by Alex Grecian
He entered the woman’s room first. Her bed was small and neatly made. A nearby table held toiletries and a hand mirror. A brush was tangled with long brown hairs, and a semicircle of the table’s surface was lightly dusted with white powder. He ran a finger through it and smiled. The man’s room was similarly apportioned, but the bedsheets were rumpled and unmade. A table that matched the one in the woman’s room held a jar of shaving soap and a razor. The Harvest Man picked up the razor and tested its blade against his thumb. A dark bead of blood surfaced among the whorls and he tasted it. He folded the razor and slipped it into his pocket, then went looking for the door to the attic.
12
Hatty Pitt linked her arm in her husband’s as they walked along the street. She had been Mrs John Charles Pitt for exactly two months and three days, and the taste of the name was still new in her mouth. She looked over her shoulder at their house—her very own house!—at the other end of the street, where she had left biscuits out on the kitchen table to cool. She thought she saw movement behind a window at the front, but she dismissed it as a trick of the setting sun, casting nomadic shadows where there was nothing.
The home of the Merrilows was only two streets over, and the night was bright and clear with no suggestion of rain. Hatty enjoyed the short walk and she tried not to think too much about their destination. John Charles was excited. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he talked, waving his free hand about in the air to emphasize his points as he made them. She was aware that he and Eugenia Merrilow had indulged in a brief dalliance but, as he had assured her many times, that had ended months before his marriage to Hatty. There was, therefore, no reason for her to feel any jealousy. At least, this is what he had told his seventeen-year-old wife. He had added that he thought jealousy was an old-fashioned emotion anyway.
Hatty supposed she was an old-fashioned sort of girl.
But she smiled and delighted in the cool evening air on her face. She was genuinely pleased that John Charles was so worldly about art and culture. She was learning a great deal from him—when she paid attention to what he said, which happened with less frequency during these past two months. She made a moue of irritation at her own fickleness. She would never learn a thing if she didn’t concentrate on what her husband had to teach her.
John Charles misinterpreted her expression and fell silent until they came within sight of the Merrilow house. A sluggish stream of men and women dressed in their finery was flowing up the front walk. The door was open and light spilled out into the dark street, causing the guests’ long shadows to stretch and caper like marionette puppets or ombres chinoises, the tops of their heads melting into the gloom. Hatty felt a sudden chill and hugged herself. She was surprised and pleased when John Charles noticed and put his arm around her.
“You needn’t worry about Eugenia,” he said, still misunderstanding her. “She’s moved on every bit as much as I have. I hear she’s involved with that fellow at the museum. What’s his name? Frederick, I think. Met him once. Nice enough chap, though I can’t for the life of me figure out what she sees in him.”
Hatty smiled up at him. “I’ve hardly given Eugenia a single thought.”
“Well, no need to be rude. She is our hostess, you know.”
“I’m sorry, John Charles. I didn’t intend any rudeness.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. You simply don’t understand what’s expected of you. It’s my own fault, really, for marrying someone so young. Don’t worry. You’ll catch on.”
He moved his arm from her shoulders and grabbed her above the elbow, steering her toward the big house. Above the door someone had hung two gold masks, one smiling and one crying. Comedy and tragedy, Thalia and Melpomene, the Muses of the theater. And Eugenia had evidently hired extra staff for the evening. There was a new man on the door. He wore white gloves and his smile had a pasted-on quality that Hatty was afraid mirrored her own expression. He took her wrap and John Charles’s boater and directed them to the drawing room, where most of the guests had already gathered. Hatty smiled at the people John Charles introduced her to and wondered how many she had already met and promptly forgotten. Did they remember her? She supposed she really was as rude as John told her she was. Poor John Charles, stuck with a silly little girl for a wife.
More men with white gloves circulated through the room carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and tiny glasses of some clear sparkling aperitif. Hatty took a glass and wondered whether the biscuits waiting for her at home were cool enough yet to eat.
Fully a third of the drawing room had been rendered off-limits by the addition of a heavy burgundy curtain that ran from one wall to the other. Eugenia Merrilow was nowhere to be seen and Hatty assumed she was somewhere behind the curtain, readying herself for the tableau vivant, the night’s scheduled entertainment.
John Charles leaned in and whispered, “She’s doing the Botticelli tonight.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Oh, I think you’ll be quite impressed. I’ve seen her do this tableau before, although it was for a private audience. It’s her crowning achievement.”
Hatty nodded and sipped at her drink. It was sweet and burned her throat. At seven o’clock the elder Mrs Merrilow, Eugenia’s mother, stood and sang “Woodman, Spare That Tree,” the dark red curtain framing her ample figure. She was in her fifties, Hatty was sure, and wore her hair in unfashionable ringlets that bobbed around her ears whenever she strained for a high note. When she had finished, the final notes (Thy axe shall harm it not!) lingering, there was an awkward moment of silence before the audience began to applaud. Nevertheless, Mrs Merrilow curtsied and came back for an encore of “The Village Blacksmith” (Under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands . . .).
