A Hymn in the Silence

by Kelley York

  “What else is on our agenda today?” James asks, hovering close to my side.

  “We need to prioritise speaking with the Edisons,” I murmur. “See if they have more information than the Fletchers did. Perhaps they’ll have an idea if Madeline and Abraham had plans on where to run off to, or if they were in talks with anyone who might have been helping them.” Not that I’m looking forward to speaking with Madeline’s family. Do they know I’m responsible for their daughter’s death? My throat constricts at the thought.

  A touch to my cheek startles me into looking over at James. His fingertips linger there against my skin.

  “You’re worrying about something,” he says.

  “Aren’t I always?” I cover his hand with my own, grateful for the comfort his affection offers. “I was just thinking that the Edisons might not wish to speak with us if they know Madeline is dead because of me.”

  “We’ll figure that out when we get there, but it would be foolish for them to hold it against you. That wasn’t their daughter anymore, and it was either you or her.” James leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “And I’m glad it was you.”

  As much as I’d like to close my eyes and keep him close, we’re hardly in a place for such things. I draw back. “Thank you, James.”

  Reverend Thomas returns in short order, offering our refilled phials. “Here you are. Should you require more…”

  “This should do for a time. Thank you very much.” I pass half of them over to James and pocket the rest. Since I’m far more coherent today, I feel I should ask— “Reverend, can you shed any light on whether Miss Edison and Mr. Fletcher had specific plans of where they were going when they ran away together?”

  He shakes his head. “They told me they had plans, but didn’t divulge what those plans were, I’m afraid.”

  Well, damn. “Thank you again. If you think of anything else…”

  He thanks us for stopping by and we take our leave. Adelia offers to escort us to the Edison place a few miles up the road, saying that they’re more likely to speak with us with someone familiar present.

  The Edisons live in a home much more along the lines of the Brewers’ than Lord Wakefield’s. From what we’ve been told, it was their daughter’s lowly social status that made her a poor match for Abraham.

  A ridiculous notion to me, really. Had James grown up in a poor family, I cannot imagine him being so different a person that I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him. If they made one another happy, should that not have been all that mattered to their parents?

  When we disembark from the carriage, Adelia instructs us to wait while she approaches to the door to speak to them alone.

  James pockets his hands as we wait. “How well do you think this will go?”

  “There’s no telling. We can hope. Work your charm on them; you’re good at that.”

  He grins. “I’m just a likable person, dear William.”

  I can’t help my expression softening toward him. “Yes, well, I’m afraid they can’t have you. You’re mine.”

  “Oh, possessive!”

  “You say that as though you’re at all surprised.”

  “I say it as though I find it remarkably attractive.”

  I laugh at that, planting a hand over his face. “Honestly. You’re too much.”

  “You adore me.” He takes a playful bite at my palm covering his mouth.

  From the corner of my gaze, I notice Adelia returning to us and swiftly jerk my hand back, feeling like a child caught sneaking sweets. She approaches without any look on her face to suggest she saw us horsing around. “They’ve agreed to speak with you, but strictly on the basis that you’re investigating this under the assumption that the murders were not Madeline’s fault.”

  James shrugs. “Fair enough. We can do that.”

  Phineas Edison is a tall, broad-shouldered man with the golden skin of one who spends far too much time outdoors. His eyes are cautious, and his mouth pulled taught as we approach, the intensity ruined by the way he shrinks back to avoid tripping over several children barrelling past him to go outside to play.

  I step into the house and extend a hand. “Mr. Edison, thank you for meeting with us.”

  “Lady Adelia tells us you don’t think Madeline was responsible for what happened,” he says gruffly, taking my hand and shaking it. His skin is warm and calloused. “We know our girl. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  My eyes adjust slowly to the dim, musty interior of their cluttered home. I haven’t a clue where they keep all those children. Two more little ones are inside, one toddling about with its hand fisted in Mrs. Edison’s skirt, and a new-born fast asleep in its mother’s arms. Mrs. Edison regards us with the same impassive stare as her husband, but when I attempt to smile at her, she drops her gaze.

  “We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” James says. “I know this is a difficult time for your family, but we’re trying to piece together precisely what happened to Madeline and Abraham Fletcher.”

  Mr. Edison gestures for us to have a seat at the table. He himself leans against a counter, arms folded. “We don’t know much, but whatever we can do to help.”

  James has a seat, but I find myself wishing to stand. Adelia remains at my side. James begins, “I suppose I should start this off by asking what you thought of Abraham Fletcher. You knew of your daughter’s interest in him, I presume.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, we knew. Good lad, a little too hopeless.”

  “What was your opinion on his relationship with your daughter?”

  “As I said… The lad was hopeless. I’ve no doubt he loved Madeline, but it never would have worked out.”

  I purse my lips. “Do you believe Madeline ran off with him, then?”

  Mr. Edison’s gaze sharpens. “Absolutely not. She’d never have hurt her mother or me like that.”

  All right, not a line of thought we’ll travel down if he’s so prickly over it. Let’s try this again. “May I ask, what do you think happened to your daughter?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. But I tell you, Madeline’s done nothing to hurt anyone. Something took hold of her, or someone made her do it.”

