grounds in confused alarm.

  Amateurs, Clive thought distractedly, despite the adrenaline coursing through him, as he deposited Henrietta as gently as possible in the back seat of the Daimler. He barked for Fritz to stand watch while he ran to the now-empty guard booth and commandeered the telephone to call the police, demanding to speak to the precinct captain. Rapidly he explained who he was, and when he had sufficiently related the need for several patrol cars, he left the booth. He was sorely tempted to go after at least Joe, who was clearly guilty of something, and furiously tried to prevent his mind from supposing the worst.

  Fighting his panic, he instead dashed back to the car and slid in beside Henrietta, taking her in his arms while they waited for the police. At one point, he came very close to instructing Fritz to drive them post haste to Highbury instead of waiting around any longer—but then Henrietta had come to a little bit and was able to tell him briefly what happened and that Nurse Collins was the guilty party. At this surprising revelation, Clive felt it imperative to wait for the police, and when they did show up, not a few minutes later, he got out of the car to inform them of what he knew.

  Only when he was satisfied that the detective inspector on the scene was thoroughly apprised of the situation did he finally give Fritz the command to drive them home. For only a brief moment did Clive consider having Fritz drive them instead to a hospital. He decided, however, that taking Henrietta to yet another institution, given the situation, might not be for the best. It was hard to judge just how deep the cut on her hand was, but he knew he had to get her home first.

  It was late when he carried her into the house, asleep in his arms. He had put his coat around her while in the car, but even so, her bloody gown poked out from under it as he carried her up the main stone steps, the sight of which threw the servants into a frantic uproar as they dashed around, trying to help. As he carried Henrietta up the stairs, Clive instructed Billings to telephone Dr. Ferrington and for Edna to run ahead and get a bath ready and to stoke the fire. Without being told, Mrs. Caldwell herself went and prepared a tray of warm cocoa and some biscuits, as Mary had already gone to bed hours ago.

  Gently, Clive sat down on the bed, still holding Henrietta as if she were a child, while he waited for her bath to be ready. At one point she awoke. Her eyes were large and fearful as she looked around quickly as if to assess where they were. “We’re at Highbury?
When did we get here?” she asked blearily.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock, darling. But you’re going to be okay. I’m here now.”

  She looked down at her blood-stained gown and started. “Oh my,” she cried out, and then seemed to remember her injured hand, which Clive had since wrapped with his handkerchief. “I cut myself on the glass,” she said, looking up at him. “Oh, Clive, I’m so sorry.” Tears filled her eyes, which caused him to crush her to him tightly as he kissed her filthy hair.

  “My brave, foolish girl,” he said thickly. “What am I to do with you? Don’t leave me, Henrietta. You mustn’t ever leave me. Promise,” he said through his own tears.

  “Promise,” she whispered back.

  Edna had knocked softly, then, saying that the bath was ready. Gently, she took her mistress and led her to the bathroom. Afterward, she dressed Henrietta in a warm cotton nightgown and bed socks and entreated her to take a few sips of Mrs. Caldwell’s cocoa before helping her into bed.

  Dr. Ferrington arrived not long after and was quickly shown to the patient’s room by Billings. After his subsequent examination and bandaging of Henrietta’s hand and several other small cuts on her arms and legs, presumably procured as well from the jagged opening she had passed through, Clive invited him into his study for a quick drink. He nearly broke down in front of him when the doctor related that, in his opinion, anyway, Henrietta would certainly recover. “She needs rest, though, Mr. Howard. No excitement of any kind. Maybe a quiet walk in the garden in a day or two, nothing more. Understand?”

  “Yes, of course, Doctor. I’ll see to it.”

  “She’s sleeping now, but when she wakes up, have the servants make her toast and a beef tea. I’ve given her maid some sleeping powders to mix up for her tomorrow if needed. Your wife hasn’t fully recovered, physically that is, from the miscarriage, and I suspect she is still anemic. If you don’t take my advice, I can’t be responsible,” he said grimly, knocking his whiskey back and taking his leave.

  Dr. Ferrington’s words struck terror in Clive’s heart, and as soon as he showed him out, Clive dashed back up the stairs, two at a time, to their bedroom. Edna was standing outside where he had stationed her, and she confirmed what Dr. Ferrington already said, that Madame was sleeping. Without knocking, Clive poked his head in to gaze at her. She looked like an angel asleep in their bed except for her bandaged hand and bruised face, both of which filled him with fury and fierce helplessness, so much so that he found it difficult to breathe. He went to the bed and lay down beside her, not even bothering to undress, so desperately did he want to be near her. He took her in his arms and held her, Dr. Ferrington’s words still in his mind, as well as a myriad of other thoughts. Eventually he dozed off, but he slept fitfully.

  Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he slipped out and bathed and dressed, for once allowing Carter to assist him, and went downstairs. The morning Tribune lay on his desk; “Angel of Death Apprehended” was the headline. Somehow the press had already gotten ahold of the story. Clive skimmed through it, thankful that at least Henrietta’s name was not mentioned, and telephoned Captain Densmore, whom he had spoken to last night and who now apparently held not only Caroline Collins, but one Joe Ferrari, in custody. Captain Densmore related that Caroline Collins had been rather easy to apprehend, as it turned out, and that she had indeed confessed, under questioning, to no less than twenty-six murders, including that of one Liesel Klinkhammer. It looked to be a pretty open-and-shut case, Captain Densmore had gone on, especially as they already had a confession. That notwithstanding, however, Mrs. Howard would still be required to give an official statement when she was recovered, he added, and promised to keep Clive abreast of any new developments. “She’s loony, this one is,” Captain Densmore said wryly, referring now to Caroline Collins. “Heart of ice. No remorse. Not gonna go well with a jury.” With a weary sigh, Clive decided that he would go back upstairs to check on the patient. At that moment he was interrupted by yet another telephone call, this one from Davis, who, without preamble or niceties, informed him that Mr. Tobin was threatening to get Chief Callahan involved if something wasn’t resolved quickly in the Madame Pavlovsky case—which, Davis reminded Clive, would not be beneficial for either of them.

