Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  She left her room and knocked at Cecil’s door. Joe Brennan had dressed him and combed his hair as she’d instructed. He now stood waiting next to Cecil, who was slumped on the edge of his bed, head hanging down.

  ‘Cecil, how much better you look,’ she said, coming towards him. As soon as she was near enough, he raised a hand and clawed it around her arm.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ he snapped. ‘Why didn’t you cancel this?’

  ‘Because it is your birthday, and Daniel’s coming home, and everyone is expecting to see you. Joe, please bring Cecil down now.’

  *

  Cecil was placed in his chair. It had been transferred to the library so that he wouldn’t be required to move during the course of the evening. A black velvet drape hung over his lap. Soon, the first guests started to arrive and Tamara watched on as they greeted their reluctant host. Some were better actors than others, but most found it impossible to hide at least some element of their shock at Cecil’s transformation. The pallid, haunted face that greeted them bore little resemblance to the manicured man they’d once known.

  Tamara moved slowly around the room, smiling and exchanging pleasantries here and there. She saw faces that she thought she’d never see again; she listened to the ringing sound of laughter and she kindly nodded at the stream of condolences regarding Dovestead. The chatter and babble washed around her like a soothing balm. And all the time, the great nameless secret of Walter’s plan grew inside her. She watched and waited.

  At about nine o’clock, Patrick Brennan sidled into the room with a very old man. He looked awfully hunched and frail; his gnarled hand rested on Patrick’s arm for support. Tamara went over to them.

  ‘This is the musician,’ said Patrick, looking awfully unsure about the grey, creviced specimen hanging off him. ‘He’s ’ere to play the piano.’

  ‘Come this way,’ said Tamara.

  The man had a long, grey beard and wire-rimmed spectacles that rested on the end of his nose. As they made their way to the piano, Patrick sneered down at the tottering musician as if he were nothing better than a filthy vagrant. But the old man was neat enough. He wore trim black clothing and a little round hat on his head, rather like a squashed fez. He slid off Patrick’s arm, wobbled unsteadily on his feet for a moment and then collapsed down onto the piano stool. Tamara gazed at him in interest. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his face.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Summer,’ replied the old man, in a cracked whisper of a voice. ‘Percival Summer.’ But he didn’t look back at her. His eyes drifted back and forth over the piano keys instead, and he flexed his fingers as if he were itching to play.

  ‘Who is that man?’ snapped Cecil, as Tamara approached him.

  ‘Our musician. He’s going to play the piano for us now.’

  ‘What? That bedraggled old fool?’

  But Tamara ignored him and began to summon the guests to their chairs instead.

  It took some time for everyone to settle. Chairs squeaked as they were shifted about, dresses rustled, conversations had to reach their natural end. And all the time Percival Summer sat still and silent at the piano, waiting to play. He had no music to read from; he had brought nothing but himself. He looked at no one.

  When the last murmur had finally died, he raised his hands and began. His music was surprisingly light and beautiful. It was hard to believe that such a knobbly, twisted old tree of a man could play so delicately and with such nimble fingers. He began with a little Mozart, but swiftly moved on to some music that Tamara didn’t recognise. It was light and fast-paced and had the jauntiness of gypsy music. Its freshness clearly pleased the audience. Tamara glanced across the transfixed faces and felt a thrill of pleasure at the old man’s unlikely success. Even Cecil seemed to be locked in concentration. Although she had noticed his eyelids drooping several times through the evening, they now remained wide open with interest.

  Mr Summer came to the end of a piece and turned creakily on his stool to face the audience.

  ‘I have one final tune to play for you,’ he crackled. ‘It is a special tribute to our host tonight. I hope that my rendition will do it justice.’

  There was a short silence as the audience shifted a little in expectation. Mr Summer raised his hands again and, very quietly at first, began to play Death of the Lady. Tamara shuddered as the low, haunting notes tumbled from the instrument. Never would she have imagined that the melody could be played so exquisitely.