  James’ voice is gentle. “I assure you, your daughter was not acting of her own volition. It’s our intention to find out just what it was that had sway over her, and to find out what happened to Abraham.”

  His words do the trick to relax Mr. Edison, who inhales deeply through his nose. “Thank you. Most people around here…well, I’m sure you know their thoughts.”

  We don’t. Not truly, but that statement tells me what I need to know. Mrs. Edison has been quite silent during this conversation. Her eyes remain downcast, her face tired and worn. I recall the sound of her sobbing over her dead daughter’s body, and guilt lights up in me anew. “One last question. How did Madeline feel about the church?”

  “She was a good, God-fearing child,” Mr. Edison responds. “She spent a lot of time visiting and doing what she could to help Reverend Thomas.”

  Funny. Somehow, I doubt all that time away from home was spent assisting Reverend Thomas with anything; he certainly never mentioned it. It was likely a cover-up for her to spend time with Abraham, but this isn’t something I’ll say to a set of grieving, defensive parents. I wonder if Mr. Edison understands his refusal to think his daughter might have run away could be hindering our progress. I could really use a drink right about now.

  We thank the Edisons for their time and Mr. Edison sees us out. It feels like a wasted trip.

  Yet again, we’re left with conflicting stories. The Fletchers believe Madeline and Abraham ran off. The Edisons do not. Then we have Reverend Thomas’ bit of information, which could be shared with the families, but… No. I’m of the opinion that what they shared with him should be kept secret. We’ve no idea yet if they did manage to leave, or if they were caught up in somet
hing else before they had the chance.

  The three of us make our way back to Evenbury, worn out and more than a little discouraged. It is not, however, the first time James and I have run into walls during our investigations. How many times did we encounter dead-ends back at Whisperwood? Perhaps we need to step back. Start from the beginning. Really analyse what we know.

  I do that very thing over a late, light lunch of sandwiches and tea, scribbling down in neat, organised lines the various facts we have. Sadly, doing this makes me realise that most of what we ‘know’ is assumption. Theory. We think Madeline was possessed, and it’s a solid theory, but not a proven one. We think she did not act alone. We think Abraham might still be out there somewhere, though what state he is in, there’s no telling.

  It isn’t until later in the evening that Foss finds us, a letter in hand, and offers it to James. There are only two people it could be from all the way out here: Virgil or Miss Bennett. I sit up straighter.

  James slides a thumb beneath the envelope flap to break the seal and remove the letter, scanning it. “Virgil says he’ll be here Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Wait, he’s coming himself?” He ought to be at school right about now. Well, whatever. Perhaps he has a holiday. I don’t exactly keep up with his schedule. At this point, a fresh set of eyes certainly won’t hurt.

  I take a sip from my tea, then, and pause. “…Isn’t today Tuesday?”

  James peers back at me. “Is it?”

  I’m losing track of our days, so I turn to Adelia, who clearly wasn’t paying us any attention over her tea and book. “What day is it?”

  She raises a brow. “Tuesday.”

  So apparently Virgil’s letter arrived…after he did. I groan, rocking to my feet as James does the same. I never did get my drink, and I’ve still a while yet before I think James will give me my medicine. “Will you be joining us, Adelia?”

  Adelia considers it for only a second before smiling and rising. “Well, Father is always after me to socialise more.”

  “I’m afraid Virgil is not the best at socialising,” I say, fetching my coat.

  “Virgil is not good at much except for making people go to bed by curfew,” James counters.

  I give Adelia a smile that lets her know James is being terribly over-dramatic. Virgil is one of his favourite people to endlessly needle.

  For this trip, we make use of one of Wakefield’s larger carriages, a four-seater, so that we’ve room to bring Virgil back with us should he not have plans to stay in town. Adelia insists lodgings there are not the best.

  It takes longer than last time on account of it being so dark out, and I almost wish we’d asked for a driver. I can’t see ten feet in front of my face. Then again, my eyesight is hardly the best even in broad daylight.

  The dark roads lit only by the feeble light of the carriage lanterns make my heart start and stop at every peculiar noise and shadow, and I find myself more than once nearly reaching for James’ hand.

  At least the town is not so intimidating. Although it isn’t as well-lit as Whitechapel at night, it’s early enough yet that the streets are still moderately busy, businesses are only just beginning to close, and the morgue’s “open” sign is still present upon the door.

  When we step in, triggering the bell, it takes a few moments before anyone comes to greet us. It just so happens to be the coroner’s assistant from the other day, although he’s got a mile-wide scowl upon his face. The moment he spots us and recognises who we are, his eyes widen. “Oi, you there!”

  James, completely unabashed by that glare, smiles. “Good evening!”

  He huffs, pointing down the hall he emerged from. “That your friend in there?”

  My mouth twitches down. “That depends. What is he doing?”

  “He swaggered in here sayin’ he was a coroner from London, and he’s been cuttin’ into that Edison girl’s body. I’ll have ‘im arrested if you don’t get a handle on ‘im!”

