The Secret Anatomy of Candles

by Quentin Smith

  Eldabe stared at Jasper, whose twitching eyes were riveted to the door.

  “I gave her a typed letter summarising the key points of our discussion.”

  Jasper looked sharply across at Eldabe, into his confident gaze.

  “She took it with her,” Eldabe said quietly.

  Jasper’s heart jumped. The search was not over.

  FORTY NINE

  His house was cold and Jasper went straight to the kitchen and activated the central heating. It smelled dank and stale. All the house plants had died, little flying insects lay strewn in the kitchen sink, fruit in a bowl on the table had rotted, the apples a mushy caramel-brown colour, the shrivelled oranges had turned a mildewy-white and were tinged with greenish mould.

  “What are we looking for, guv?”

  “A letter, perhaps in an envelope, perhaps not. It may be in a dustbin, she may have hidden it, it might even be torn into pieces… I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a loft, guv?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “Cellar?”

  “No.”

  They began to search; opening drawers, looking under magazines and in between books, amongst the groceries, even methodically emptying the dustbins.

  Lazlo opened the freezer and sifted through the frozen food.

  “It won’t be in there!” Jasper said shaking his head.

  “I hide valuables in my freezer. It’s a good place, guv.”

  After nearly an hour they had scoured all the downstairs reception rooms.

  “You take the garage, don’t forget Jennifer’s car, I’ll start in the bedrooms,” Jasper said at the foot of the stairs.

  Jasper returned to the bathroom where he had made that awful discovery in the cabinet just weeks back. There was nothing new to find. In the chill of the garage, Lazlo opened the boot of Jennifer’s silver Audi TT, searched the glove compartment and even lifted the floor mats. The garage was neatly packed and tidy, what one might expect from someone obsessed with order. Stacked in one corner were several boxes, each marked with a different year and securely sealed with packing tape.

  Probably client files from work, Lazlo thought, as he left the garage and headed back upstairs.

  Jasper sat on the bed in his bedroom and scratched his forehead, having just turned over the mattress in desperation. As his thigh muscles rippled, making his leg bounce slightly, and his left arm writhed like a charmer’s snake, his eyes wandered around the bedroom, trying to imagine where Jennifer might have placed a letter. Had she hidden it, intending for him not to find it? Did she destroy it? But why would she do such a thing? What could Dr Eldabe have told her that would have such a devastating effect on her? Might it have been something that she did not want him to know? His brain hurt from poring over the almost endless possibilities.

  Jasper pulled out his iPhone and dialled. It was answered after five rings.

  “Charlotte, it’s Jasper here. Can we talk, please?”

  His face was solemn and only his eyes moved.

  “Please listen, I just want to ask you one thing, please.”

  A pause.

  “Yes, it is about Jennifer, but believe me it is vitally important.”

  He waited.

  “Please, Charlotte, just listen and you decide.”

  “Thank you. I have traced Jennifer’s movements to a neurologist on Harley Street, two days before she…”

  “Yes, a neurologist… I don’t know why either. I can’t understand it.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, Charlotte, I think that her consultation with this neurologist, a Dr Eldabe, may well have had something to do with her… er… decision to… you know…”

  “Yes, of course I’ve been down to see him, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Pause.

  “His medical oath of confidentiality.”

  “Absolutely ridiculous, tell me about it.”

  “This is what I want to ask you. He says he gave Jennifer a letter when she left his rooms.”

  “Yes, apparently.”

  Jasper listened, frowning.

  “He told me that the letter contained a summary of their discussion.”

  He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead.

  “The thing is we can’t find it anywhere.”

  “Lazlo and I.”

  “Yes, she may have… but did she perhaps send anything to you for… er… safekeeping?”

  “Nothing at all?”

  Jasper hesitated, rubbing his writhing and pouting lips with trembling fingers.

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “No, definitely not a letter from Dr Eldabe?”

  “Okay, thank you, Charlotte.”

