Vrila barely shook his head. “No.”
No? No?! Pierce Fletcher was not the traitor? The widower wasn’t the solution to the riddle and couldn’t lead them to it?
Then interrogating Fletcher had been all for nothing. Mr Wiplay had died for nothing! His friend was dead because he’d drawn the wrong conclusions and suspected the wrong person! How could Vrila not hate him? How could he not hate himself? How could he live with that terrible guilt? Should he continue to at all, or did justice require him to follow Mr Wiplay into the afterlife? Everything around him was revolving insanely fast, and he could hardly draw a breath. His own body seemed to become too constricted to bear. Cold sweat broke out on his skin, and he gasped for the air that refused to fill his lungs. Black spots danced before his eyes. A whimper issued from his throat, and hot tears covered his cheeks. He tottered forward, knocking a stool to the floor.
“Hyacinth!” Vrila spun around in fright and rushed to his side.
Hyacinth sensed an arm on his back and another behind his knees lifting him. He was certain he’d lose consciousness at any moment. Fighting convulsively for a breath, it still felt as if he weren’t getting one. Indistinctly only, as if through a thick fog, he realised Vrila was laying him on their bed and hastily covering him with blankets. His husband felt his forehead, checked the throbbing of his carotid artery and listened to the beating of his heart, which apparently was ready to shatter inside Hyacinth’s chest.
Vrila threw open the cabinet and pulled out his dark-brown doctor’s bag. Immediately afterwards he sat next to Hyacinth and filled a glass syringe with some kind of liquid. He gently tapped on its side while holding it in front of his face.
He placed it on the nightstand to use both hands to turn Hyacinth on his side and pull his trousers down a bit. “It won’t hurt,” he assured him softly before he stuck the needle under his skin and injected him with whatever the syringe contained.
Hyacinth was shaking like a leaf but, as promised, felt no pain.
Cautiously, Vrila helped him onto his back again. “It’ll be better soon,” he whispered and stroked away a few wet curls sticking to his forehead. Then, with his fingertips he brushed along Hyacinth’s cheek and finally covered it with his cool hand.
The unexpected affection caused Hyacinth’s heart to cramp with pain. His lips trembled. He wanted to say something but couldn’t. His breaths slowed down again and he became sleepy. His eyes kept shutting, and at some point he was overwhelmed by a peculiarly heavy fatigue to which he finally had to surrender.
Chapter 16
The six most horrendous days of his life lay behind him. Vrila and he hardly ever spoke. His husband had withdrawn completely, was almost lethargic. They no longer slept in the same bed, and Hyacinth doubted Vrila was getting any rest at all.
The word missing had taken on a totally new meaning. He hadn’t imagined how much a person could yearn for someone when that someone no longer lay next to him. He clearly hadn’t appreciated how much it meant to fall asleep beside Vrila.
In the early hours of the morning he often heard Vrila pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. He also spent many time upstairs among the unpacked crates and most likely had done no more than stare out the garret-window. He cooked for Hyacinth though barely touched the food himself. Even when Hyacinth warily asked him to take at least a few bites.
Hyacinth didn’t feel much better. Each day he woke up thinking he’d walk over to Seymour’s and study. Not until he’d blinked a second time did it inevitably occur to him there was no longer a teacher to visit. Bitter tears would then well up in his eyes, and he would bury his face in the pillows that no longer smelled of Vrila. Only of himself – of the man who had his mentor and Vrila’s fatherly confidant on his conscience.
His feelings of guilt and the situation between them threatened to drag him into a deep, dark hole he couldn’t escape from. He didn’t know what to do and had no one to confide in.
During those days, Bartholomew had often attempted to redirect his attention, but Vrila didn’t want to speak to anyone and would show him the door after a few minutes of conversation. Out of loyalty, Hyacinth had also given Bartie the cold shoulder although he urgently wished for some helpful advice.