  Her eyes fell on Cecil as he began to move in his seat. It started with a twitching of his head, slow at first and then increasingly pronounced. And then suddenly his whole body lurched forwards, so that he was in danger of falling to the floor. He raised his hand to his throat as his chest began to convulse.

  ‘Cecil? What’s the matter?’ she whispered.

  A murmur rose up around the audience. Cecil heaved himself forwards again. It looked as if he were trying to stand.

  He pursed his lips into a round. ‘No,’ he mouthed, and a glistening string of saliva snaked down the front of his shirt.

  But the music only grew louder and he fell back at once, toppling from his chair and landing clumsily on the floor. There was a unified gasp. Within seconds the audience was on its feet, rushing to Cecil. Their encroaching, concerned faces seemed to smother him even more as he writhed on the carpet, fighting for breath. His hand was still grasping at his throat. And yet still the music went on, soaring to a crescendo; its ominous, dark notes reverberating through the room.

  Cecil was trying to say something. Tamara collapsed to her knees and put her ear to his mouth.

  ‘Stop,’ came his agonised plea. ‘Stop the music.’

  But as the sound of the piano continued to wash around them, Tamara didn’t move an inch. Instead she watched on motionlessly as Cecil’s eyes rolled and his face began to spasm. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight of his crawling skin.

  Two hands clasped anxiously at her shoulders. ‘Come Mrs Hearst, this is not for you to see,’ implored a voice.

  But Tamara shook the hands away. She wanted to see. She wanted to witness the end of this vile terror of a man.

  ‘Someone, find a doctor!’ yelled another voice.

  ‘It’s his heart!’ shouted someone else, as Cecil’s chest began to convulse again.

  The crowd dispersed; feet dashed backwards and forwards. And then, somewhere in the periphery of her vision, a door opened and it seemed that a new commotion had started to take place.

  Tamara dragged her eyes away to discover that a man, whose hands had been tied behind his back, was now being hauled into the room. She tilted her head and realised that the person behind him, pushing him along, was Cecil’s weasel-eyed bloodhound. He pushed the man forwards so that they both now came into Cecil’s view.

  ‘What is going on?’ demanded Tamara.

  The investigator caught sight of Cecil lying on the floor and started with shock. ‘I … I have brought back Daniel Hearst,’ he replied, his voice trailing.

  Cecil’s eyes grew so wide that it was now possible to see the full rings of livid white around his irises. His whole head seemed to bubble and seethe. Every vein in his neck protruded bulbously, every sinew was drawn taut.

  Tamara eyed the prisoner. He looked nothing like Daniel. Oh, Walter. How could she ever have doubted him? He’d known that Cecil would hunt Daniel down and he’d woven his magic over this weasel faced stooge of her husband’s just as easily as if he’d been a member of one of his audiences. Relief and gratitude flooded through her like warm sunshine.

  ‘That is not Daniel Hearst,’ called someone in the crowd.

  ‘At last!’ cried the poor, shackled man. ‘I’ve been trying to convince this man of the very same thing for the last two days!’

  The investigator squinted his small eyes and looked utterly perplexed. He shook his head, as if trying to wake himself up from a strange dream.

  ‘Get that man out of here!’ Tama
ra shouted, pointing accusingly at him. ‘My husband is dying on the floor! I hardly need this usurper, breaking into my house and making false statements. Get rid of him immediately.’

  A series of hands grasped at the man’s arms, forcing him to relinquish his hostage. As he was expelled from the room in a new flurry of excitement, Tamara turned her attention back to Cecil. No one seemed to have noticed that Death of the Lady still trickled on. The music was gentle now, but it continued to weave its way through the air.

  Cecil’s breathing began to fade. The spasms in his face had stopped; his chest no longer convulsed. His eyelids lowered so that only slivers of white were now visible beneath his eyelashes. As the final notes of the music drew to a close, Cecil’s chest heaved one last time and then deflated.