  “Yes, I’ll let you know if I discover anything. Bye.”

  Jasper looked towards the doorway as he heard Lazlo’s footsteps approaching. Lazlo peered sheepishly around the corner of the bedroom door as though he was intruding.

  “Found anything?” Lazlo asked.

  “Not a Friar Tucking thing.”

  “Who is going up in the loft, guv?” Lazlo said, pointing up with an index finger.

  “Will you fit through the hatch, Lazlo?”

  Lazlo mouthed an expletive back to Jasper and continued to lean against the door frame with his left leg bent at the knee.

  “Have you checked through the pockets of her clothes, guv?” Lazlo asked casually.

  Jasper shot straight up, swayed slightly to the left, steadied himself, and raised a finger straight in the air.

  “Bloody good idea, Lazlo. You’re not my investigator for nothing.”

  Jasper began to slide open the large, oak panelled wardrobe door, revealing an expansive rail of colourful clothing. Lazlo squirmed awkwardly at the sight of his guvnor’s wife’s clothes.

  “Loft hatch is on the landing. Call me if you get stuck,” Jasper said.

  There was no other way around it; Jasper started at one end, hunting through the clothes for pockets and then pushing his trembling fingers deep into each one. Smells reminiscent of Jennifer oozed out of every dress, some of her golden hairs still visible and curled on the fabric. Jasper found it emotionally traumatising to invade the sanctity and intimacy of her clothing, items that had enjoyed the luxury of caressing her warm, living skin not long ago. In a strangely absurd way he envied them. Gritting his teeth, he continued mechanically.

  After much groaning and grunting, Lazlo re-emerged from the landing, his clothing dishevelled and dusty, his shirt hanging out of his trousers as though he had been pulled through a barbed wire fence backwards. In the bedroom he found Jasper two thirds down the clothing rail with a small pile of tissues and till receipts forming on the carpeted floor behind him.

  “Anything?” Lazlo asked, slightly out of breath.

  Jasper shook his head in silence, his features again succumbing to an overshadowing look of despondency. Lazlo stood with his meaty hands on his broad waist and studied his guvnor’s twisting, writhing limb and neck movements. It was something about which they had never spoken, but Lazlo realised the enormity of their failed initiative to engage in Montgolfier’s AA group therapy.

  Once he’d reached the end of the rail Jasper turned around and surveyed the small pile of rubbish on the floor with disdain. The only items of value recovered were a tube of lipstick and a ten pound note.

  “Brad Pitt!” Jasper muttered under his breath.

  Lazlo knelt down with a groan of effort and sifted through the pile of tissues and receipts methodically. Investigative work demanded even the most menial task be undertaken with due diligence. Suddenly, one receipt caught his eye.

  “Framwellgate Dry Cleaners.” he said, picking up the crumpled receipt in his fat fingers and squinting at it.

  Jasper turned his face from its resting place in the palm of his right hand towards Lazlo. Something had stirred in his memory banks.

  “Cheese and rice, Lazlo, that’s it!”

  FIFTY

  Debra stood beneath the naked boughs of the giant
oak tree on College Square at a safe distance away from the children. A bright pink scarf was wound around her neck and head like a babushka and both arms clung disconsolately to her tiny body in a closed embrace. She stood without moving a muscle, the only sign of life being the misting of her breath in the cold air.

  The rising sounds of childhood enthusiasm pierced the air, as parents standing about in an informal semi circle welcomed their little darlings back into their embraces. The end of the school day – something she would probably never experience again on a personal level, Debra realised.

  She watched as Seamus Mallory ran across the cobbles to his waiting mother. He was a scruffy boy, socks down around his ankles, grubby knees, tousled black hair somewhat longer than Debra would have tolerated, and longer than most of the other boys.

  Debra felt her pulse quicken as she stared at Mrs Mallory, first name unknown, but unmistakeably the person towards whom Debra felt the greatest possible sense of resentful anger.

