The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  “Right where I’ve always been,” she said, turning the door handle and ushering me through.

  I stepped tentatively onto a railed platform overlooking a large cobblestone courtyard. On its far side, I saw and smelled stabled horses. The courtyard was surrounded by brick walls with a couple of meager, twiggy trees here and there struggling to grow. The fading sun cast everything in sharp contrasts.

  In the center of the courtyard, I found Edward stripped down to a blood spackled undershirt, his fists at the ready, facing off against a worse for wear, though much larger, opponent. The big man swung wide, but Edward ducked under his arm and delivered several quick jabs to his rib cage. An audible groan sounded from a few staggered onlookers.

  The big man yelled in pain and rounded quickly on Edward, feigning left and delivering a cross with his right, connecting savagely with Edward’s jaw, sending spittle flying. Edward staggered back and spit blood onto the ground.

  I continued watching for some time as they exchanged blows. Every time Edward took a hit, it sent shockwaves through my heart, down to the heels of my feet, but the fight continued.

  Edward dodged a series of quick jabs and tried to counter with a wide punch of his own, but missed, whiffing through air and stumbling from his own thrust. The large man took full advantage, shifting his weight and using Edward’s own momentum to meet him with a strong uppercut. Edward staggered back, dazed, trying to shake his senses clear. The big man closed in.

  “Stop it! Don’t hurt him!” I shouted. I hadn’t meant to. The words just came surging out of my mouth. Every face in the courtyard turned toward me, and Edward raised a hand to the big man. I must have been a sufficient surprise to bring him back to his senses. He nodded to his opponent, who clasped his shoulder with those odd, brusque, manly means of affection.

  I could hear grumbling nonsense around the courtyard about women spoiling the fun and inquiries as to how I got back there anyway, but Edward made his way over to an old weather-worn table, where he donned his jacket and cleaned himself off with a towel, before crossing the courtyard to me.

  “Luella,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

  He looked terrible, even aside from the bruises and cuts on his face. His eyes looked deep set, framed by dreadful bags hanging under them. His skin was pale, his face disorderly and unshaven, and his gaze lacked its usual luster and shine, drooping instead into tired pits.

  “I should be asking you the same question. That man could have killed you.”

  He coughed out a snort.

  “He would never. We spar hard, so we’re prepared for what’s out there. I’m the only one who can give much of a fight for old Bill.” He worked his jaw, testing that it still worked adequately. I winced on his behalf. Merely being around him was enough to make me feel pain and exhaustion. I couldn’t imagine what he must be going through.

  “Edward.” I paused. Discovering Edward fighting another man had startled and distracted me from my fears and hesitations. But, I could not avoid the elephant in the room. Every womanly impulse I possessed reached out to him to lift his spirits somehow. I could not see him pained like this. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

  He studied something on the ground. “I accept your condolences.”

  “Please, if there’s anything I can do, just tell me.”

  He breathed in deeply and coughed. I eyed his heaving torso where his lungs worked hard, hidden beneath ribs bruised from the fight.

  “I fear I have already prevailed too readily on your hospitality,” he said. My hospitality. His words stung, reminding me of how I betrayed him. My writing caused this. All of this.

  “Too readily? Don’t be ridiculous. Please, tell me how I can help you.”

  “I must insist you don’t trouble yourself.”

  “Edward, please. I feel helpless seeing you this way.”

  He grabbed my elbow suddenly and ushered me to a more secluded corner of the courtyard behind the horses. They whinnied but paid us no attention, focusing instead on their dinner troughs.

  “Do you insist on torturing me?”

  My thoughts flew to my complicity in his misfortune. Had he found me out? How? Perhaps Rebecca wasn’t the only one to follow Byron to the printers.

  “I can explain,” I began.

  “It’s all crystal clear, Ms. Winthrop. I’ve apologized for my behavior. I never should have acted so untoward by taking you to lunch the way I did. Please, put yourself in my position now. I didn’t take you to lunch because of some passing fancy. I find I can’t stop thinking about you, especially now that I’ve—now that everything has happened the way it has.”