  Tamara peered into the air around him and then looked back down at the empty shell of the man lying before her. She wondered where it had all suddenly gone: all that fury, all that hatred, all the fear that had driven him through every turning in his life. Could so much turbulence possible be extinguished forever in one single, dying breath?

  ‘Goodbye,’ she murmured.

  Someone helped to raise her to her feet, but she refused to leave the room or sit down. It felt right to remain standing, exactly where she was. People bustled and whispered and fretted around her. Cecil’s body was taken to another room by the Brennan brothers.

  ‘Would you like to lie down, dear?’ asked a female voice.

  ‘Yes I would,’ Tamara replied. ‘But I would like a little time alone first. Just a few minutes. Would you mind?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The room finally emptied and the door closed with a gentle yawn. No one had seemed to notice that the old man at the piano was still sitting in his place, silently staring down at the keys. Tamara made her way to him and he turned his face up to greet her. It was a brilliant disguise. How real that beard looked and how cleverly those wrinkles had been painted on.

  ‘Tom,’ she whispered, locking her hand into his elegant fingers.

  His eyes smiled back at her. Home.

  The Farewell

  It was a grey, soupy morning when they all wound their way down to the docks together. Sinbad and Kayan walked at the head of the small company. The panther looked indignant at having to be led by a rope, but crowds had the frustrating habit of becoming unsettled when he roamed freely.

  Tom smiled to himself as onlookers offered his companions their puzzled looks. It was true that their group was quite a menagerie, even to the most seasoned dockland eyes. The panther and the olive skinned boy were followed by Cornelius and his Missus, whose red curls on this particular morning were nothing more than a triumph of engineering. And then came Walter, dressed in a burnt orange suit with a matching cape. The bright colour on his lofty, stick-like frame positively glowed in the opaque air. Last of all came Tom himself, with Tamara on his arm. Although she wore black still, in his eyes she shone the brightest of them all. Time and time again he found himself turning to admire that impossibly beautiful face.

  The docks were coming to life. Barrels were being tossed through the air; a schooner creaked in the water, waiting obediently for its load like an old carthorse. Soon the air would be heaving with steam and sails and shouting and sweat.

  At last they came to a halt and the odd looking little family gathered in a cluster around Walter. Cornelius was the first to say goodbye, then the Missus, who folded Walter into her abundant bosom and wiped great tears from her eyes. Walter then bent down and pressed his forehead gently against Sinbad’s. The panther nuzzled back and gave him a soft lick on the nose with his pink tongue. Then it was Kayan’s turn. The boy could hardly bring himself to speak, but he hugged Walter with all his strength, burying his face in his chest so that no one might see his anguish.

  ‘Come come, Kayan,’ urged Walter, gently. ‘It is not forever. You and Sinbad will have a better home in Wales with Sally and Daniel. And remember what I said, Sally …,’

  ‘…needs me as much as I need her,’ murmured the boy.

  Walter smiled. ‘Quite right. Oh, and Kayan, send my regards to that preacher of Sally’s. I hope that he’s recovered from being so cruelly dragged from their cottage.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ said Cornelius, with a wink. ‘I helped him to a little something that had fallen off a gangplank. He soon forgot about being dragged to London in shackles.’

  ‘I thought they frowned on drinking,’ said Tom.

  Cornelius winked again. ‘Now and then’s not gonna hurt anyone, is it?’

  Walter and Tom exchanged looks and began to laugh. Even Kayan smiled, brushing the tears away with the back of his sleeve. Walter tousled his hair and the boy moved away from him, wrapping his arms around Sinbad for comfort instead.

  And then it was Tamara’s turn. She took out Walter’s locket and hung it around his neck, kissing him softly on the cheek. The locket mingled with the medley of bottles and charms that hung there, as if it had found its true place once more.

  ‘I find my brother and then I lose him again,’ she said shakily.