Sergei was nowhere to be found and hadn’t been seen since the argument in front of Seymour’s house. Not by any of them, which caused Hyacinth considerable anxiety. Instead of Perkovic, Haggard was a frequent visitor. He was the only guest Vrila tolerated – in the house and at Hyacinth’s side.
Murphy and Hyacinth had been delighted about the article in the newspaper describing how Detective Howard had convicted Lord Ferdill and put him behind bars. The man would never again do anything to a child, but even that news had no effect on Vrila.
A few days prior, Hyacinth had set about trying to locate Maurice Lynnen to fulfil Seymour’s last wish. Vrila had shown no interest in that either, but Murphy had helped with the search as much as possible.
Finally they had been successful, had discovered the man’s location but couldn’t be overjoyed about it.
Alone, Hyacinth now made his way to Mr Lynnen, carrying a small present as an excuse for disturbing him.
He entered hesitantly as he stepped through a wrought-iron gate with an elaborately decorated arch. His steps crunched on the gravel until he left the walkway and continued on the damp grass. The fog lifted and the sun shone tentatively in his face. Nevertheless, it was ice-cold, so he wrapped his overcoat more tightly around his shivering body.
He strode past a leafless tree whose branches firmly cast gruesome shadows in the dark of night. A pair of ravens perched in its crown watched him, curious about his presence.
When he at last stood before Maurice Lynnen, his chilled fingers clutched more rigidly around the small token of devotion he’d brought with him.
He coughed quietly to get his attention but couldn’t be certain he had. Nevertheless, he began to speak. “Good day, Sir,” he said hoarsely and cleared the tightness in his throat again. “Seymour sent me; that is… Mister Wiplay sent me. He still has the statue you gave him. It meant a great deal to him.” He inhaled deeply, didn’t quite know how to express himself and struggled for words as the man before him persisted in his silence. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you had with him, but he…” Hyacinth interrupted himself to begin again since he didn’t want to charge like a bull at a gate. “Unfortunately, Seymour is… unable to be here. I’m sure he’d have come himself. Maybe he’d have mustered up the courage at some point, but now it’s up to me to fulfil his last wish. There’s something from him I’m supposed to tell you. Seymour told me he loved you and regretted never having told you.” He blinked away the tears forming in his eyes. “Fear kept him from doing so. The fear of being rejected. I can understand him very well. I really can.” Now his cheeks were wet, and his voice sounded faint. “He loves you, Mr Lynnen,” he repeated. “However, I suppose he now can tell you that himself.”
With those words, he placed the flowers on the grave of the man Seymour was hopefully reunited with. Through blurry vision, he stared at the small gravestone. The date stamped on it told him the cabinet maker had been dead for three years. He’d been older than Seymour, and Hyacinth had been informed he passed away peacefully in his sleep. At least that was a minor consolation in all of the darkness he was aimlessly weaving through.
He felt dizzy, as so often recently, and staggered over to a lone bench where he sat down. He braced his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands to pull at his hair and to close his eyes for a few moments. In the past few days he’d been able to occupy himself with the matter, had hoped he could fulfil Seymour’s request and be a bit closer to him if he spoke to someone who’d known him and held him in as much esteem. Now those hopes had been dashed, and he had the feeling he’d failed to carry out Mr Wiplay’s instructions. With all its might, despair struck him once again because he had nothing more that could force it to the back of his mind for at least a
while. He let out a whimper and gripped his hair more tightly.
“Can I help, young man?” A soft male voice had asked the question.
Startled, he raised his head and wiped a hand across his face. In front of him stood a tall man with a black cap on his head and a sympathetic smile on his lips.
His shame caused Hyacinth to blush. “I’m afraid not,” he replied gruffly and hoped the fellow would leave him alone.
The man didn’t do him the favour. Instead of walking away, the stranger sat next to him. “Sometimes it helps to speak about one’s problems. Even if only to confide in an unknown wanderer.”
“I shouldn’t do that.” Heavens, he wanted to pour out his soul about what was depressing him, what threatened to kill him. However, it didn’t seem right to discuss such personal matters with a stranger.
On the other hand, at the moment he had no one else.
