The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  He found the smell of urine coming from the right wheel nauseating and he prayed to God the horses wouldn’t do anything he’d hate to remember for the rest of his life. Melbourne tried to listen to what the two were talking about safely in their carriage. He could hear Mr. Vilvoorde’s booming voice but couldn’t make out any of the words. The loud clacking of the horses’ hooves and the four iron-banded wheels on the cobblestones made a racket.

  It all got worse when it started to rain.

  A light drizzle began settling in just after they left and turned into a full downpour as they moved out into the country – on to dirt roads. He kept his lips and eyes tight shut to avoid the spattering mud. Melbourne could hear Danielle laugh from time to time, but that was about all. He damn hoped the ride would be worth it.

  The carriage snaked its way across roads and alleys, its wheels splashing water on Melbourne whenever they struck a puddle. Finally, the roads became grassier, and he could open his eyes. Not that he could see much in the darkness. The carriage slowed down after an hour or so. Now he could see boots and the bottom of what looked like a gate. He let out a sigh of relief. They’d arrived.

  The carriage stopped and Melbourne slowly undid his stiff grip. He could see Mr. Vilvoorde’s shiny patent shoes on the ground, followed by Danielle’s. They both quickly sped off, disappearing from view. Seconds later, a groom led the carriage horses around the house.

  In a shadowy spot before they reached the stables, Melbourne rolled out from beneath the carriage and quickly hid behind nearby bushes. He was drenched in rain and mud, the water falling from the sky splashing on his face. Behind him was an 18th century villa on three floors, large enough to house two families. Something caught his eye near the gates where they had just passed through.

  A glinting spiked helmet.

  Squinting against the rain, he made out two of them. Danielle had told him that Mr. Vilvoorde was a high official in the government, but she had left out the detail that he was embroiled with the Germans. Why the hell had she brought him here? He passed a hand over his eyes to wipe away the rain. Well, it had technically been his idea.

  He began crawling, trying to reach the left corner of the house. There he squatted low and slipped around to a hidden side of the villa. He could see lights at the windows of the upper floor.

  Moving swiftly towards a dark window, he tried lifting it open. Locked. The next one slid open, and he quietly slipped in. He was glad to finally be in a dry place.

  A little light shone through a closed door, revealing a small storage room. He moved quietly and slowly towards the rectangle of light that framed the door. A sudden flash of light made him jump. Then seconds later, the booming sound of thunder echoed through the house. He paused a moment to calm his nerves, then reached for the door and slowly turned the doorknob.

  He cracked it open and squinted at the bright lights of the hallway. He was about to take a step outside but remembered his shoes were caked in mud. He slipped them off and eased into the entrance hall of the house. It was well lit by electric lights, and just to the side he saw the main door of the villa. Ahead of him was a flight of wooden stairs covered by a long blue runner. All was quiet and still.

  Melbourne found himself sweating, despite the cold. He slowly made his way up the stairs. He couldn’t hear a single sound.

  Reaching the first floor, he found himself in a large, well decorated foyer complete with a Persian carpet and a Ming vase on top of a small table. The Germans must pay him well. In front of him, on the opposite side, was a large, open door that must lead to the parlour. He could hear voices now.

  He moved quietly next to the door and listened. He could hear Vilvoorde talk, something about the whisky they were drinking. Danielle asked him a few questions on the bottle, and he answered. Then he cracked a joke and she laughed.

  Good. She was keeping him busy.

  He remembered Danielle telling him that Vilvoorde’s collection was to be found on the floor he was on. Moving catlike, he walked to a large door and slowly opened it. It was dark inside the room and Melbourne pulled out his electric torch, shining it across the blackness. The first thing the circle of light touched upon were a few couches in the centre. He moved his torch to the walls.

  Book spines. He moved the light around and found the same thing, over and over.

  Melbourne walked inside the room and shut the door. He felt for a switch next to him but decided not to turn it on. He shone his electric torch around, swinging it from wall to wall.