  “You’re not thinking straight.”

  “My mind is quite sound,” he insisted.

  “I will do anything I can to help you through this,” I stuttered. His words tasted so bitter to me. They were like a dagger in my belly. I could have had him, heart, body, and all, were it not for my continuous ability to ruin everything. I was promised to Byron. I had caused the death of his father. He loved me in spite of one but could not possibly persist upon learning the other.

  “Are you not engaged?” he asked, poignantly.

  I fought back tears by closing my eyes and nodded. This was for him.

  “I’m not sure how your husband would feel about your unrelenting compassion toward me,” he said. He looked even more burdened than before, if it was possible. “I wish you quite well. I must ask my leave of you for a time, at least while I find a way to cope with my family’s newfound shame.”

  Ask his leave. So, this would be his coping method. Withdrawal. His decision had not changed my resolve to marry Byron, but it still came like a blow. I had thought it would be some time, if ever, before I could look Edward in the face, but for some reason, knowing that he closed the door and the decision to reopen it was not mine sent winter through my body. The tears came readily. I could not blink them away.

  He took my hand and kissed it politely before turning to leave. In response, I gripped his firmly and lifted it to my own lips, kissing it gently, ignoring the gashes and cuts from the fight he had just endured. I did not look at him, only held his hand close to my face and cried on it.

  He was too much of a gentleman to ask me to leave Byron. My behavior could not have startled him though. I think he knew that the feelings he had were reciprocated but that something more held me back.

  He was so upright, so gallant. As I stood there on the precipice of losing him forever, I allowed myself selfish thoughts. What if he could forgive me? What if Rebecca were right and I could break my word with Byron? I had seen Edward do so many honorable things. He might dismiss my confession as impossible and wouldn’t that at least absolve me from the responsibility of disclosing it? We’d be little different than a couple with opposing political opinions, he of one mindset, I of another. A marriage could survive a difference of opinion.

  I looked up at him. I saw the invitation there. He could see more to my situation than I let on and wanted me to elaborate. He could not ask it but with his eyes. I could trust him. We could work through anything. We belonged together. My lungs filled with hope, rushing in at a tremendous and powerful speed.

  I’ll marry for love or not at all. Rebecca’s words. Love or convenience. Doug’s story from what felt like weeks ago seized my resolve.

  “Edward, I have to tell you something—”

  “Ms. Winthrop,” a voice from across the courtyard interrupted me. I instinctively dropped Edward’s hand like I was schoolgirl caught with a boy on break between classes. “Miss, it isn’t pretty in this area of the station. Please, let me usher you back to my office.”

  Sergeant Cooper’s commanding tone yanked me back to the reality of our situation.

  “I’m sure Lieutenant Thomas has some more training to do,” Cooper added. Edward dropped any air of familiarity and snapped to attention. With a curt nod to Cooper and a lingering glance in my direction, he tossed his towel on the table and headed back to th
e center of the courtyard, where Big Bill stood waiting.

  Cooper led me back into the station. I buried my eyes in the ground and tried to recuperate. Edward had cast me off. It felt like my favorite book had been shut and sealed before I could read the ending. Yet, even more importantly, he was experiencing significant pain, and now I could not help him. I heard scattered applause through the door behind us.

  “Sergeant,” I said, looking for words. “I understand Lieutenant Thomas hasn’t stopped working since he learned about his father’s death.”

  “I can’t get him to stop,” Cooper said gruffly. “But, I don’t blame him. It’s good for him to be distracted right now.”

  “I hardly think some extra work will be enough to distract him from such a life shattering tragedy.”

  “You’ve never been hit in the face by Big Bill.”

  “So that’s your plan? Beat him senseless so he doesn’t have to deal with this? Why not just get him drunk? It’s about as noble.”

