The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  It didn’t matter. The story was genuine, and it shouldn’t go to waste. Then I could put it all out of my mind and never see Bram again.

  I flung open the door of Langley’s Miscellany and discovered from Mr. Storm that Byron was out. This was all the better, as it gave me time to write up a draft. I set to work at a typewriter on a little desk in the rear of the shop and attacked the keys with a fury, accompanied by the lovely song of Byron’s skylark.

  An hour passed without my knowing, and I only paused then to take a quick stretch. The article was coming along wonderfully. I smiled at my, dare I say, colorful description of two knights on horseback taking Victoria’s Bank by storm and laying siege to the place. Only to be hunted down by a valiant band of our very own police force.

  I thought it made for great reading, perhaps not quite as compelling as a ghost in the alleys but compelling all the same. I glanced around the shop. Mr. Storm had left at some point during my writing frenzy. My stomach groaned, and I realized that I had hardly touched the filled buns I brought home for breakfast with Anna. Now, it was nearly two o’clock. Maybe Byron had left some biscuits around from our intended breakfast this morning. I began my search.

  On what usually served as our breakfast table by the window were several copies of our publication of the “Steely-Eyed Detective,” as well as loose life versions of publications from our competitors. But, pushed to the side of the table was an empty plate and covered basket. The basket looked promising.

  I found my prey inside the basket: some of Mrs. Barker’s finest cheese biscuits with pepper. I snatched one up hungrily and absentmindedly started reading whatever happened to be in front of me.

  Some bills hid behind a few copies of the latest Manfield’s Happenings, one hastily torn. Byron was often quiet with me about the paper’s expenses. This report, presumably from the past month, looked adequately dire. Up until our most recent publication, the magazine hadn’t been performing the way we had hoped. Poor Byron must have been dipping into some personal reserves to keep things afloat. He would call that an investment. I would call it gambling on writers. Fortunately, for him, things were changing now. I was confident I could help bring up the numbers. If the past week had anything to do with it, finances would be the least of our worries.

  Under the bill, I saw another letter, this one delicately preserved. The return address listed its sender as Carolina Drake. I had never heard that name before. The handwriting looped gracefully across the envelope unhurried and unapologetic.

  I felt a knot turn in my stomach. I turned over the envelope in my hand and saw the seal was unbroken. A temptation rose up inside of me to tear into it, a desire uncharacteristic of me. I was not the jealous type. There had been occasions before when Byron had received the attentions of another woman at social gatherings, and I had hardly cared at all. But now, the feeling seized me like stumbling on a hornet’s nest. Anxiety gripped me, wrapped up in a peculiar type of anger and suspicion. Who was Carolina Drake?

  Jealousy was strange and sickly sweet. I felt it chase out my other needs. My appetite was gone, and an overwhelming wave of anger slowly crept up my body. If this were treachery, Byron would pay.

  I dropped my biscuit and the letter with a start as Byron swung the door open. I tried to shuffle the papers in which I’d been snooping casually and quickly.

  “Luella! You’re here! I was afraid something had happened to you this morning or last night,” he said. “Your sister said you ran out for an appointment.”

  “You went to my flat?” I asked, more edge in my voice than I cared to let on. He usually never dared, unless invited. Intrusive man. Foolish man.

  Why did I feel so angry?

  “I was worried,” he replied. “After saying our goodnights, I was struck to the bone with a chilling feeling that I might not see you again.”

  “Might not see me again? What rubbish are you going on about?”

  “It’s all well and good for us to publish hair-raising tales, but you’re a good writer,” he said with a sigh.

  “You were worried the fog man was going to attack me?” I asked. I clenched my hand. He had some cheek feigning worry while a letter lay on our table from another woman. If he was scared of anything, it shouldn’t have been the phantom.

  “Well, not the fog man necessarily. I don’t know what that Lieutenant really saw, but the streets can be dangerous. I should have walked you home.” He sat down across from me and put his hat on the table.

