The Room Beyond

by Stephanie Elmas

  But for once it felt rather pleasing to look at herself. Dark colours suited her, they seemed to give her chin more of a chance.

  She paused motionless as the sound of gentle footsteps moved past her room. They faded away and disappeared behind a closing door, the key murmuring in its lock.

  Downstairs she brought the food into the dining room. There were three place settings, just as she’d requested. Only the wine was left to prepare. She took a long, deep breath. Her heart should have been pounding, her body should have been shaking, but she’d never felt so calm and still in her life. What would Jane think of her dull little sister now?

  ‘Look, I’ve tidied up your room Jane! You see, all your pretty ribbons set in a pattern, just like a rainbow.’

  She must have been twelve or thirteen at the time. Jane had glanced about her, eyes alert and her face all pinched and suspicious looking, as if she could hear a strange sound but wasn’t quite sure where it was coming from.

  ‘I’m here. Here!’ Miranda had cried. ‘Look I tidied up your room whilst you were out.’

  ‘Oh it’s you! What are you doing here? Get out of my room at once!’

  A clatter of footsteps came down the stairs. Miranda positioned the wine carefully at Tristan’s place setting and took her seat. The clatter crossed the corridor; the door swung open.

  ‘Where is he then? Not arrived yet?’

  Tristan looked better tonight. He’d shaved and was wearing some clean clothes for once. But his skin wasn’t good and the whites of his eyes were a sort of carnation pink.

  ‘Oh good. I’m glad you remembered to come,’ she said quietly.

  He raised his lip in a churlish sneer. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your father must be running a little late. Won’t it be pleasant to see him again after all this time?’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  He knocked the wine back in one mouthful as if he needed the courage. She filled his glass again.

  ‘What a funny thing to say dear.’

  ‘Look, I’ll tell you now before he does. Things aren’t going too well with the company.’

  ‘I had read in the papers that the business was suffering a little.’

  ‘More than that. We’re probably going to have to sell this house. I’ll stay on in London to sort things out and you can move to the country if you like.’

  His eyelids suddenly drooped down and he threw his head back as if to wake himself up, taking another large gulp of wine.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes... Fine. Tired that’s all.’

  ‘Oh that’s a shame. You must be working awfully hard up there.’

  ‘There’s a lot to do.’

  His cheeks were drooping now; he hiccupped loudly.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help perhaps?’

  ‘No. You wouldn’t understand. This is an awful messsss...’

  His eyelids drooped again and this time he collapsed forwards, knocking into the table and landing with his head face down on his plate. She gave him a small prod and his arm fell limply to his side.

  ‘Yes it is a mess. You’re quite right about that.’

  She dashed to the door, locking him inside the room and then ran quickly, quickly up the stairs, past her bedroom door to the small spare room at the end of the corridor.

  ‘It’s Mrs Whitestone. We’re safe now,’ she whispered, tapping gently.

  The door edged open. Mr Eden’s face was so pale that it almost glowed up against the gloomy interior.

  ‘Is he sleeping?’

  ‘Yes, that powder you gave me worked quickly. I just hope it lasts.’

  ‘I know, although I was assured it would take hours to wear off. Here, let me give you back your key.’

  ‘Have you got the lamps?’

  ‘Yes they’re in here.’

  ‘Let’s light them then. No time to waste.’

  Miranda brushed past him but Mr Eden continued to hover by the door.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you for this,’ he murmured.

  ‘Then don’t.’

  She lit the first lamp and the room glowed up into life, revealing fat beads of perspiration on Mr Eden’s forehead. His heavy jowls seemed to be quivering and he must have sensed her look of pity because he lowered his head and glared at the floor. She lit the other lamp.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said, urging his arm forward towards the stairs.

  ‘How did you get him to come down in the end?’

  ‘I forged a letter from his father saying that he would be visiting from Switzerland to talk about the state of the business. It was easy, I just reused the envelope from a real one. I’m glad I opened that; Tristan’s father isn’t happy. The company’s falling to pieces because of him.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for you then.’

  ‘Oh I don’t really care about the money.’

  They were nearing the top of the house. Mr Eden was breathing heavily behind her although his footsteps were almost soundless. The stairs grew narrower and narrower and the light from their lamps glowed around them in a golden sphere. At last they reached the small closed door at the top.

  ‘Locked,’ she whispered, gripping at the handle.

  ‘It’s alright. If I may...’

  She squeezed herself against the wall as he inserted two slim metal prongs into the lock. With a bit of jolting and shifting the door suddenly swung open.

  ‘Well I am impressed.’

  ‘I’ve lead a colourful life.’

  ‘Yes I can quite believe that.’

  The balcony door was also locked but Mr Eden opened it in even less time. He followed her outside, cramming his hefty body into the small space next to her on the balcony.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ he said, offering her his hand and politely looking away as she hitched up her skirts to climb over.

  She landed on the other side without a sound but he cast a worried eye over the railings.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, just feeling my age.’

  ‘Look, there isn’t a keyhole on the outside of her door, just these sacks leaning against it. Hopefully it’s unlocked. Let me go in first. You follow when you’re ready. Just remember to be prepared for this.’

