He laid back down and thought about her soft skin and lips.
And the gunshot. There were only three days left until the mysterious date, and he had yet to find any answers.
He slowly got up, his muscles still sending spurs of pain throughout his body. The room was chilly, despite what looked like a warm sun, and he quickly put on his shirt and pants that were lying on the floor.
There was a sense of order in the room as Danielle’s clothes were neatly stacked on her desk. Melbourne moved over to it and looked under a few of her clothes. The long, metallic object was gone.
Right at that moment he heard the clack of keys turning and the door opened. Danielle walked in and upon seeing Melbourne she smiled. “Good morning.”
He walked over to her and kissed her on her forehead. Her expression was grave. “What is it?”
“They are already talking about it,” she said.
It wasn’t hard to guess what it was. “Do they have any ideas of who did it?”
Danielle shook her head. Melbourne wanted to shake his as well. Sure, they hadn’t found the person responsible for it, but he knew it was a matter of time. The clock was ticking, once again.
“Last night, you said you could get me out of here,” she said. “Was that true?”
“Yes, it was and still is.”
“Then you need to decode that secret message.”
He nodded. “I just don’t really know where to start, or where to look properly.”
She began toying with an earring. “You have clues, don’t you?”
“Just a few. The words Lucy knows. She is lost. And…” He moved over to where his coat lay on the ground and fumbled through a pocket. “And these.” He held out the burned pieces of poems in his hands.
She picked one up and studied it under the light of the window. “There is a circle here. Just like in the poem you received.”
“The poems were a means of communication between my brother and… someone. Someone that knows something that I’m very interested in.”
“So, what would each circled and cross letter stand for?”
He didn’t get her question until his eyes suddenly lit up. “Another letter. Of course!”
Danielle seemed lost.
“If the poems are a means of communication between two or more people,” Melbourne said, “then there must be something, a letter, or some other code, or a piece of text that will allow those people to decode it.” Melbourne pursed his lips and stared at her. “Or another poem.”
Danielle looked down once again at the little strip of her paper in her hands. “Like a mirror image?”
“Like a mirror code.”
She began to slowly pace up and down her room. “Lucy knows… she is lost…”
“Lucy appears in the poem that was sent to me. But what would she know? And why is she lost? Where is she?”
“More important, who is she?”
Melbourne’s eyes widened. “Lucy… Wordsworth.” He grabbed a hold of Danielle and spun her towards him. “Why didn’t I think of before! Lucy knows, Danielle.”
She stared at him, that crease between her eyebrows forming again.
“Lucy is a recurrent name in a few of Wordsworth’s poems,” Melbourne said. “I remember when my brother once brought me to one of his poetry debates in a pub in Canterbury. They were… the Lucy Poems, that’s what they were called! The Lucy Poems. And I remember him and the others debating which of Wordsworth’s poems belonged to the Lucy Poems.”
“Do you remember which ones?”
Melbourne thought for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No, it was some time ago. But ‘Lucy knows’ must mean the mirror poem is one she appears in.”
“She is lost…”
“And we have to find her.”
They both sat on the bed, looking out at the shadows of feet walking by on the street through the window above them.
Danielle suddenly snapped her fingers. “I think I know who can give us some information.”
XXIII
Melbourne realised it was noon after Danielle had left him alone in her room once again saying she needed to go back to the club to practice a new set with the band. He left the shabby apartment building and found himself completely lost. After an hour of wandering around, he found the tram that would bring him close to the Esmond’s house. Before taking it, he made sure to stop at a grocery store. Half an hour later he knocked at the front door and Madame Esmond answered the door.
“Where have you been all night?” she asked. “We were worried sick, you know? We thought something had happened to you!”
“I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t avoid it.” He lifted the paper bag up to show it to her. “And I have a way to apologise.”
When she peered inside and saw the vegetables and the slab of meat, her smile returned once more, and she hugged Melbourne.
Melbourne found Monsieur Esmond peering out the window, his face half hidden by the curtain, a book in one hand. He shut the curtain and sat in one of the red chairs in the living room. His yellow bowtie with black polka dots seemed a little out of touch with the elegant surroundings.
“Hah! Look who’s back,” he said.
“Remy brought us dinner for tonight.” Madame Esmond showed her husband the treats Melbourne had brought.
“Well then, I guess that saves you from being beaten with my stick.”
Melbourne sank into the second red armchair next to his host’s. Danielle. Lucy knows. He had only three days. And then there was the brown-haired girl mystery to solve as well. He was never going to make it, he was sure of it. He couldn’t go back to St. Omer empty handed. He had to track this down, for his brother’s sake.
“You seem happy,” Monsieur Esmond said. Melbourne didn’t know if Monsieur was serious or not. “What is bothering you, young man? That woman you were talking about? Women are always troublesome. You hate them, but you can’t live without them.”
“Well, she is only part of my problems right now.”
Monsieur Esmond closed his book with a loud thud and placed it on the table in front of him. “Your mission, I am guessing?”