  “This is nonsense, Byron,” I said. “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time, and I’m quite capable of getting home in the early evening on my own.”

  “So, nothing happened to you last night? My reservations were for nothing?” he asked, sincerity dripping from the worry lines in his forehead. Nothing happened to me last night? I tried not to feel defensive, not to imagine an accusatory tone. I bit my tongue and set my jawline firm.

  “Oh, would you stop it? I already told you. Nothing happened. I just went home,” I lied. He heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back into his chair. I only felt a little guilt pinch at my cheeks, but it would pass.

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” he said with a sigh. “It’s bad enough you go to that police station. Can you just promise me you won’t get carried away with all of this?”

  “Carried away?” Yes, perhaps I got carried away. A part of me wished I had. No. No, I did not. That was my temper talking. I shook my head. Something felt off, like dissonant piano keys. I couldn’t ever remember having a bad temper.

  “I mean to say a lot of writers will go investigate leads all over the city. Can’t we just both agree right here that you won’t go chasing a story deep into the east side?” He grabbed my hand firmly.

  “And you’d just have me let the story go instead?” I asked. I didn’t like accepting limitations. I had grown up in part of the east side, after all. I knew it better than he did. He should have been thanking me. He didn’t know how lucky he had it.

  “There are plenty of other stories, or at least less dangerous ways to research them. I don’t want something happening to you.”

  “Byron, do you intend to lock me up like your prized bird?” I wasn’t sure if he registered the sarcasm.

  “Can you blame me?” he said with a pitiable frown. “What would happen to me if something happened to you?”

  He’d go out of business, at least if these statements were any indication, and if the letter on the table was what I suspected, he deserved worse than that.

  My head felt sensitive, as though I had a migraine but without the pain. I didn’t like feeling like this. This wasn’t like me. I need something. A release. Anything. . .

  “Who is Carolina Drake?” I blurted out. He stared and blinked blankly.

  “Carolina who?”

  “Carolina Drake,” I blushed but maintained my indignance. Merely giving the question voice was enough to begin venting my frustration. “You have a letter from her on the table.”

  “Do I?” He crossed to the table excitedly, found the letter, and tore it open. “Marvelous!”

  I knit my brow, feeling more sheepish as the knot in my stomach began to unravel.

  “I wrote Ms. Drake inquiring more details about how Travis Blakely might go about getting noticed by the Golden Inkwell committee.”

  “The Golden Inkwell committee?” I asked, feeling more embarrassed every second.

  “Yes, you know how these things go. The Golden Inkwell goes to the best writer, but it never hurts to make sure the committee doesn’t forget to look everywhere.”

  It was stupid of me to jump to conclusions, and my apathy toward his effort gave me away. Here I had been accusing him of infidelity when he was working to bolster my career.

  “Why, who did you think Ms. Drake was?” he asked. I buried my eyes in the floor trying to invent an answer. “My dear Luella, you couldn’t possibly think—” He burst into a laugh, which I did not appreciate at all.

  “What is so funny?�
��

  “Just the thought that you might be jealous. You! Honestly, it comes as quite a relief. Jealously is a sure mark of affection, after all.”

  I rolled my eyes, eager to put the incident behind me. I wasn’t sure I agreed that jealously was a healthy symptom of love. If anything, it might signal insecurity or a crack along the foundation somewhere. Still, if his little triumph made him overlook my little episode, then let him have it. After all, he was right. It wasn’t like me to be jealous, and I didn’t like how the accompanying anger tasted in my mouth. Feeling my emotions steer me like cab driver was not a welcome experience.

  It took me a moment to realize, though, that Byron had changed his mind on my potential to win the Golden Inkwell. That was encouraging. Writing a letter to the committee was a sure change from his bit of scoffing he made at the idea the other day. He was proving to be an even more important ally than I originally thought. Maybe I didn’t need to chase down criminals into the east side after all. Edward could do that for me. And, maybe I shouldn’t wander into strange tents at strange carnivals. My acquiescence to his requests was a small price to pay for his devotion.