  ‘I only hope it’s not too late,’ he whispered.

  She could feel her heart pounding. ‘Oh God, so do I!’

  She heaved the heavy sacks to one side and the door opened easily. At once the stench hit her: putrid sweat and vomit and vermin.

  Mrs Eden was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed and she was quite motionless. Clutching her handkerchief over her nose Miranda touched the woman’s arm with the back of her hand. It was hot. She gazed at her protruding stomach. There was the sound of a step behind her.

  ‘She’s alive, at least.’

  Mr Eden was shaking and retching violently.

  ‘Come now, Mr Eden.’

  ‘I never thought. Or imagined! My Lucy!’

  His wide body heaved back and forth with sobs, his grief filling the room.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve never seen squalor like it,’ he went on.

  Miranda held the lamp up to the walls. There was thick yellow mould in places and brown stains. Beneath her feet the floor was covered in droppings. Rats. Lucinda was also filthy, her hair matted into one solid lump and her nightdress wet and stained and stuck to her skin in places. She was so thin that she looked like an emaciated child, barely recognizable.

  ‘Yes. It’s quite appalling. I don’t want to spend a moment longer than I have to here. Let’s go downstairs and see if we can find a way out.’

  She caught hold of his hand and he followed her limply down the stairs like a sorry old dog.

  The rest of the house smelt better than the room at the top, but however hard she forced her handkerchief into her nostrils the smell of effluence seemed inescapable. On the first floor they passed a company of rats and she cringed against the wall. The
y slunk sulkily away, barely bothering to break into a run. And then the sight of the front door crept slowly into view.

  For a moment she could go no further, as if her heart had stopped beating altogether. Mr Eden groaned next to her.

  ‘This is the work of a madman.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured.

  It had an almost mythical quality, like some sort of outrageous device from a Greek tragedy. She tried to count but quickly gave up. How many padlocks could possibly be attached to one single door frame? And there wasn’t even any order or reason to them; they clung to the wood in the most haphazard way and some of them even hung from the centre of the door and in the walls like limp afterthoughts with no purpose to them at all. For the first time she felt her knees buckle under her. She took a step backwards and breathed hard.

  Mr Eden disappeared into the drawing room.

  ‘It’s the same in here! We could always smash through the windows I suppose.’

  ‘No, it will cause too great a disturbance. Is the carriage there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’ll lift her over the balcony and carry her down through my house.’

  He took her elbow with a firm but comforting hand. His company at least felt reassuring; there was no need for words or excuses, just a beating urgency to leave and be done with it all.

  Mrs Eden was still lying motionless in her bed when they returned. There were no blankets or clothes to wrap her in, even though it was so cold. Empty bottles were strewn everywhere and there was one rather odd looking little bottle on the bedside table, made from bluish glass and half filled with something medicinal looking. She sniffed the contents and hot tears immediately pricked up into her eyes, tickling her nose until she sneezed. Aniseed, mixed with a potent smoky flavour of some sort. She slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘If you carry her, I’ll climb over to the other side and you can then hand her to me.

  Mr Eden nodded and leant down tenderly.

  ‘She’s as light as a feather,’ he murmured. Her swollen belly stretched tightly under her nightdress and she let out a faint whimper.

  Miranda was back over in a second and he lifted his wife into her arms like a baby. He was right, she was terrifyingly light; she could quite easily have carried her by herself.

  ‘Now put the sacks back please,’ she told him. ‘And we must try to lock the other doors again. He mustn’t know we came through here.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  But locking the balcony doors again was no easy matter; he was shaking so much that the metal prongs slipped hotly in his hands.

  ‘Keep calm now Mr Eden, it’s nearly over.’

  The minutes groaned by with the length of hours. What if Tristan were to wake up now, beat the door down, discover them stealing his lover away from him? She gulped until her throat hurt.

  ‘Done!’

  ‘Well done. You would make a first class thief! Now just one more to go.’

  ‘I’ll have this one fixed in a second.’

  Mrs Eden whimpered again in her arms; it was impossible not to crush her a little on the narrow stairs leading down from the room. Her eyelids fluttered briefly but remained closed.

  ‘All secure, he should never guess we’ve been up here,’ he said. ‘Let me take Lucy again.’

  ‘Yes do, but we must tread carefully; these floorboards do squeak so.’

  They tiptoed softly down the stairs with their burden. On the first floor landing all still seemed quiet and motionless.

  ‘Wait here with her, let me just make sure.’

  She edged down the last staircase and pressed her ear to the dining room door. Not a sound.

  ‘It’s clear. He must still be asleep.’

  Outside the carriage waited silently. Mr Eden clambered across the threshold, shoulders drooping wearily despite the weightlessness of his load. Streaks of sweat forged diagonal marks across his cheeks. Or were they tears? He seemed to have shrunk into himself, as if the exhaustion had suddenly taken over. His eyes swam and he was shaking again.

  ‘Come with us, to Dover at least,’ he pleaded. ‘She needs female help and I didn’t dare hire a maid. Only for a night or two...’

  ‘I can’t. It would be wholly inappropriate.’