  “That comes later.” We arrived at his office, passing Rebecca, who pretended to be busy at her typewriter, pausing only long enough to search me for clues on how my conversation had gone. I shook my head toward her before stepping inside the office.

  Cooper shut the door behind us. He motioned to a chair, which I took, and sat down formally on the other side of his desk. His frank, know-it-all demeanor felt surreal and had me perturbed.

  “Don’t you think he should be at home with his family?” I asked, doing my best to bore into Cooper’s experienced, wrinkly eyes. I ruminated over my bad fortune that I had neither inherited my mother’s good looks nor her fierce stare.

  “The police force is his family, or so he’s told us. But, you bring up a great point. Ms. Winthrop, I’d like to talk to you about his family, actually.”

  “I don’t know his family,” I said, bluntly.

  “Yes, that’s what I find so interesting,” he said. He picked up the baton on his desk and started picking at the end of it, giving off an air of nonchalance. “When I broke the news to Edward about his father, you were quite affected.”

  “It came as quite a shock,” I replied. It was the honest truth.

  “Yes, it was. Though, I’d never seen you quite so shaken up before. At the time, I dismissed it as a natural reaction from a woman’s more delicate sensibilities and regretted to have had you in the room. But, as I thought about it, I remembered that you are the great reporter, and shocking news is your line of work, is it not?”

  What was he playing at? This was the last place I wanted to be. I’d had enough twists and turns for one day. “It is, but it’s not the same when misfortune befalls upon someone you know.”

  “You just said you didn’t know the man.”

  “Certainly not, but I know Edward, and I couldn’t imagine what he was experiencing.”

  He placed down the baton. “This is where things don’t add up for me. I knew your father, and I recognize certain of his characteristics in you, especially that need to come to the rescue, much like you thought you did today when you called Old Bill off of Thomas. Why, might I ask, was this deeply rooted characteristic of yours abandoned upon learning of his father’s death? It couldn’t be the shocking nature of the news. You’re a reporter. You make your living off of news like that. And, you say you don’t know the late banker, so it couldn’t have been the blow of personal loss either. Then, as I’ve mentioned, I believe such a reaction as you had to be against your very God-give nature.”

  He looked at me with his fingers interlocked, investigating me like a bloodhound, scrutinizing every twitch of my facial features. I shifted uneasily. I felt under attack. Rebecca’s warning at Doug’s crept up behind me, haunting me. That front page may have seemed to implicate me in Mr. Thomas’ death, but certainly Cooper hadn’t seen that page. How could he have?

  “I’m not sure I see your point, Sergeant,” I said, trying to push down my frustration and not give off the impression I was hiding something. It was a tough play. I was hiding something.

  “My point? Well, you may not have known Luke Thomas, but I did. I’m sure that banking scandals and suicide are always shocking, but I would say this one seems impossible. Luke Thomas was scrupulous and meticulous to the brink of annoyance. He was obsessive about paying his debts and keeping ledgers. And, what’s more, he raised a hell of a boy, the one that I think you’ve developed a significant attachment for. So, Ms. Winthrop, I find any accusation of financial misconduct on his part highly questionable and his sudden hanging to be quite mysterious indeed. Forgive me if I’m looking for leads.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I sat there, panicked, searching for some emotion to hold on to, some train of thought to give me balance, but I couldn’t find words. I felt my anger build.

  Please, not now. Couldn’t it wait until I was at home, alone? I couldn’t lash out at Cooper, not while he suspected me like this.

  “I find your insinuation entirely ungentlemanly,” I managed to say, through only partially clenched teeth.

  “I’m insinuating nothing,” Cooper said. “I’m asking for your help. If you know anything about the circumstances surrounding Luke Thomas’ death, I’m urging you to come forward and assist my investigation.”

  I felt it bubbling deep down in my ribs. He suspected me. He was after me. He was an enemy.

  I needed to get out of there. I put a hand on his desk and leaned toward him, dangerously.

