by Blythe Baker
“Helen, please, what’s going on? You’re starting to frighten me,” Irene said, her voice quiet.
I stared up at her face. “Roger…” I muttered.
Irene’s brow furrowed even further. “Roger? Sweetheart, are you feeling all right? Do I need to fetch the doctor?”
“N – no,” I said, the room beginning to spin. I shut my eyes, trying my best to keep present in the moment lest I lose consciousness from shock. “I’m fine, it’s just – ”
“You’re not making any sense,” Irene said. “Roger is gone, my dear. I know that all of these deaths must be terribly hard for you, but – ”
I grabbed her arm, squeezing it tightly. “No, Irene. I mean Roger might be – ” I said.
Irene’s face fell, and her eyes widened. “Does…does all this have something to do with Roger?” she asked.
My heart skipped and I turned to look at her. It wasn’t safe for her to know. If she knew, and if Roger really was the one killing all these people, and if he realized that she guessed anything –
She leaned away from me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “I knew that something strange was going on,” she said in a low voice, almost as if speaking to herself. “All this time, I knew it had something to do with Roger, but I assumed it was about his time in the army. I thought maybe you had learned something from his friend in London, or perhaps something was told to you that you couldn’t repeat in the interests of the country’s security – ”
“That’s all true,” I said. “There are things that I cannot share, that I cannot say – ”
“But this has something to do with Sam, too, doesn’t it?” she asked. “And you’ve been acting very strangely when it comes to any sort of discussion about – ”
“Irene, please,” I said. “It isn’t safe for you to know.”
That thought sent a panicked shiver through me. If Roger had somehow been involved in Sam’s death…but no, that was too absurd, too out of character for Roger – wasn’t it?
“Why did you mention Roger, then?” Irene asked. “He couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He never met Sam. You didn’t meet him yourself until after Roger’s death. He’s been gone now for – ”
Her voice trailed off, and a distant look passed over her face.
“Unless…” she said. “Unless Roger really isn’t gone – ”
“Irene, no!” I said, my voice raising more than I’d expected. “Please, do not entertain these thoughts – ”
“Am I correct?” Irene asked, her eyes growing all the wider. “Is he alive, Helen?”
“I – ” I said. How could I lie to her? Even in order to protect Roger?
I could lie if it meant protecting Irene and Nathanial and Michael. I had to. I had no choice.
If Roger would have gone so far as to kill Sam in order to protect himself, then how could I expect him to do any less with Irene? If she knew the truth, wouldn’t she be as much of a danger as Sam was?
In reality, Irene had guessed correctly, which meant that she knew more than Sam actually had. She knew things that I wasn’t even supposed to know. A government secret. A murder covered up so well that Sidney, who had attempted to kill Roger, hadn’t even suspected the truth.
And now, Irene simply guessed it while we sat together in the kitchen of the teahouse because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
“Helen, is this what you haven’t been telling me? Is Roger actually alive?” she breathed.
I had to stop her. I had to stop this conversation before it blew out of proportion.
“I…I’m not positive,” I said, and I knew that was the closest thing to the truth I could give her. In reality, I hadn’t ever seen Roger with my own eyes. The only hints I had were the moments I saw his silhouette as well as the minor exchanges we’d made over the last few weeks. Even still, he’d been silent since Sam’s death…
“How can you not be certain?” Irene asked. “Are you saying there is a chance of – ”
“I don’t know!” I snapped, and then hung my head, sighing. “I don’t know,” I said more gently. “There is a great deal I don’t understand, but Irene, please, for my sake, please do not mention anything that we spoke about in here to anyone. Not even to Nathanial. If you do, I’m afraid it might put your family in danger.”
“In danger?” Irene asked. “Why?”
“We are discussing things that we should not be,” I said. “Government secrets. I just…”
I wanted to tell her. I wanted her to know that I trusted her, because I did, more than anyone else. But I needed to learn the full truth first. Needed to make sure she would be safe.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Can you promise me that?”
Irene studied my face for a long, hard moment. I could see her trust in me starting to slip, but I hoped it would hold up long enough for me to be able to figure everything out.
“I promise you I won’t say anything,” she said. “Not even to my own husband.”
“Good,” I said. “If someone caught wind of what we were talking about – ”
“I could end up like Sam,” Irene said.
I met her gaze, and for a moment, we exchanged understanding looks.
Yes, I thought. You could end up just like Sam.
12
I fled for home soon after. There had to be a way for me to contact Roger, to ask him about what was happening. I had no idea how to go about it, never having any experience writing coded messages or using different colored cloth or ink for different meanings.
I spent nearly an hour pacing back and forth in my own kitchen at home, wondering about my best course of action.
Another thought struck me as I turned for the several hundredth time on the carpet, creating grooves in the braided cloth.
What if it wasn’t so much to keep his secret as it was out of jealousy?
I’d considered it when I realized that Sidney was also gone now, though he had died at my hands, not Roger’s. How could I be sure that Roger hadn’t orchestrated it somehow, though?