When the clock struck eight, one of the white-gloved men stepped in front of the curtain and cleared his throat. Magically, the room went silent, all at once. Everyone turned toward the man and he nodded at them. “The Birth of Venus,” he said, and bowed, walking sideways with the curtain as he drew it open.
A gasp went up from the gathered crowd. A low platform, two feet off the floor, twenty feet long, and ten feet deep, had been built under the windows, which were currently obscured by a flowery blue-and-green backdrop that filled the wall behind Eugenia Merrilow, who stood motionless, facing her audience astride an enormous pink scallop shell, its undulations framing her bare legs. Eugenia was entirely nude, except for a long red wig. She held one hand over her breasts and clutched the free end of the long wig in her other hand, pulling it around in front to cover her fanny. Lucy Hebron stood next to her holding up a salmon-colored cloak as if about to drape it over Eugenia’s shoulders. On Eugenia’s other side, to her right but Hatty’s left as she stood watching, George Merrilow was posed in mid-stride running toward his sister. He, too, was nude, but he had knotted a length of pale blue fabric about his throat and wrapped the other end of it around his midriff. Another woman whom Hatty didn’t recognize clung to George in an unseemly fashion. This woman wore a dark cape over her shoulders, but her left breast was exposed. Both she and George had somehow affixed wings to their backs. All four players in the silent drama stood stock-still, like mannequins, recreating The Birth of Venus, a painting which Hatty now recalled seeing in one of John Charles’s books. The entire effect was neither shocking nor artistic as far as Hatty was concerned. It was merely ludicrous.
She heard herself snort with laughter and she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Several of the guests closest to them glared at Hatty, and she felt herself flush. She dared not look up at John Charles; she feared his reaction to her outburst. An older gentleman ahead of her turned and winked, which made her feel a bit better. Still, her throat felt warm and she thought for a moment that she might faint. When she finally did look up, John Charles was stone-faced, staring straight forward at the stage. He had moved a pace away from her as if to distance himself from his w
ife, as if perhaps they had arrived separately and she was a stranger to him. For a split second, she wished the same.
At last, Eugenia Merrilow moved and the three other actors broke their stillness. Lucy Hebron stepped forward and finally covered Eugenia with the salmon cloak. The woman Hatty didn’t recognize turned her back to them for a moment and tucked her breast away under her makeshift cape. When the four of them were presentable, they stepped to the edge of the platform together and took a bow. The assembly in the drawing room clapped and Hatty heard approving murmurs among them. One or two of the younger men hooted and the applause went on and on in waves until the palms of Hatty’s hands began to sting. She imagined they would all have given Eugenia a standing ovation if they weren’t already on their feet.
“She and Patience performed Thumann’s Three Fates last month,” the kind gentleman said to Hatty when the applause had begun to die down. “Along with the elder Mrs Merrilow. I wish you’d been here. I would’ve liked to see your reaction.” He smiled and Hatty looked away, embarrassed all over again.
At least now she knew the name of the third woman onstage, the one she hadn’t seen before. Patience seemed a perfect name for someone whose idea of entertainment was to stand motionless for five minutes once a week.
John Charles moved quickly away without glancing back at Hatty and she spotted him a moment later embracing Eugenia. He whispered something in her ear that made Eugenia laugh, and Hatty put her head down. She wandered away from the kind gentleman and found a place near the door where she could lean unobtrusively. She wished someone would come around with more drinks.
After more than an hour, John Charles found Hatty again. She had not moved from her spot against the wall and no one had spoken to her since the end of the performance. At some point, all four actors had changed their clothing. Eugenia Merrilow was now wearing a shimmering yellow dress that barely covered her ankles. She giggled and flirted with the young men who had hooted at her earlier, putting her hand flat against their chests and throwing her head back as if they were the wittiest fellows she had ever encountered. Hatty noted with some satisfaction that Eugenia had no hips to speak of. She was as straight up and down as a boy. John Charles took Hatty by the elbow again, being a good deal rougher with her this time, and maneuvered her to the door and out. He glanced back over his shoulder as they exited the drawing room and Hatty could well imagine what he must be looking at. Or, rather, who he was looking at.
John Charles did not speak to Hatty all the long way back to their home. It was much farther away than it had seemed on their walk to the Merrilow house and there were wispy clouds skulking about the moon now. When at last they reached their own house, John Charles held the door open for his wife and then disappeared into his study. Hatty hung her wrap on the coatrack in the entry and went straight to the kitchen, where she lit a lamp on the kitchen table and gobbled down two chocolate biscuits without taking a breath between them. At last she swallowed and poured herself a glass of water. She frowned at the tray of biscuits. She had eaten two and yet four seemed to be missing. She glanced, puzzled, in the direction of the closed study door and then shrugged. If John Charles had burnt his tongue on a hot biscuit before they’d even left the house it served him right. She hoped it still hurt.