  Ah. Well. I’m surprised this gentleman allowed it, but then again, the image of Virgil swanning in here and granting himself permission to do as he pleases is immensely entertaining. I wonder if a bribe was involved.

  “We’ll see to it,” I say, ducking past his broad form to head down the corridor with James and Adelia at my back. At the far end of the hall, I push open the same door we were brought to before.

  Inside is Virgil, working by the light of the gas lamps. He’s discarded his coat and his sleeves are shoved to his elbows, tie swept back over one shoulder as he hunches forward. When he hears us enter, he doesn’t so much as glance up. “I told you to stop rushing me. It’ll be just a few moments.”

  James scoots around me. “The bloke in charge is doing the rushing.”

  Only then does Virgil pause, just a brief flick of his eyes up to our faces before he returns to what he’s doing, ever so focused. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

  “You arrived before your letter did.” As loath as I am to advance and get a better look at his work, James marches right on over and I fall into step beside him. I have never seen an autopsy performed before, and I daresay I could have died happy never doing so. I stop at Madeline’s feet. One look at her ribcage split wide open is all I need before I’m turning away, stomach rolling with enough force that I’m concerned I’ll lose my lunch.

  Adelia, however, seems completely unbothered. She steps up to Madeline’s shoulder, directly across from Virgil, a look of fascination upon her face. “What are you hoping to find?”

  The new voice does the trick of distracting Virgil from his work, and his head lifts. His eyes lock onto Adelia opposite from him, his mouth parts to speak, and…he promptly drops his scalpel into the woman’s open chest cavity. “Ah.”

  James snorts out a laugh. “Slippery hands there, Virgil? You’re going to embarrass dear William; he told Adelia you were skilled.”

  Virgil continues to stare wide-eyed, although even in the lantern light I can see his cheeks beginning to redden, which is quite fascinating. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him flustered. “You, ah. I’m sorry. I had not expected…”

  “Virgil Appleton, this is Lady Adelia Wakefield,” James introduces. “Her father is our employer. She’s been helping us with this investigation.”

  “Oh,” Virgil says, which is most unlike him because he’s always such a polite fellow that for him to forget himself is unusual. He seems to shake off his surprise, however, straightening his bent posture. He starts to offer a hand, seems to realise he’s been wrist-deep inside a corpse, and refrains. “Lady Adelia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you.” Despite James’ snickering, Adelia smiles, resting her fingertips upon the table. “What is it you’re hoping to learn from Madeline’s body, Mr. Appleton?”

  “I was…” He blinks a few times and snaps himself out of gawking at her like some ridiculous schoolboy. “I was merely studying Miss Edison here. William wrote that she was possessed, and I was curious to see if there were any lasting effects on the body. I never got a thorough look at William when he was possessed—” I shoot him a sharp glare to shut him up, but he’s so focused on Adelia he doesn’t catch it. “—So, this seemed like a prime opportunity.”

  Adelia snaps her eyes to his face. “William was possessed?”

  Virgil raises an eyebrow and slowly slides his gaze to me. “Um. Maybe?”

  My look turns scathing. “Why don’t you remove your tool from that poor woman’s ribcage, Appleton?”

  Adelia frowns, and I can see her lips part with a hundred questions, but she lets out a breath and seems to decide against letting them loose for now. “Is there anything I can assist with?”

  As always, Virgil’s expressions are tricky to read. He watches Adelia appraisingly a moment before dipping down to, yes, retrieve the lancet. “Most people would not want to dirty their hands, my la
dy.”

  Adelia scoffs. “I’m not interested in what most people would do.”

  Virgil plucks the scalpel free and wipes it on the shroud covering Madeline from the waist down. From the tray beside him, he picks up what appears to be a chunk of clay and offers it to Adelia. “We need imprints of her teeth.”

  My face blanches, but Adelia scarcely blinks as she takes it. “All right.”

  James chuckles at me as I roll my gaze to the ceiling, feeling squeamish at watching the pair of them work. Virgil does not seem to notice my discomfort in the slightest.

  “I’ve noticed during my examination,” he says, “Miss Edison, is it? She’s quite emaciated. Was she always like that?”

  “Not at all.” Adelia studies Madeline’s ashen face before gingerly prying her mouth open. “Their family wasn’t rich, but they never went hungry.”

  He hmm’s, lifting one of Madeline’s wrists. I do turn enough to watch this and, yes, I suppose I’d not given it much thought before, but she does look quite skeletal. More so than a girl only a few days dead ought to look. Virgil runs a thumb across the prominent bones of her wrists. “How long was she missing? A few months?”

  “About that, yes,” James answers.

  “Wherever she was during that time, she wasn’t eating well.”

  Adelia considers. “She couldn’t have gone terribly far just to wind up back here.”

  “Unless she was being held somewhere against her will.” Virgil lifts her arm. “Look, abrasions on her wrists and ankles.” That coaxes James and I both closer to get a better look. The marks are faint in the poor lighting, but there are, in fact, bruises and raw, worn skin, particularly upon her ankles.

  “Christ,” James breathes.

  “If she was being held prisoner somewhere, then is it possible Mr. Fletcher is being held, too?”