If he had, then Roger was not at all the man I thought he was…sending me into such a dangerous situation, where I had to fight my way free, killing Sidney in the process out of self defense…
How was that a demonstration of love?
It wasn’t love. It was obsession. It was a territorial fight.
If Sam died because Roger had killed him out of jealousy…then Roger was not the sort of person I wanted in my life.
I couldn’t be sure which thought was more troubling; that Roger might have killed Sam in order to protect his own secrets? Or out of petty jealousy?
This is all entirely under the assumption that Roger was the one that killed Sam in the first place…I thought, doing my best to keep myself calm. In reality, I don’t know that. I am simply troubled by the thought, and its causing me to miss out on other possible suspects.
I chewed on the inside of my lip, forcing myself to push thoughts of Roger out of my mind. It was impossible, though, as those horrible ideas continued to appear unbidden in my streams of thought.
Finally, I realized that perhaps the best thing for me to do was to go again and investigate the place where Sam had been found. In the daylight. It was possible I’d missed something in the darkness of night, and now knowing that Sam had been killed with a piece of glass…
I stopped short, nearly tripping over a wrinkle in the rug beneath my feet.
A piece of glass…I thought. Wasn’t there a broken window in the upper story of the Mayfield’s home?
My heart began to race. Was it at all possible that a piece from that broken window had been used to kill Sam?
Maybe it was still there. Maybe the police hadn’t found the other part of the shard, the part that hadn’t broken off into Sam when he’d been stabbed.
I still didn’t like the thought of Sam being so brutally killed…I tried not to imagine how lonely he must have been as he died.
As I located my coat, hanging down from
the hook in my shop downstairs, I wondered what his last thoughts might have been.
Was he afraid? I wondered as I pulled one of the sleeves on. I certainly would have been.
I hoped he hadn’t been in too much pain, or that he hadn’t lain there for hours before he died, nothing but the chill of the night to keep his company.
I knew it was quite certain he had suffered to some degree. How could someone be pierced so many times and not suffer? It had been enough to kill him, after all…
How could someone do this…I thought, just as I had so many times before over the last few weeks.
As I stepped out onto High Street, I furrowed my brow.
Roger, I hope more than anything that it wasn’t you, I thought, my hands sliding into the pockets of my jacket. I hope it wasn’t you, and I honestly don’t know what I would do if it was.
Pushing those thoughts away once more, I set my eyes on Mr. Hodgins’ butcher shop, and the house I knew had been empty for the last few weeks while the Mayfields had been gone visiting their son.
The alleyway was just as I remembered it. Even in the daylight, it was clear there was very little back there. Nothing more than some rubbish bins, old and broken wooden boxes, and the well-traveled path winding behind the houses and shops.
Setting my hands on my hips, I looked around near the Mayfield’s home.
The window was still broken, though it looked as though it hadn’t been damaged by too much more since I’d seen it last. Rain and wind perhaps, and I hoped nothing inside had been ruined any more than it might have been by the person who had broken in.
I wandered over underneath the window, peering at the overgrown grass that encircled the house.
Tiny shards glinted in the moody, dull grey light of the afternoon.
Using the tip of my shoe, I pushed them around, looking for any evidence of blood or cloth, yet I found nothing.
Was it possible that Sam’s murder and the person who had broken into the house had nothing to do with each other?
No…that seemed like far too much of a coincidence, and I wasn’t one to believe in coincidences.
I liked the theory of the person breaking into the house being the same one who killed Sam, as it likely eliminated the possibility of Roger being the murderer. What purpose would Roger have breaking into someone’s home? I could think of nothing, though it certainly made me wonder where he’d been sleeping over the last few months…
I dragged a partially empty rubbish bin beneath the window, and crawled up on top, the metal lid groaning underneath my weight.
I steadied myself by laying my hands against the honey-colored wall of the house, and stared upward until I felt my legs stop trembling.
The window was still mostly out of reach, but if I were to climb up onto the overhang above the window on the lower floor…
This is crazy, I told myself as I laid my hands on top of the tile overhang, hoisting myself into the air, and pulling my body up onto it. If I get caught, I am going to be in all sorts of trouble.
I tried not to think about that as I looked up at the broken window, and realized I could reach it now.
Laying my hands on the windowsill, I hissed through my teeth as I yanked my fingers back down toward myself. Tiny, sharp stings shot through my hands, like the sting of a dozen bees.
When I overturned my hands, I saw little shards of glass had pierced through my tender skin.
A cold wave of nausea passed through me. Why hadn’t I considered there might be more broken glass up there?
Carefully, I plucked each piece of glass from my fingers, realizing it looked more frightening than it actually was; the skin hadn’t been broken more than three times.
Pulling my jacket off, I wrapped it around my hands before attempting to lift myself up once again.
It was easier this time, as I could rest my feet on the top of the overhang beneath me, and could see inside just enough to make out a beautifully decorated bedroom in the room beyond.
The room itself wasn’t all that big, but everything was dark apart from what little light the windows would allow inside.