  “Oh Byron, if you’re done acting the ninny, I have something to tell you.”

  “Another story?” he asked, noticing my pile of paper at the typewriter in the back of the room.

  “Another story.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bunbury's Restaurant

  I KNEW BYRON was going to love it. His eyes shone brightly as he read over my draft and took in painted visuals of a bygone era rearing its way into modern life. What man isn’t interested in tales of swordplay and cops and robbers? He finished it, lavished a healthy dose of praise on me, and decided it would take the headline feature in this week’s printing. He asked about another edition of the “Steely-Eyed Detective” as well, which I thought was good of him, considering Edward struck him as a rival not long before. By the time I left in the evening, we had “Knights of the Wrong Table: A Bank Robbery in Full Armor” and “The Steely-Eyed Detective and The Water Thief” done.

  As Byron read over them both time and again, getting giddier with each read-through, I thought I could see the glint of copper in his eyes, as though he was counting the profits already. I was happy to make him so excited. After all, this is why we both got into the business, to compete, get to the very top of all the thousands of sheets of paper swirling around the city.

  But, I didn’t feel as giddy as Byron. If anything, I felt a pang of impatience, like I had an itch I couldn’t scratch. Behind our new headlining story was another, deeper riddle. How did Bram convince Mr. Bradford to don a suit of armor and rob a bank? Earlier in the afternoon, I had swept that under the proverbial rug. Hypnotization. How difficult could it be, especially if he got the carnival’s hypnotist in on the gag? But, it didn’t answer some important questions. How did they get access to Mr. Bradford? It wasn’t as if the hypnotist last night had snuck her subjects a potion. Being hypnotized, at least as I understood it, was a deliberate two-way interaction. It wasn’t a poison that could be stealthily administered.

  I shook my head, feeling foolish. It was certainly possible for Bram to get a meeting with Mr. Bradford. Why shouldn’t he be able to? Maybe he knew him personally. Maybe Bram lied to Bradford’s secretary and pretended to be an important patron.

  On the other hand, why would the hypnotist agree to go to such great lengths in order to pull a prank on me? Surely, convincing Mr. Bradford to rob a bank would have put her at great personal risk.

  It couldn’t have been the story I wrote. It couldn’t have been magic.

  We encounter magic every day. It’s just not what people expect. Those were Bram’s words, and they stuck like a bad typewriter key.

  Byron put down his spectacles and let out a satisfied hum. “Please, allow me to take you to dinner.” I must have looked surprised. “Oh, come on! We should celebrate!”

  “But, my sister is expecting me,” I protested, searching for an excuse.

  “Invite her along—and that boyfriend of hers as well,” he carried on. “And don’t look like I’m being unreasonably charitable. You’re the one buying!” He gestured toward my draft. He looked positively stupid with his toothy grin. I don’t know why I felt like hitting him. I should have been happy that my work made my editor feel financially secure.

  “I’m not sure they will be able to make it,” I replied.

  “Nonsense! It’s about time that we four had a night together. I’ve been curious about Jacob for a good time now, and I almost never get to talk with Anna.”

  His cavalier attitude toward our newfound financial success, combined with his assertive attempt at uniting the four of us for what he considered some type of family dinner, was off-putting. Who did he think he was? He wasn’t the head of my family, at least not yet.

  I managed a stiff smile. “I believe Jacob already has plans,” I lied.

  “Well, then he should cancel them. We’re all going out.” And that was that.

  Before I knew it, the stories were off to the printer, and he had escorted me home. This was not his custom, and Anna was quite alarmed that the two of us showed up there. As luck would have it, she was getting ready to meet Jacob for an evening out. Their plans? Nondescript. It took Byron all of ten seconds to convince Anna that the four of us would make merry company at Bunbury’s Restaurant. Her eyes grew wide as saucers, and in her excitement, she could not see the subtle, sisterly signals I tried to convey indicating my reluctance toward this appointment.