Melbourne sighed. “My mission has hit a wall. I leave in a few days with no results, my brother is dead. And not only that, I’ve found out that he was a spy, and I’ve become one myself. I was trained by a fraudster, and I’m in love with a murderer.”
Monsieur Esmond thought for a moment. “Ah, but there are worse things my friend.”
Melbourne looked up at him with a questioning look.
“Like my wife’s carbonnade!”
Madame Esmond entered the room with a large porcelain bowl in her hands. “Lunch is ready! Everybody take your seats please.” she said, almost singing that last sentence.
The carbonnade flamand, a Belgian specialty made of beef stew cooked in beer, would have tasted wonderful if it wasn’t for the fact that Madame Esmond had barely cooked it to the point where the meat had almost made an alchemical transformation into pure rock. Every bite felt like a workout for the jaw.
Melbourne did his best to make it look easy to eat, but his jaws hurt after a while.
“What do you think? Good?” Madame Esmond asked.
“It is truly divine, honey,” said her husband.
“Most wonderful, Madame.” Melbourne hoped his jaw was going to sustain the pressure.
Madame Esmond smiled and placed some more carbonnade on the men’s plates. They exchanged glances, took a deep breath, and continued on with their lunch.
“I need to ask you something,” Melbourne said as he looked at Monsieur Esmond.
Monsieur took a bite of his meat which led out a loud crunch. He looked at Melbourne and nodded, trying his best to look natural.
“Well,” Melbourne said. “Call it more of a favour.”
XXIV
Melbourne imagined what would be happening in the club later that night, but he wasn’t prepared to face the reality of it. As he stepped into the smoky,
foul-smelling congregation of drunkards that made up Le Rossignol Chantant he saw them.
The German police.
He took up his usual seat on the stool by the bar, ordered a beer, and examined the situation. There were three of them, their grey uniforms sticking out from the browns of German soldiers and the solemn, simple clothes of the civilians. They were wandering around the tables, each holding a photograph and pointing at a specific spot as they asked questions to the head-shaking, unknowing, and somewhat oblivious club audience. The place had turned quiet, a little too quiet compared to the cacophony of a typical night at the low-end place.
Melbourne pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Danielle’s show should have already started. Where was she? Were they interrogating her as well? The feeling of unease began swelling inside of him.
He heard a clunk behind him and turned to see that his beer had arrived. Raising the glass to his lips, he took an abundant sip of the cool drink hoping it would calm his nerves. Then a strong hand tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around and came face to face with a large metallic disk hanging from a chain from someone’s neck, the word Polizei embossed in large capital letters.
Melbourne looked up and met the eyes of a thin, serious-faced moustachioed man.
“Do you know this person?” he asked. He held a grainy photograph of a group of German soldiers and with his index finger pointed at a specific person. Melbourne drew himself closer to the picture and squinted his eyes. It was him alright, the man that Danielle had killed. His heart pumped faster. The beer in his hand began to tremble.
He shook his head. “No, never seen him.”
Just be calm, he thought. Be calm. They know bugger.
“This man was shot and killed outside of this club last night. Were you here last night?”
Melbourne placed the glass of beer on the counter of the bar, hoping it would hide the shaking of his hands. “Well, yes I was. But I didn’t hear or see anything. I left as soon as the show was over.”
The policeman stared at him. “Interesting.” He stood there in silence and Melbourne’s mind raced with a flurry of thoughts. At last he broke the uncomfortable quietness. “Someone back there told me they saw you get in a brawl with him and a group of his friends a few nights ago, right here.”
Oh no, Melbourne thought.
“Brawl?” Think, he thought. Think! “Oh yes, that brawl. You see, I was drunk, very drunk, and I had no idea what I was doing, let alone remember any of the people I was fighting with.”
The policeman took out a notebook and scribble something with a stubble of a pencil. “What was the motive of the brawl, Mr.?”
“Mr. Bourgin, Remy Bourgin. Who remembers? Probably something stupid. I have nothing against those boys.”
“Address, please.” Melbourne gave it to him.
The policeman jotted down the information just as one of his colleagues came by and whispered something in his ear. He sighed loudly, looked over at a nearby table, then closed the notebook with a loud thud. “I will do a little background check on you, sir. Do not attempt to leave this city in any way. The murder of a German soldier results in death, I hope you are aware of that.” He attempted a smile. “I shall be watching you, Mr. Bourgin. I shall be watching all of you.”
XXV
“I think I found something.”
Melbourne glanced around at the nearby tables of the café housed in the Gallerie de la Reine. They were all empty, save for one in which a man sat on his own, pulling a few coins from a pocket to pay the bill. In the distance he could hear the clacking of boots on the marble floor. He turned around as inconspicuously as he could and saw two German soldiers patrolling the gallery, chatting among themselves, uninterested in whatever might be happening around them. Sitting at a table outside the café, Melbourne noticed how eerily quiet and still the gallery was, despite the hour.
The club had become too dangerous, even for a quick talk. Danielle had been interrogated as well, but her charm and cool demeanour had left the police with nothing. I shall be watching you. That is just what he needed to hear.