  Certainly, it would threaten the rather tenuous relationship he and Davis had so far forged, Clive knew, and likewise, he knew he risked losing the little jurisdiction he held, which was shaky at best, propped up as it were with a fake badge. Clive crisply informed Davis that he had the case well in hand, thanks very much; that he and Henrietta had indeed done some investigating, and it revealed much. He only needed to ask this Madame Pavlovsky a few more questions, and then he felt sure he could haul her in. Davis’s response was to inform him that he could have one more day, but that was it.

  Clive hung up the telephone with another heavy sigh and rubbed his brow. He couldn’t possibly leave Henrietta right now, he worried, and yet, what else was he to do? Perhaps he really should just let Chief Callahan get involved in the case and extricate both himself and Henrietta. After all, what did he care? He hadn’t wanted to pursue this case in the first place. He had just done it to distract Henrietta, who, it turned out, had not needed distracting. And yet, his sense of justice niggled at him. He found it hard to contemplate just walking away from the case, without coming to some sort of conviction or resolution. Plus, he felt he owed Davis somehow. If Mr. Tobin filed a complaint, Davis was the one who would get the brunt of Callahan’s anger when he found out that Davis had partnered with someone outside the force. In light of what they had been through together, Clive just couldn’t do that to him.

  Quickly Clive downed the last of his coffee, thinking. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was only 9:00 a.m. No doubt Henrietta was still asleep and would remain asleep for a good while longer, he reasoned, if the servants had indeed given her a sleeping powder. If he left now, he could probably get to Crow Island and back before she even awoke. Accordingly, he rang for Billings and left strict instructions that no one was to disturb Henrietta and that she was not allowed to leave her room under any circumstances—at the risk of their jobs. He then took the extra precaution of popping his head into the morning room to warn his mother to likewise not disturb Henrietta, and not to say anything controversial to her should Henrietta happen to wake up while he was out . . . running an errand, he had explained.

  “You hardly need to instruct me in deportment, Clive,” Antonia lightly scolded him, though he knew that she was very worried about Henrietta as well, having been up to check on her at least four or five times since he carried her in last night.

  His last instruction was to Billings, as the staid servant handed him his hat and coat, which was to order several dozen bouquets of roses to be delivered to the house.

  “Very good, sir,” Billings had mumbled with a slight bow.

  Clive sped down Willow probably faster than he should have, his mind a mess with worry over Henrietta, mixed with disturbing thoughts about the cold, calculating murders of Nurse Collins. Again, Henrietta had been right, and he marveled at the fact that she really did seem to have some detective sense to her, despite her persistent naiveté and innocence. And what about these “murders?” Clive asked himself, the wind whipping his hair through the window he had rapidly cranked open, feeling overwhelmingly overheated and anxious. It was wrong, of course, for this woman to end these poor souls’ lives, especially as she was a nurse and entrusted with their care—but there was a small part of him that could understand her logic, however warped. Was living in such a place really living? Was it not already a tomb? he thought, turning down the unmarked Crow Island lane. Were some of her “victims” perhaps glad to be released from their misery, as she claimed they were?

  It was too much to think about right now, he concluded, knowing that dwelling on these thoughts for too long would be straying into dangerous territory. He rolled the Alfa to a stop just in front of the schoolhouse and tried instead to concentra
te on the task at hand: the slippery Madame Pavlovsky. Quietly, he walked up the steps, steeling his resolve and pushing all thoughts of Henrietta and Dunning to the back of his mind. As he raised his hand to knock, the door was mysteriously opened by the lackey who had answered it the other night. He did not seem surprised at all to see Clive and waved him in as if he were expecting him.

  Clive stepped inside and quickly looked around, disappointed that the room had already been turned back to its original state—the large table which they all sat around during the séance now gone (but where?)—replaced by chairs, the old sofa, and pillows scattered around the floor. He had wanted to have another look at that table . . . Well, no matter, he thought to himself as he walked toward Madame Pavlovsky, who was seated on her throne-like chair at the other end of the room. He was pretty sure of his theory without needing further proof.

  “Ah, Mr. Howard,” Madame Pavlovsky called out to Clive now. “Or would you rather I call you Detective Howard?”

  “Either will do,” he said, striding calmly toward her, his hands in his pockets. Did she just sit there all day waiting for some poor sap to pull up? More than likely, he guessed, the lackey kept watch and called to her to take her seat once he heard the gravel crunch or the sight of easy prey approaching.

  “Your wife does not come with you today?” Madame Pavlovsky asked, her thin bony fingers pressed together as if in prayer against her lips. “It is too bad she is ill.”

  For only a moment Clive wondered how she could have known that, but then realized that it was a good guess considering he had carried Henrietta out of here not a few days ago in a faint. He almost admired her craftiness. “I have some questions for you,” he said bluntly. “So you can cut the bullshit.”

  “Yes, I can see that you do. So much anger in you. So much sadness. And fear,” she said, her eyes brightening a bit as she said it.