  Thousands of books. Shelves upon shelves of them, filling the room floor to ceiling, with a balcony running halfway up the walls and more books on the balcony. How was he going to find a single book of poetry in the midst of this personal library?

  Well, collectors tended to have a fetish about organising their collections. Let’s hope this one wasn’t any different. He turned to his left and shone his light directly in front of him. A face was staring at him. Placing a hand on his mouth, Melbourne suppressed a scream.

  It was only a statue.

  He whispered every curse word he knew under his breath.

  Crossing the room, he began searching in the first shelf in front of him. French books, from the collected pamphlets of the French Revolution to what looked like a first edition of Les Trois Mousquetaires. Farther on were more French books on politics, economics, history, and philosophy.

  Melbourne crossed the room, almost bumping into a couple of sofas and small table, to another set of shelves. Here was Germany – Goethe, Schiller, Keller, Hegel. All pristine old prints and first editions. And, again, it seemed to be literature, politics, economics, history, and philosophy, in that order.

  He moved as fast as he could, searching through all the shelves, skimming through the spines of the books for what he was looking for, sometimes climbing ladders to reach the upper shelves. Renaissance Italy, Seventeenth-century Spain, Greek classics, Latin classics. Where was the English shelf?

  Melbourne moved to the upper floor, ascending the wooden spiral staircase on the left side of the wall next to a desk that overlooked a window. Rain kept pounding nonstop on the glass, which covered any sound he might make and let him move more quickly. The second floor consisted of a wooden platform big enough for one person to walk on that went all around the room. The middle was hollow, allowing a perfect view of the study below.

  He moved to the first set of shelves. Dutch books. Then the next. Arabic.

  A screech of door hinges and a flood of light. Someone had opened the door.

  Melbourne shut his electric torch and threw himself quietly to the floor.

  “Melbourne? Melbourne, you there?”

  Danielle. Melbourne blinked his torch at her. The door was shut and he heard footsteps approach the spiral staircase. Flashing his light towards it, he saw Danielle mounting the steps.

  “Found anything?” she whispered.

  “Our friend seems to have everything except what we need. Look here.” He shone his light on a series of books. “Chinese.”

  “Keep looking, he’s bound to have something.”

  Melbourne was afraid she might be wrong. Maybe Mr. Vilvoorde knew of Lyrical Ballads but didn’t have a copy. Maybe he had sold it. Maybe –

  Daniel Defoe – Moll Flanders.

  The English shelf at last.

  He looked to the side of the Defoe. Jonathan Swift, Samuel Richardson, William Shakespeare, Lord Byron. Melbourne let out a sigh and smiled. That was it.

  Danielle came closer to him.

  He rapidly moved his fingers across the spines of the English Literature section from top to bottom but could not find anything on Romantic poetry. Grabbing a nearby ladder, he moved to the top tiers of the next shelf over, and his eyes fell upon a thick, worn out book.

  Lyrical Ballads, with a few other poems vol. I.

  Speedily grabbing it in his hand, he climbed down the steps and opened the book. Laying it on the ground, the two of them crouched over the yellowish-brown p
ages. He shone the light back up to where he had found the book. There was second volume as well.

  “Where to start?” Danielle asked.

  They heard a shout coming from somewhere outside the door.

  “You need to go back out there,” Melbourne whispered.

  “And you need to get out of here. Grab the book and leave.”

  “But he’s going to get suspicious that the very book you asked him about went missing the night you visited him.”

  The shout became clearer – he was calling Danielle’s name.

  “He’s as drunk as a German on New Year’s Eve,” she said. “He may not notice it’s gone for months. Just grab the book and leave. Now!”

  Melbourne nodded. She was right. They both got up and headed down the staircase. As they were approaching the door a booming voice said, “Danielle, honey… are you here?”

  The door opened and the lights of the study came on.

  XXVII

  “Danielle!” Mr. Vilvoorde said. “What are you doing here in the dark?”