  “Luke Thomas cooked his own books and took his own life. The only mysterious aspect of any of this is your willful blindness about who you consider your friends. While you’re quibbling over nonsense, might I remind you of your duty to his son. Instead of encouraging him to get beaten senseless, maybe you should take some useful and fruitful steps forward to help him deal with this tragedy in a healthy manner. Until then, even if I knew something about his father’s death, I wouldn’t talk to you if you paid me.”

  I stood up quickly and turned to leave.

  “Ms. Winthrop, don’t think you can avoid this. If you know something, I will get it from you. Some things here aren’t adding up.”

  “How would you know?” I asked, one hand on the doorknob. “If you knew how to add, maybe you would be more than a ruddy miserable police sergeant.”

  I stormed out with only a nod to Rebecca and didn’t stop until I reached my own front door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lost

  I MADE MY way down an unfamiliar cobbled street in a strange area of town. It was unusually warm for the new, soft layer of snow covering the ground, and I couldn’t exactly remember where I was headed. I thought, vaguely, that I was in the vicinity of where the carnival had been set up near the river. Remembering it gave me a chill.

  I should have been heading back to Byron. After all, I hadn’t explained how long I was going to be gone, and who knew what terrible drudgery he had been through when explaining the cancellation to our writers? But, I couldn’t go back to him like this. I still felt angry at Cooper’s audacity. He should have been helping Edward, not accusing me of things he couldn’t understand. The truth was, of course, that I did have something to do with Luke Thomas’ death, but I suspected that Cooper wouldn’t believe the truth. If I did explain it, he would either lock me in an asylum or disbelieve me and feel doubly confident laying the blame at my feet. Perhaps both.

  I was taking this walk, I guessed, to calm those emotions beyond my control. My earlier outbreak at Rebecca had shaken me deeply. How could I trust my own body anymore? She was a close friend, and I had attacked her!

  There was so much to fear. These attacks would continue, and I felt helpless against them. I felt Bram’s little crimson inkwell tucked tightly in my jacket pocket, safely stoppered. I reached in and took hold of it. It gave me a strange comfort, thinking that somewhere Bram was out there working to find a cure for me.

  I looked around. The gas lamps were lit, though it was still daylight. Odd. I was sure the sun would be set by now. What a
lonely a street. Not a soul on it and not even the usual litter of discarded newspapers and gazettes. A gentle breeze swept down the avenue, kicking snow up into powdery tendrils and flurries. It licked at my feet.

  As I pushed forward, the wind grew stronger, blustering up more and more snow. Soon, entire clouds of it were airborne. It looked almost like a thick fog. I coughed, breathing in dense air, cold and humid. My father stood on the street corner in front of me.

  “My darling, there you are. I’ve been looking for you,” he said. He smiled jovially, like he had in my previous dreams, but it had lost some of its effect on me.

  “Papa, where have you been?” I asked. “I’ve needed you. So much has happened.”

  “I’ve been trying to get back to you. Your dreams have been filled with other things.”

  “I haven’t been dreaming at all,” I protested. I walked right by him, convinced more than ever before that he was just a figment of my imagination and not actually the ghost of my father. He turned and walked with me.

  “What is it, my darling? How is your writing going?”

  “I’m stopping. I’m not going to write anymore.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I’ve hurt too many people.”

  “But you were close! You’re closer than ever. The Golden Inkwell is right in front of you.”

  I stopped and glared at him.

  “Why did you tell me to keep writing?”

  “You were made to write. That’s why I sacrificed like I did to educate you,” he replied with a sorrowful look on his face. That wasn’t like him. I threw him a pair of scrutinizing eyebrows.

  “You what?” I asked. My father had never admitted what he had done for me. I overheard him arguing with my mother about it.

  “I could have spent that money on medicine,” he persisted. “Instead I spent it on you.”

  Something was wrong. He hadn’t been like this in my other dreams. My father wasn’t manipulative.

  “You aren’t real,” I said resignedly. The realization dawned on me eerily.