  ‘Oh, no. Never think of me as lost. Just…misplaced.’

  He embraced her tenderly and Tom bit his lip as Tamara’s shoulders began to shake. He’d tried so hard to convince him to stay. They’d all tried, in their different ways. But Walter had made up his mind.

  ‘I have a father out there,’ was his only response. ‘I know he’s alive, in my heart, and I will not rest until I find him.’

  At last it was Tom’s turn to say goodbye.

  ‘Do you remember how we used to steal kippers, not ten yards from here?’ he said.

  Walter’s eyes glistened. ‘Until the dogs sniffed you down. You really were a terrible thief.’

  ‘Couldn’t bring myself to eat another kipper for years after that.’

  They looked at each other with a silence that ached.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear, dear friend,’ said Tom at last, his voice trailing into nothing.

  ‘Goodbye my brother.’

  They watched on as Walter walked away from them; a ray of orange light in the dull morning air. But before he stepped onto the moored lighter that waited for him at the water’s edge, a figure appeared from the crowd, dressed in grey. He turned to her with a surprised look and she put her hand in his.

  ‘Mama,’ said Tamara. ‘I’m glad she came to say goodbye.’

  Tom put his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Anything could happen to him,’ she whispered. ‘Will we ever see him again?’

  ‘Yes, yes I think we will.’

  Epilogue

  Eliza woke up and looked about her pretty bedroom, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. And then she remembered that it was her birthday. At last she could finally say that she was six years old. She ran to the window and pulled open the curtains, letting the bright sunshine flood in. She peered through the branches of the silver birch tree outside. Across the fields she could see a wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney of Rise Farm. Mrs Peters had promised her a birthday cake, bigger and better than ever before, and her stomach began to grumble at the thought of it.

  She gazed out at the lovely, sunny day. In the very far distance, she could just about glimpse a tiny square of stone that could only be seen in the clearest light. That, she knew, was the top of Marshstead Tower. It stood in a place where the land dipped like a bowl. Mama said that a sad lady had once lived there, hidden away from the outside world and imprisoned by a cruel monster.

  ‘Did a prince on a white horse save her?’ Eliza had once asked.

  But Mama only laughed in response. ‘No. But a curious man from the East, and a black panther, and an old, old musician eventually did.’

  ‘And what happened to her in the end?’

  ‘Well, she found happiness with a poor man. And they moved to a stone house, where they set up a school for poor children, so that they could learn how to read and write, and play the piano of course.’
>
  ‘Just like you and Father!’

  Mama smiled back. ‘Yes, just like us.’

  Eliza hopped back into her bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She wondered if Grandmamma had sent her anything from America. Grandmamma seemed to like it better there than in London. Father said that she probably wouldn’t come back, which was sad because she always gave lovely presents. Eliza was beginning to find it hard to remember her face, even when she really concentrated.

  She turned her head and saw that there was something round and shiny on her bedside table. Something new. It looked like treasure. She picked it up very carefully. It hung on a long chain which she ran deliciously through her fingers. The round thing had a clasp and she had to fiddle with it for some moments with her small hands to make it open. When she did, she found some pretty dried flowers inside and writing engraved into the metal, which she tried to read.

  ‘What have you got there?’ said Mama, coming into the room so suddenly that it made Eliza jump.

  Mama was wearing her lavender dress, which she only wore on special occasions. Her hair was still hanging loose like a lovely waterfall, which was the way Eliza liked it best. One day she would wear lavender dresses and have long beautiful hair just like Mama. But she would also play the piano like her Father, and sing funny songs about London and naughty children who ran about the streets there.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered, running her finger over the smooth chain. ‘I just found it by my bed. Is it a birthday present?’

  Mama came towards her and then sat down on the bed. Her brow wrinkled in a very serious way as she took the treasure from her. She closed it, turning it over in her hands, and opened it again. And then she read the engraved words inside, as if they were very important indeed.