“I’m not a stranger. We are all brothers before God. Therefore, I’m yours as well,” said the man at his side in a wise and curiously pretentious tone.
“Are you a pastor?” Hyacinth asked hopefully. That would make the affair easier. One could always talk to a man of the cloth.
“Something similar,” came the reply along with a mysterious smile.
That was sufficient. Hyacinth no longer had the strength to delve into the situation any longer. His emotions beat a path to the surface. “I believe my husband no longer …” The word loves nearly passed between his lips, although they had never spoken of love. “…that he hates me.”
“That’s a harsh word to be using, Sir. How can it be that two men whom the Almighty has united, have come so close to the abyss?”
“I’ve piled on a heavy load of guilt. Not intentionally, and yet my actions have brought about consequences that cost a friend his life.” He had to force the words out of his mouth.
“God forgives everything if you genuinely repent of it.”
God was one and the same to him. What did the love of the Almighty matter if Vrila despised him? “God does, of course, but my husband can’t forgive me.”
“You said, it wasn’t your intention. How can a person, who swore to love and honour you, punish you so shamefully with such vilification if you didn’t act with ill intentions?”
“He never promised to love me,” Hyacinth corrected him weakly though spoke more to himself than to the stranger who was something similar to a priest.
“You mustn’t blame yourself. What happened can’t be undone. Perhaps it’s better if you turn your back on this man who doesn’t know how to cherish you and begin a new life.”
Hyacinth exhaled sharply with a joyless laugh. “If only I could,” he replied almost silently and felt a sting to his heart.
“Is it a question of money? Legal assistance? There’s always a way; I can offer you my support if you need it.”
Hyacinth regretted opening himself to the stranger as he experienced a bizarre impulse to flee. He decided to follow it and stood up. “It’s neither a question of money nor of assistance. It’s solely and exclusively a question of my making my husband such an essential part of my life that I can’t leave him. Even if he should hate me.” He nodded curtly to the fellow with the noticeably light eyebrows. “Thank you for your company. I must go now.” With that he turned around, buried his hands deep into his pockets and hurried toward the exit from the cemetery. Quickly his heart began beating in his constricted throat. Leave him? Was the man out of his mind? Obviously he had no idea about how Hyacinth felt. Otherwise it would be clear to him why such a way out didn’t exist even in his imagination. As long as Vrila didn’t chase him away, he wouldn’t ever leave his side. Not if the possibility existed to be forgiven someday, making everything right again. Not as long as his heart kept beating. Not as long as a drop of blood still flowed through his veins.
*
Scarcely making a sound, he entered their row house. Since turning into the street, he’d avoided glancing at Seymour’s abandoned home. He didn’t feel prepared enough to look at it and to accept the fact his friend would never again await him there. It hurt too damn bad that Seymour was no longer alive – not to mention his burden of guilt. He’d only known the man for a few days. How must Vrila feel, since Mr Wiplay had been like a father to him? His grief had to be tearing him apart. It had to be a nightmare for him, and clearly he didn’t know how to cope with the loss. Hyacinth fervently wished he could help, but as the guilty party in this tragedy he hardly wielded the power to do so.
With a gulp he removed his overcoat and his shiny, wet boots. He took a few steps toward the sofa to sit down but stopped short when he heard a soft sobbing. It brought his pulse to a standstill.
It came from the bathroom where the door stood open.
A further step allowed him to see Vrila sitting on the edge of the bathtub like a heap of misery, his hands covering his face. His shoulders trembled from suppressed weeping, and his hair was dishevelled as though in his misery he’d tugged at it.
Hyacinth sensed the pangs in his heart and how terribly constricted his chest felt. It choked off his breathing to see his husband in such a state. “Vrila.”
Startled, his husband fell silent and turned to him while at the same moment wiping his tear-streaked face. He appeared haggard. Without any measure of hope in his ashen features. His eyes, dark circles around them, were open unnaturally wide. It was impossible not to see he was shocked to the core. Mainly by the fact that he’d been caught crying. He who had said of himself he had a heart of stone. His thin lips were quivering. “What are you doing back here already? I thought you’d be gone longer,” he muttered after clearing his throat. His voice sounded as though he were making every effort to ignore his condition.