A tall dresser with a mirror stood against the northern wall, and a pretty carved desk waited patiently for someone to occupy it’s chair beside the door that must have led out into the rest of the house. The drawers had all been pulled out, and papers settled over the floor and the sides of the desk.
The nightstands, too, on either side of the bed, seemed to have had their drawers upended, their contents scattered about on the floor. Combs, spools of thread, books, and small bottles of perfume lay jumbled together, clearly not the object of the thief’s intentions.
None of those held my attention for long, because I noticed the shattered pieces of glass strewn about on the floor beneath the window, and it was clear from the sheer amount of it that the window had been broken inward, not outward.
Whoever had broken in had climbed up here, likely in the same way I had.
The jagged pieces of glass still in the window frame looked menacing, and as I stared at them, along with the ones lying on the floor, it was easy to see how they could have been used alternatively as a weapon.
The two crimes have to be connected, I thought as I glanced back down at the ground behind me. Whoever broke in here had to be the one to kill Sam.
I was beginning to doubt my own discernment in all this. There were too many possibilities, especially given my new revelation that it could have been Roger that killed Sam.
This seemed more plausible, though, didn’t it?
Someone had been sneaking into the house, and Sam had somehow caught them in the act. In fear or anger, the burglar had attacked Sam, perhaps not intending to kill but only wound, and then fled…
That seemed the most likely, didn’t it?
Then why were the police worried it could have been an inside job? Or perhaps even someone military?
Was it possible it was much simpler than we had all thought? Could it have been nothing more than that Sam was at the wrong place at the wrong time?
As I gingerly crawled down off the overhang and back onto the rubbish bin lid, I wondered if Sergeant Newton had even come here to check the house. Likely not, or the glass would have been cleaned up by now.
I wasn’t quite sure what to think about all this. I did know that it was beginning to hurt my head, though, and I wasn’t sure where to go from here.
This wasn’t even enough evidence. I had no names, no faces, no witnesses…how could I possibly locate someone who had been here weeks ago, and had managed to slip away without detection?
I stared up at the window, my heart sinking.
The sound of a heavy door sliding closed further along the alleyway caught my attention, causing me to turn around.
In the next building over, the butcher’s shop, I saw a sliver of light peeking through the gap between the metal door and the frame just as it was closing.
My heart began to beat quickly once more.
Had someone been watching me?
I’d been almost positive that I’d been alone in this alleyway, not having seen hide nor hair of anyone since climbing up on that rubbish bin. With the buildings as close together as they were, I certainly wouldn’t have missed it.
You’re being paranoid, I told myself. It could have very well been Mr. Hodgins simply taking out the garbage. Given how hard the man works, he likely wouldn’t have seen me, even if he had been looking.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the prickling along my spine as I made my way from the alleyway. What if someone had been watching me?
What if it had been Roger?
I hurried home, my head spinning as I tried to keep my thoughts straight.
There certainly seemed to be more to this mystery than I had ever thought possible. Whoever had killed Sam was doing a bang up job at keeping their identity hidden. I had no earthly idea who it could have been, nor did the police seem to know.
Would this go down as yet another unsol
ved murder? While Sam had been alive, there had been no such thing. In his absence, now, though…were we more likely to fail?
I’m sorry, Sam…I thought. I’m so very sorry.
13
I had a difficult time sleeping that night. Over and over in my mind, I kept playing the image of Sam lying dead in that alleyway, broken shards of glass protruding from his bloodied body.
In the morning, as I sat at the foot of my bed staring out at the rooftops across the street, I realized that I was letting Sam down. He had come to put his trust in me before he’d died, purely through my ability to solve problems that were just out of his reach. We’d come to make a good team, and for now, I felt as if I was not upholding his trust in me.
“What would you say to me if you were here, Sam?” I asked, staring down at the fraying edge of the blanket I had wrapped around my shoulders.
That was an interesting question, wasn’t it? What would he say?
I tugged at the end of one of the strings hanging from my blanket.
“Well, you probably would tell me that I needed to stop and think about everything I’ve learned so far,” I said. “And you would remind me that it would be better if I just stayed out of this in the first place. Surely, though, you would know that I would tell you I had no intention of ducking out now, especially when I’ve already invested so much time in this…”
I sighed.
“You’d probably tell me to pay attention to what everyone had said, but also to not trust anyone. You would tell me it is most likely that someone, somewhere, is lying to me, and that I need to do what I can in order to find this person.”
I blinked, my eyelids heavy.
But I couldn’t stay here. I needed to get up and do what I could for the day.
“There has to be something I’m overlooking,” I said on the telephone to Irene, who I’d called to share some of my woes for the day.
She seemed annoyed at first, especially about everything I’d said, or not said, about Roger the day before, but quickly forgave me when I told her how torn up I was about all this. I apologized at least seven more times as well, just for good measure. “You know, sometimes the best way to look at a problem is to set it aside for some time and come back to it later with fresh eyes,” she said. “You’ve been agonizing over this for weeks now, Helen. It’s no wonder you’re tired out and upset. Have you thought about taking any time away? Even just for an afternoon?”