She left the kitchen and passed an open window in the hallway, which she pulled closed. She made her way up the stairs in the dark, brushing her fingertips against the wall all the way up. She changed into her nightdress and brushed her hair and settled into bed. She didn’t know how long it would take John Charles to get over being angry, but she hoped she would have fallen asleep by the time he came upstairs. She didn’t want him to come to her bedroom and she wasn’t ready for a dressing-down. Perhaps by morning John Charles would forgive her and she would feel contrite and things would go back to the way they usually were between them. She closed her eyes and pulled her coverlet to her throat and listened with trepidation for John Charles’s footsteps on the landing until, at last, she fell sound asleep.
13
There were four workingwomen loitering outside the Whistle and Flute, and Hammersmith felt them sizing him up as he approached the front door. For a moment he was confused by their attention, until he realized he no longer wore a constable’s uniform. As far as the women were concerned, he was no different from any other customer of the establishment. He felt a stab of anxiety that turned to deep sadness and he stopped short of the curb. In truth, he wasn’t any different. He wasn’t a policeman anymore and quite probably never would be again. His dream, his life, everything he thought he knew about himself, was all ended and he would have to start anew. He took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and tried to put the thought out of his mind. He still had work to do, regardless of what he wore. At least for the moment. He would concentrate on the moment.
One of the women became impatient. She pushed herself off the building’s façade and approached. “Need some help up out of the street, love?”
“I’m fine,” Hammersmith said. “Go about your business.”
“But you are my business. Come, let’s have us a taste of gin and I’ll give you a taste of summat else besides.”
“No.” He pushed his elbows in close to his body and walked past her, trying not to get caught up as she reached for him.
“Just a taste.”
“I said no.” He put his hand up and kept walking, ignored the woman, who was still wheedling. The others moved aside as he passed, seeing that he wasn’t going to be persuaded. He opened the door and stepped through into the pub.
The ownership of the place seemed to change with the phases of the moon and there was always a different man behind the counter whenever Hammersmith visited. But the clientele remained the same: the same women working outside, whether they went by the same names or not, tottering in on the hour to spend their newly earned coins; the same four men in the darkest corner playing Happy Families for money, keeping a wary eye on newcomers; the same old gin-soaked sailor sitting by the door with his hand out. Hammersmith ignored the old man and the single tarted-up woman at the counter. He nodded at the barman and held up a finger. The man nodded back and reached for a glass while Hammersmith walked to the table in the corner and stood quietly watching the men play cards.
None of them looked up at him, but one clucked his tongue and said: “Have ya got Mr Plod, the policeman?” Hammersmith could see the cards the man held and there was no Mr Plod in his hand.
“Yeah,” another man said. “He’s right here, but I don’t want nothin’ to do with him.” He threw down his cards and pushed his chair back and two of the other men stood up at the same time. They walked away in a group, passing the barman, who brought Hammersmith’s beer and set it on the table at one of the now empty chairs. He took the penny Hammersmith offered, scowled at it, and hurried away. Hammersmith sat down across from the remaining card player.
“You ruined my game,” the man said. “And I was winning.”
“Looked to me like you weren’t doing so well,” Hammersmith said.
“I had a strategy.”
“How have you been, Blackleg?”
“Been better’n you, from what I hear. And judging by the state of you, the rumors ain’t far off.”
Hammersmith looked down at his torn and muddy clothes. “I’m still alive.”
“Well, I won’t be for much longer if you keep comin’ in here askin’ me questions.”
Hammersmith looked the man over. He seemed at home in the shadows, his back against the wall. He was imposing, with a heavy black beard and dark deep-set eyes. There was something slippery about the eyes, something amused and dangerous, like a big cat waiting for something smaller to move and give away its position. He had got his name, the only name Hammersmith had ever known him by, from his time spent crossing picket lines at the docks. Normally, it would have been an insult, but he wore it with pride and nobody dared to disagree wi
th him.
Hammersmith took a drink of his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Then he unconsciously wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers. “I can’t meet with you unless I go where you are. And you’re always here. You used to be more careful about where we met. What do your friends think we talk about?”
“They think you’re my brother,” Blackleg said. “Only you was injured in the head when you was little and went wrong somehow, grew up a bluebottle.”
Hammersmith grinned. “You know I’m not a bluebottle anymore.”
“Still act like a bluebottle, askin’ questions about things don’t concern you.”
“That’s got to worry them. Surely they don’t like you talking to me, even if they do think I’m your brother. How, by the way, did they come to that conclusion?”
“Somebody told ’em you was. Might’ve been me told ’em. On account of the family resemblance.” He smiled at the weak joke. “And they think I give you wrong information in order to put you off the scent of their business.”