  Anna told us Jacob would be at the house presently then disappeared to finish preparing herself. Byron sat himself down at the table to wait, taking out a copy of Mansfield’s Weekly and laughing to himself at their articles.

  “They won’t be able to compete,” he muttered to himself, grinning.

  Meanwhile, my anxiety over the bank robbers settled more heavily. I became increasingly convinced that hypnotizing Mr. Bradford would be immensely difficult, if not impossible. And, if it were impossible, I had no explanation for his bizarre behavior. What was worse, Mr. Bradford had no explanation either, according to Sergeant Cooper.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the intricate, heavy pen Bram handed to me. Did he even read what I wrote before tossing the paper into the fire? I didn’t think he had. If he hadn’t, then how could he have orchestrated it?

  And, if he hadn’t orchestrated it, how? How?

  An hour later, we were all sitting at a table at Bunbury’s, enjoying a fine champagne, roast beef, and whatever else my fiancé told us we wanted. Had I not been so preoccupied with my own agenda, I might have marveled at the intricate woodwork and fine curtains framing the restaurant. Anna did enough marveling for the both of us, though. The carpets were a deep green, the floor to ceiling drapes a bright gold and cream, and the chandeliers of fine crystal. In the center of the main dining room sat a large group of tables, with a generous space between them for servers to pass. A lesser restaurant would have packed in twice the tables to increase profits. Surrounding the center dining area were carved, secluded booths of mahogany, each with their own curtain, some drawn for privacy, others open to see out, and others open still to let others see in.

  The first course crawled by. The waiter tried to suggest to us a series of French dishes. Anna ended up ordering something she couldn’t pronounce. Jacob ordered a fine whiskey to go with our escargot and butter. By the time the main course arrived, Jacob and Byron were thick as thieves, deeply engrossed in a conversation about horse races.

  “My good man, I’m afraid you’re showing your inexperience,” Byron said, chuckling.

  “And you, sir, are showing your failure to adapt to new times. Breeding isn’t the same as it used to be!”

  By dessert, they had made a small wager, thus cementing what could only be considered the beginning of what they claimed to be a beautiful friendship. I couldn’t help but notice the glass glazing both of their eyes, though. I thought their friendship implausibl
e.

  I did everything in my power to keep the meal going at a skipping pace without betraying my womanly duties toward good etiquette. Byron was in a peculiar mood, made even more strange by the combination of bourbon and champagne. He giggled, red-faced, at his own witticisms and refused to back down to trivial points of his argument with Jacob, which by now, I would deem less amiable than before. I wanted desperately to slip away and go track down the scoundrel behind Mr. Bradford’s heist, if such a scoundrel existed. The food at Bunbury’s was lavish and rich, but none of it tasted as spirited as the roasted nuts at the carnival the night before. Besides, I craved answers, not sweets.

  Still, dessert came, accompanied by coffee. Byron insisted we try some of the walnut cake, which, in all fairness, was actually quite delicious, despite my humor. Swelling relief lightened my mood as I watched the napkins wadded and placed on the table. The more I sat brooding, the more I had decided that I was angry with Byron. The dinner was doubly distasteful to me. I had something that felt ultimately more pressing than eating at a nice restaurant, and Byron had taken it upon himself to legitimize a relationship between Anna and Jacob. I didn’t feel that he had a right to do so. What connection did he have to Anna apart from one through me?

  “But enough about horses,” he said, leaning back to press his shoulders firmly against his chair. “Let’s get on to a more pressing matter.”

  I inhaled in preparation to protest. Another round of conversation would put me firmly past any reasonable time of night to go find Bram and confront him.

  “I don’t catch your meaning, sir,” said Jacob. Byron took out his pipe and fixed a businesslike curved grimace onto his face.

  “You’ve been courting Miss Anna for some time now. I, for one, would like to know your intentions,” he said. The table fell quiet. My mouth froze open, unsure of what to say.

  “Byron, your concern is very kind, but—” Anna began.