Melbourne drew himself closer to Danielle. “What do you mean you found something?”
Danielle had put on a scarlet jacket over her black stage clothes to cover herself from the cold. She took a puff of her cigarette, let out a cloud of smoke, then took a sip from her tea. “Remember how I told you that everybody wanted to show me their oh so precious collections?”
Melbourne nodded.
She waited for the other man to get up from his table and leave. Another puff of smoke, then she lowered her voice. “Well, one of them collects antique books. He’s an absolute enthusiast when it comes to them. I think he cares more about his books than his own life. Anyway, I ran into him at the club earlier and recited the verses of one of the poems you showed me, the ones you found in your brother’s room. I told him someone had sent them to me in a love letter.”
“And?”
She smiled and blew a smoke ring. “William Wordsworth.”
Melbourne sat back in his chair. Finally, he was on to something.
“But there’s more,” she said. “I didn’t just recite that one. I also recited the verses of the other one you showed me.”
“Let me take a wild guess.”
“William Wordsworth,” they said in unison.
Melbourne stared at his cup of tea. “So, my brother and this other person communicated solely through Wordsworth poems.”
“Ah, but do you think I would just stop there?” She winked at him and drew her cup of tea to her lips. “I also asked him where those poems came from.” She cleared her throat and tried doing an impression of a man’s voice. “Well, my dear Baronne, they naturally come from one of Wordsworth’s finest and earliest works named Lyrical Ballads.”
Lyrical Ballads. “But that’s — ”
He stopped when he heard the clacking of boots now behind him. The German soldiers passed by their table slowly, but without looking at the couple. Melbourne could pick some of the words they were saying, nothing alarming.
As they walked away towards the other end of the gallery, Melbourne drew himself closer and lowered his voice once more. “That’s where my coded poem comes from. The name Lyrical Ballads was at the top of the page.”
“So, all the codes come from there?”
“They must be. Maybe that’s where we’ll find our other Lucy poem.”
“You finally got somewhere,” she said.
He took her hand in his. “We got somewhere. If it wasn’t for you I would have never known any of this.”
She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the table and giggled. “You know what all this feels like? One of those mystery novels where the protagonist has to unravel an enigma to save the world.”
“You are my Dr. Watson, my dear. But with less facial hair.”
“Hey!” She playfully nudged him as Melbourne laughed.
“Now all we need to do is unravel this enigma,” he said.
“Then freedom.” She looked up at the glass tiles. “France.”
And freedom from the police, he thought.
“But I still need you for this part. Would your man by any chance have a copy of Lyrical Ballads?” Melbourne said.
“It won’t hurt to ask, would it? I’ll ask him to show me his grand collection of books. I’ll go over to his house later tonight and…”
“Borrow?”
“Borrow the copy from his library.”
For an instant Melbourne thought her talents were wasted as a singer.
XXVI
Danielle hurried out of the club, avoiding eye contact with the few drunken men who still lingered by the stage door. She had changed into simpler clothes, leaving behind her stage clothes at the club for the next day’s performance. The night’s show had been a success, as always, and so had her manipulation of Mr. Nils Vilvoorde, the book collector. It was too easy. She could tell that he looked surprised when she asked him to f
inally show him his grand collection, but just a second later he seemed thrilled. The carriage that was to bring her to his house awaited her and its owner at the end of the road.
She quickened her pace almost to a run, wanting to get out of that dark alleyway – drunken advances by loutish strangers were the worst part of her job. As the street opened up to larger one, she saw the large, black carriage. Mr. Vilvoorde was nowhere in sight. There was only a lone coachman who, at the sight of her, opened the door.
She climbed inside and sat, waiting.
Something touched her. Slowly turning her head, Danielle saw a set of fingers resting on her left shoulder. She jolted and reached for her hatpin, thinking it was one of the drunks, when she saw who it was.
Sticking his head through the curtain that closed off the rear window of the carriage, Melbourne smiled at her. “Have you seen my toothbrush? I think I lost it somewhere around here.”
Danielle lightly slapped him on the forehead. “You scared the life out of me! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Hitching a free ride to your friend’s house. I climbed on the back when you climbed in.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I need to see the book myself. I think I’ll have a better idea of where to look than you might. And on top of that, you’ll be busy distracting Mr. Vilvoorde for me.”
She heard the booming voice of the man in question not too far off.
“He’s coming! Go!”
“You might want to let your friend know someone has been using the right wheel of his carriage as a latrine.”
She pushed his head out of the curtain. “Go!”
A few seconds later the door opened and Mr. Vilvoorde took a seat next to her. He apologised for being late but needed to speak to someone of importance he had met at the club earlier. With a snap of the coachman’s whip, the carriage began moving, the two horses’ hooves clacking loudly on the cobblestone road.
Melbourne held on tightly to the sides of the carriage with both hands while his feet rested on the rear axle shaft. In the darkness of the night, no one was going to see him hidden underneath the carriage.
The Iron Shadow Page 14