Hyacinth had expected to hear a Stakian curse and be expelled, but neither occurred. Feeling somewhat more confident, he stepped into the bathroom. “You don’t need to hide yourself from me. I’m your husband,” he added and hoped not to hear a contradiction. But maybe Vrila had already decided to divorce him, no longer able to stand the sight of him. After the misery he’d caused.
“That’s no reason to weigh you down with all this,” Vrila choked out, and to Hyacinth’s horror, new tears flowed down his cheeks. “God, what must you think of me? The man who swore to protect you is squatting in his bathroom and bawling like a weakling.” He spat out the last word and hid his face behind his right hand.
At that moment Hyacinth understood his husband had no strength left. Otherwise he’d have attempted to chase him away to conceal his embarrassment instead of openly acknowledging it. Vrila would have picked a fight and roared at him had he any spark of energy left.
“The nonsense you talk sometimes.” Hyacinth shook his head and dared, with heart pounding, to kneel in front of Vrila. “You most certainly aren’t a weakling.” Hesitantly he stretched out his fingers and touched him on a lower arm. As usual, the skin under the fabric felt cool. How long had it been since they last touched one another…? He’d longed so painfully to be near Vrila that he savoured the harmless gesture despite the adverse conditions.
Vrila allowed it to happen. Once again his shoulders trembled, and a tear dripped onto Hyacinth’s hand. Stunned, he stared at the small pearl and forced back the salty heat in his own eyes. He’d caused all that suffering and couldn’t disdain himself much more intensely. He found it difficult to speak. “I can understand why you don’t want any consolation from me. I can also understand why you hate me.”
While still keeping his head bowed, Vrila promptly lowered his hand from his face. “What are you talking about, you little fool?” he asked with unexpected intensity, and his tears appeared to have dried up immediately. “Hate you? You couldn’t be any farther from the truth.”
What was that supposed to mean? Hyacinth couldn’t keep control of himself and let all his misery of the past few days surface. With a jerk he rose to his feet. “You must hate me! It’s my fault that Seymour is dead! Do you think I don’t know you wish I were i
n his place? You’ve certainly made me feel like that!”
“Stop talking such nonsense!” Vrila shouted back as he leapt to his feet as well. “That’s not true! None of it! You’re the only thing keeping me alive! Isn’t that clear to you?! Had you been the victim, I would have jumped from the damn Elwood Bridge!”
Hyacinth’s heart skipped a few beats. Vrila didn’t hate him. He didn’t hate him… Wooziness overcame him. “Then why do you treat me so coldly and act as though I’m not important to you anymore?!”
“Because I’m ashamed, dammit! Because I wasn’t there for you! Because Perkovic had to stand by my husband when he needed me! Because I’m incapable of consoling you even though I see how much you’re suffering! Because the second it became clear to me that Fletcher did it, I was relieved because nothing had happened to you!”
From both irritation and shock, Hyacinth’s mouth fell open, and he was incapable of closing it. It wasn’t, after all, a question of Vrila blaming him?
During this past week he’d been through hell because he had believed that, beside Seymour, he’d also lost the man whose dearest one he so passionately longed to be. “Then you still like me?”
Breathing heavily, Vrila stopped pulling at his own hair and considered him with an enigmatic look. “That isn’t an adequate expression of my feelings for you,” he whispered, turned away then briefly grasped his forehead. “But if you wish to put it that way, then yes, of course I still like you.”
This sudden honesty from his husband made him wonder if he were only dreaming, but the dampness on his cool cheeks felt appallingly authentic.
That isn’t an adequate expression of my feelings for you.
His heart seemed to race anxiously ahead of him and caused him concern since it had never done that before.
Vrila took a slight, very hesitant step forward and, with just enough restraint, grasped for his hand to guardedly draw him closer.
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 36