  ‘Please, I beg of you. You are far stronger than me. I... I can’t do this on my own.’

  She stared deeply into his pleading face. It was an odd sensation, to be needed so desperately; like a sudden tingling in a previously lifeless part of her body.

  ‘Put her in the carriage and wait for me around the corner. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll be waiting.’

  She clasped her hands against her hot cheeks, the doors around the hallway gaping back at her like questioning mouths. Time was ticking fast. She dashed into the drawing room and scribbled a quick note:

  Jane is unwell. Must leave for a few days.

  And then she raced upstairs. There was an old bag at the top of the wardrobe in her room. It smelt of dust but was big enough for a few things: a change of clothes, an extra nightdress for the patient, clean gloves, her hairbrush and a pair of sewing scissors.

  She carried it down and then unlocked the dining room. The door glided open; there was Tristan, exactly where she’d left him with his face down in his plate. She poured the remaining wine from his glass and the bottle into the plant on the dresser and left them both next to him.

  Around the corner of Marguerite Avenue the carriage was waiting ahead of her. Mr Eden’s silhouette loomed up from the pavement. He was talking to a small figure next to him, a raggedly dressed boy it seemed. The boy started at her footfall and scampered off.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘He’s going to put a rock through Lucinda’s drawing room window. Make it look as if she escaped all by herself. No harm in making a noise now that we’re safe.’

  ‘Safe, yes,’ she heard herself reply.

  But as she climbed into the carriage something made her dart her head back to look behind her. Something or someone. Surely she’d felt it sweeping across her spine; a pair of keen eyes in the shadows perhaps? It made her shudder. But no, there was nothing. Nothing to see at all but stone walls and trees and shadows.

  The doctor slipped out of the room like a ferret. Even his hair was smooth and shiny.

  ‘She’s extremely ill, in desperate need of nourishment although I doubt whether she’d be able to hold much down at the moment. You say she was being poisoned?’

  ‘I think so.’ Miranda reached inside her pocket for the bottle she’d found by Mrs Eden’s bed. ‘This is what I found.’

  He sniffed at its contents with a twitch of the nose.

  ‘I don’t know it, but it’s strong whatever it is. Make sure she never goes near it again.’ He hesitated. ‘You know she’s with child. Several months gone.’

  Mr Eden nodded. ‘Tell me doctor. Has she any chance of surviving this?’

  ‘I honestly can’t say.’

  ‘What can we do for her?’

  ‘I’ll give you something for her pain, of course. But my primary concern is her malnourishment. Treat that and she should make some sort of a recovery. Now, regarding my payment.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Please excuse me,’ said Miranda.

  She needed to get away from the two men. What sort of a doctor was he anyway, asking outright for money like that? The man was so slippery it made her flesh creep.

  Mrs Eden’s breath came in soft whispers from the bed. She looked better now in the clean nightdress, but her hair was still filthy, splayed across the pillow like a piece of stranded seaweed. It was a far cry from those tendrils that had caught Tristan in their web on the night of the dinner party: beautiful shining things adorned with peacock feathers. She lifted the dirty lump of hair up with the tips of her fingers and let it fall back down with a muffled thud. It was no use, nothing would save that hair now.

  The sewing scissor
s she’d packed were small but sharp and surprisingly easy to force through the solid clumps. In no time at all the hair was all gone and Mrs Eden re-emerged as a young boy lying against the pillow. But her face really was exquisite and without the hair it was far easier to see the sloping curve of her cheekbones, too hollow, but as pronounced and fine and symmetrical as a carving of some great ancient deity.

  ‘How well has all this beauty served you?’ Miranda whispered to her.

  Her eyes flickered open.

  ‘Do you know who I am Mrs Eden?’

  ‘Yes. The lady on the balcony!’

  Her voice was as dry and grating as coarse sand.

  ‘The lady on the balcony? So you saw me that day. I am Tristan’s wife, Miranda.’

  She winced her eyes and then they filled with tears.

  ‘Tristan.’

  ‘We think he might have been poisoning you. You were trapped in that room for months.’

  ‘But I loved him!’

  ‘I know.’

  She took her dry hand.

  ‘You need to drink. Can I give you some water? It will help you... and the baby.’

  This time her eyes widened, so enormous that they turned her face into a skull.

  ‘What baby?’

  ‘Didn’t you know – that you’re carrying his child?’

  Her face puckered up into what looked like a silent cry.

  ‘Could I have some of my medicine now?’ she asked in a small, childish voice.

  ‘What medicine?’

  ‘The droplets.’

  Miranda tried to force her shoulders into a confused shrug.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any droplets. What about some water or a little tea instead?’

  But Mrs Eden just sobbed and groaned, arching her back repeatedly as if she was in pain.

  ‘Is something hurting you? Mr Eden!’

  The door swung open and he raced over to the bed, his face ashen.

  ‘She’s been asking for that medicine, she seems to be in some distress.’

  ‘Let me sit with her. Oh my sweet dove – your lovely hair!’ He brushed a tear away with the back of his big round fist. ‘Please, go to your room and get some sleep now Mrs Whitestone. You look tired.’

  ‘But not as tired as you. No I’ll stay here.’