  Mrs Mallory looked ordinary enough: knitted knee-length grey coat, long black boots, scarf, laughing with friends. She crouched down low and hugged Seamus, who kissed her on the cheek as he flung both arms briefly around her neck.

  Debra swallowed hard.

  Why had she done it, why had she taken such an irresponsible risk not only with her own child, but with others too? What kind of a mother was she? What kind of a human being was she?

  Debra wanted to run across, grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, feeling that if she shook long and hard enough she might even turn back the cruel hands of time.

  Yes, turn back time and erase all this unnecessary heartache and tragedy. She began to sob, turned and walked away. It was no longer clear to her why she had gone to the school.

  Wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue, she pulled out her phone and dialled.

  “Jasper? It’s me, Debra.” She said with a thick voice and a blocked nose.

  “I’ve done a silly thing and I need to see you, please.”

  She closed her eyes and squeezed out tears that ran down her bright red cheeks.

  “OK, I understand. Call me when you can. Please.”

  Her shoulders shuddered and the flood gates opened as misery poured from her soul.

  FIFTY ONE

  The black Audi TT drew up outside Framwellgate Cleaners and Jasper shut the engine off. Both men released their seatbelts simultaneously, but Jasper placed a hand on Lazlo’s arm.

  “I need to do this alone, please.”

  Lazlo met Jasper’s pleading eyes and his great, shaved head nodded. Then he sat and watched as his guv’nor walked towards the door of the shop, lurching ever so slightly to one side just before he reached it. There it was again, the snakelike writhing of his left arm, then the twisting neck. Lazlo stared with a deep frown on his face. The investigator missed nothing.

  Inside the shop Jasper was met by a middle aged woman behind the counter, wearing a pale green uniform with her hair tied up in a bun on top of her head. The place reeked of chemicals and benzene, but the woman smelled even more strongly of tobacco smoke.

  “Can I help you?” she said in a husky voice and without a smile.

  “I’ve come to collect an item for Jennifer Candle. You called me a few days ago.”

  “Do you have a receipt?”

  Jasper fumbled in his pocket with trembling fingers.

  “I have this, but it may be an old one. Same name and address, though.”

  He handed the crumpled receipt to the woman, who turned it around and studied it without moving a facial muscle.

  “This is from last year, love. Where’s the receipt?”

  Jasper shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Look, the coat has been here for several weeks now and you called me…”

  Suddenly the woman became animated as if someone had flipped a switch on her back.

  “Oh yes, I remember!” She said excitedly, before bursting into a salvo of mucus-laden coughs.

  She disappeared in between rows of clothing hanging in plastic bags, emerging after a few moments with a red coat covered in plastic and held aloft like a victory salute.

  “Here it is!”

  She draped it over the counter, pulled the paper ticket off it and tapped on the till.

  “That’s nineteen quid please, love.”

  Jasper stared at the coat disconsolately. Anything left in the pockets would be gone now.

  “Something wrong, pet?”

  “Was anything found in the coat?” Jasper said, handing the woman a twenty pound note.

  “If there was anything in the pockets, love, other than tissues and rubbish,” she gave a sudden throaty laugh, “it will be stapled to the inside of the bag.”

  She handed him one pound in change and a till receipt.

  Jasper left the shop, holding in his hand what he believed might well have been one of Jennifer’s final deeds. Was it an act of routine domesticity that simply became a forgotten victim of the malignant change in her mind, or was it an act of deliberate and calculated deception?

  The whole tragic business had an air of surrealism about it. Jennifer had been his wife for fifteen years, yet he was beginning to wonder just how well he had known her, or rather just how much about her he didn’t know.

  Jasper opened the small TT boot and laid the red coat in it. Lazlo was listening to Barry White and nodding his great head rhythmically to the music. Jasper hesitated, rubbing his fingertips together nervously, then peeled back the plastic and turned the coat over. There it was, stapled to the back of the bag, an envelope. His heart skipped a beat.