  “I believe I got lost looking for the restroom.” She giggled a little, instantly sounding drunk herself.

  “A woman of your superiority getting lost?”

  Melbourne lay flat on the floor, his body hunched up against the sofa that looked towards the door.

  “Superiority?” Danielle asked. “Now that’s a new adjective to add to my list. The whiskey got to your head already, Nils?”

  Melbourne could hear liquid being tossed around in a bottle. “Not yet. But I’ve got more, and the night is young.”

  “My oh my. So many books.” Melbourne could hear fake wonder in her voice.

  “These are my lovers, the light that shines in my life in these dark times,” he said.

  Vilvoorde kept on going on about his books. He could talk all he wanted, as long as he didn’t come and sit on the damn sofa.

  “Let’s take a seat here dear, and drink some more,” Vilvoorde said.

  Great.

  Vilvoorde began walking towards the sofas that formed a semi-circle in the middle of the room. Melbourne began sweating. What was he to –

  “Oh, what’s this?” Danielle asked.

  Vilvoorde stopped and turned around. “That my dear is the Colonial section.” He joined Danielle and walked over to a shelf on the other side of the room.

  Melbourne slipped from behind the sofa and tip-toed towards the spiral staircase. Vilvoorde and Danielle had their backs to him but she turned around for a second and their eyes met. He moved quickly up the steps and lay flat on the floor.

  Vilvoorde invited Danielle to take a seat, and Melbourne let out a silent sigh. As they talked and drank, Melbourne flipped open the book of poems he had in his hand. He had forgotten that the book has been written together with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, another poet of the Romantic era. As he turned to the next page, a drawing of Wordsworth in his youth appeared and stared at him from the brown stained page. Help me, Melbourne thought.

  He turned to the index, but none of the poems seemed to ring a bell. There was always a second volume.

  Melbourne carefully got up and looked down below him. Vilvoorde and Danielle were talking loudly, their glass already empty. He tip-toed up the ladder to reach the other volume when he heard Vilvoorde’s booming voice say, “It’s just up there.”

  Melbourne froze.

  “Pour me some more whiskey,” Danielle said. “Don’t bother with what’s up there.”

  Liquid was poured in a glass. Slowly turning his head, he saw that Vilvoorde’s attention was directed towards the lovely lady before him. Melbourne quickly grabbed the second volume and descended the ladder. Once more, he lay flat on the ground and opened the book.

  Now there was something. Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known was in the book. And so was another poem named Lucy Gray. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. Why are you lost?

  As he began flipping through the pages, he noticed something. It was not an original edition, but a later one. And someone had written an introduction. As he began reading it something of Vilvoorde’s booming voice caught his attention.

  “I will fetch it for you, my dear. It’s up there with the others.”

  The spiral staircase began creaking. Footsteps were mounting to the upper floor.

  “There is no need dear,” Danielle said.

  “Nonsense. You had asked about it. It’s somewhere here, it’s only going to take me a minute.”

  Vilvoorde was coming for the book he was holding in his hand.

  Melbourne slipped to the edge of the floor, and as Vilvoorde topped the stairs, he slipped under the rail and hung from the edge with just one hand, the other holding the book of poetry. Sweat began running down a cheek, and his right arm and fingers began aching terribly. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

  “Let’s see… let’s see,” Vilvoorde said.

  Melbourne’s fingers began slipping.

  Danielle was beneath him, signalling silently. He dropped the book. She caught it and hid it behind her back.

  Melbourne swung his other hand on the edge but his right arm ached too much.

  “It should be… somewhere… what?” Melbourne could hear Vilvoorde’s stocky figure climb the ladder. “There’s a book missing here.”

  Hold on. Just a little longer.

  His arms, already exhausted from his ride in the carriage, were in flames, his fingers slipping.

  “The second volume to Lyrical Ballads… it’s — ”

  Melbourne came down crashing on the lower floor. Danielle let out an audible gasp as Vilvoorde looked down to where the noise came from. “What in the world?”

  Melbourne laid sprawled on the floor, his right arm almost numb, the rest of his body burning with pain where it had been worked over in the fight at Danielle’s club.

  Vilvoorde came rushing down the spiral staircase, his meaty face red with worry and fear. He looked beside the intruder. A few metres away from him was the book he had thought missing. “Thief!”

  Danielle screamed, playing the part of the shocked visitor. He was on his own. He struggled to his feet.

  Vilvoorde rushed to a desk at the far end of the room and pulled a pistol from a drawer. Hands shaking, he cocked it and pointed it at Melbourne. “You thief! Trying to steal one of my books, were you?”

  Melbourne raised his arms. “Look, it’s not — ”

  “Then why do you have the book there? Wait.” Vilvoorde pointed the pistol up. “Were you sent by them? You would be earl — ”

  Glass shattered and Vilvoorde dropped to the floor. Danielle stood behind him, the broken bottle in her hands still dripped whiskey. So he wasn’t on his own.

  “Grab the book and leave,” she said. “He’ll come around in no time.”

  Melbourne painfully bent over and picked up the book. “This isn’t what we’re looking for. Lucy isn’t lost, she’s missing.”

  Danielle put down the broken whiskey bottle and pursed her lips.

  “The person that sent me the letter probably meant missing, but the French word for it is perdu, which also means lost. The Lucy Poem we need is found in another book.”

  “And who told you this?”

  Melbourne raised the book in his hands. “Mr. 1890 edition right here. Look.” He flipped open the tome to the introduction. “The Lucy Poems are five in total, all of which are to be found in Lyrical Ballads. Except one.” He shut the book and ran up the staircase.

  It took ten seconds before he was down again, a different book in his hand. He raised it in the air. “I Travelled Among Unknown Men, first published in Poems, in Two Volumes.”

  Vilvoorde began stirring.

  “All right, take that book and go back out to the carriage. I’ll walk out in a few minutes and tell the driver that Mr. Vilvoorde has fallen asleep from too much drinking and that he is to bring me home.” She grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him close to her, and kissed him on the lips. “Go.”

  They had found their Lucy.


  XXVIII

  Melbourne looked up at the incessant rain beating against the window of Danielle’s room. It slammed hard, then quieted down for a moment before returning to throwing buckets of water on the glass.

  He sat on Danielle’s bed, every blanket she had covered his body. His dirty, mud caked clothes lay in a heap on the floor. The return trip had been just as awful as the one going to Vilvoorde’s house. Was he looking for them now? Most likely. As if the murder of the German soldier wasn’t enough.

  The book of poetry he had stolen slowly began slipping off the edge of the bed and he caught it before it went down into the bucket of hot water in which his feet were soaking. He held it up, I Travelled Among Unknown Men staring back at him. He had work to do.

  Placing Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known on his lap, he began counting the number of letters of the first line. If his theory about the mirror code was correct, then each circled and X’d letter would correspond to the same number of words in the other poem. Thirty-one letters. He kept on counting, slowly. The first circled letter, the K in the word ‘looked’, was letter one-hundred and ten. Jotting it down next to the line with a stub of a pencil, he continued.

  The I in ‘in’ was one-hundred and thirty-three. The C in ‘cottage’ was one-hundred and forty-six.

  Meticulously, he finished counting every letter of the code, arriving at the final T of ‘the’ in the fourth stanza. Next, he placed the book on his lap and began counting the same number of letters in I Travelled Among Unknown Men. The first letter corresponding to letter number one-hundred and ten was an A. Mirroring the number of letters in the first poem, he came to the following configuration:

  A I C ; N N E E H T O

  Melbourne shook his head. More codes.

  Danielle walked into the room carrying a bowl in each hand. “I got you some more hot water, and I managed to fetch you some left over soup from the kitchen. Stolen would be a more accurate term, actually.”