  “Did you find it?” Lazlo asked, as Jasper returned to the driver’s seat.

  Jasper nodded, feeling the envelope crinkle against his shirt in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “Not here. Let’s go to The Swan.”

  FIFTY TWO

  The two men stood side by side at the bar, leaning on their elbows like a comedy double act about to commence their routine. It was mid afternoon and The Swan was relatively quiet, ironically a time when service was often slowest.

  Lazlo licked his lips in anticipation, glancing across at Jasper, who simply stared straight ahead as the rather youthful looking barman eventually approached.

  “I’ll have a Perrier, please,” Jasper said in a flat voice.

  Lazlo turned to look at Jasper as surprise creased his great, butternut shaped face.

  “Er,” he mumbled, “I’ll have a… a bitter lemon, lots of ice.”

  They sat at their favourite brass table and stared out of the window as they sipped their alien drinks tentatively.

  “I don’t think I can do it, Lazlo,” Jasper said as tics convulsed around his left eye.

  “Do you want me to leave you alone, guv?”

  Jasper sat without replying, staring at the bubbles rising out of his Perrier water.

  “No, I want you to stay, Lazlo. I’m just thinking what a day I picked to give up drinking.”

  They sat in silence, Jasper with trembling knuckles pressed against his lips, Lazlo staring patiently out of the window at the rowers on the calm river below. Jasper had never known fear and apprehension like this. Suddenly he didn’t want to know what secret Jennifer had carried back from London with her, or whether she had tried to bury it at the dry cleaners. He shuddered to think what her motivation might have been, but deep down he realised that he was past the point of repudiation and that it was too late to try and airbrush over the glaring wrinkles in his life.

  Chris de Burgh began to sing ‘Lady in Red’ in the background.

  “Friar Tuck!” Jasper said tersely and pulled the envelope out of his jacket pocket.

  He opened the envelope with trembling fingers and spread the letter out on his lap, covering the rippling muscles of his left thigh, then sat up straight as he narrowed his eyes to read the small print. Lazlo adjusted his posture awkwardly, wishing he had a Black Sheep in his h
and to ease his tension and discomfort.

  Dr Majid Omar Eldabe MB (Cairo) FRCP (London) PhD

  (Camb)

  Consultant Neurologist

  67 Harley Street

  London

  W1G 8PP

  Mrs Jennifer Candle

  Confidential summary of discussion

  Source: self referral for genetic counselling regarding unborn foetus, estimated gestation ten weeks.

  As explained to you in consultation today I am somewhat limited in the scope of my responses, both by the extent and depth of information you have presented to me, as well as my need to protect prior patient confidences.

  What I can confirm with certainty is that Huntington’s disease, about which you enquire, is a very rare disease that is most likely to develop as a consequence of inheritance from affected parents. It is passed on from one generation to the next by autosomal dominant inheritance. This means that one copy of the HTT gene is all that is required to produce Huntington’s disease in an individual.

  Therefore if one parent has Huntington’s disease, the chances of each child inheriting the disease are one in two, which is like flipping a coin.

  I cannot tell you with absolute certainty whether your unborn foetus is carrying the HTT gene for Huntington’s disease, but from what you have told me and from what I already know confidentially, I will go so far as to say that there is good reason for you to be very concerned about this possibility.

  If you wish to be referred to a gynaecologist to discuss terminating the pregnancy, I would certainly be able to arrange this for you.

  I am sorry I cannot be more helpful.

  MO Eldabe FRCP PhD

  (dictated not signed)

  Jasper stared at the letter in his lap, his face denuded of expression but for the tics around his left eye and the corner of his mouth.

  “What does it say, guv?” Lazlo said, casting a discrete glance in Jasper’s direction.

  “I need to read it again.”

  Jasper read in silence, his mouth opening slightly.

  “Cheese and rice,” Jasper said, turning his head to look out of the window and covering his mouth with one hand.