The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BOARDING HOUSE was a large, rambling building, gray frame, with dark green shutters and a shabby green roof. Three crumbling red brick chimneys leaned precariously at odd angles. It towered out of the fog like a rather tired monster whose claws had been clipped. A stone wall shut the narrow yard away from the street, concealing the scabby patches of grass and an unhealthy flower bed. Three tall oak trees grew around it, and the back of the house opened onto a dark alley that ran the length of the street. Once a grand residence, now it was a desolate place out of step with the thriving businesses that surrounded it.

  The inhabitants kept odd hours, sleeping late in the mornings and staying up until all hours of the night. We all generally got back from the music hall between midnight and one, and there was a late supper in the dining room: cold sausages, beer, sliced roast, pickled beets. We sat up until after three. Two or three of the chorus girls usually had late dates after the show was over and they would come in very late, all full of chatter about the grand times they had had. Bill and Bert Clemmons would play cards in the front parlor with old Greenley, the stage manager, and Sarah would sit before a lamp, writing letters to distant relatives and old friends. Sometimes Laverne played the piano, banging it noisily into the night, singing raffish songs. Mattie would circulate briskly from room to room, attending to various duties, and I would help her, or else I would sit in the parlor and sew or read a novel.

  It was an eccentric establishment, buzzing with noise and activity during the night while all around was dark and silent, closed up tight and silent itself from morning till noon while all the surrounding businesses were opening their doors and clamoring with noise. We were all accustomed to it, and we all loved the old place, haggard and threadbare though it might be. To me it was home. I loved the noise. I loved the unusual hours. I loved my little room under the eaves on the top floor, and I loved the odors of boiled cabbage and ancient grease that permeated the wallpaper.

  I could not sleep that first night when we got home from the music hall. I kept thinking about Mattie’s bewildering attitude, and it worried me. It was after three, and the house had been shut up for a long time. The last chorus girl had come in over an hour ago, and everyone had gone to bed early. The men did not play cards. Laverne didn’t play the piano. Mattie went into her room immediately after supper and had not come out. Everyone seemed to be dispirited and listless, the usual vitality dampened. Now I was the only one awake, sitting up in bed and staring at the frosty starlight that came through the window and illuminated the opposite wall with dancing silvery spangles.

  I thought about the man who had been following me in the fog. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for it. If he had intended to do me harm he would surely have done it already, and if that had been the case, he would not have been so brazen as to come to the music hall every night and leave so obviously after I had finished my act. The girls had commented on him; Laverne had noticed him, called him my boy friend. If he had sinister motives, he would have been stealthy in all of his movements. Yet I was certain that the man sitting openly in the music hall and the man moving stealthily through the fog were one and the same man. What did he want?

  He was watching me. Why? It was almost as though he were a detective from Scotland Yard, keeping me under surveillance. Why should he be interested in what I did? I thought about this, and then my mind wandered to the men Bert had seen at Finnigan’s Bar and the questions they had asked him. Could there possibly be some connection? They had sounded like such awful people. I was glad Bert had told them to go on about their business.

  I do not know how long I sat there, nestled on the pillows, watching the starlight dancing on the shabby old wallpaper. I was wide awake and I knew that sleep would not come for a long time. I listened to all the noises of the old house. They were familiar to me, unfrightening. The limbs of the oak tree scratched against the windowpane, and when I had been smaller I had thought it sounded like someone trying to break into the house. Now it was merely a steady, monotonous noise that I usually didn’t even notice. The old house settled, and the floorboards groaned. There was a creaking noise, like someone creeping up the staircase, and that, I knew, was the wind blowing the back gate on its rusty hinges.

  The wind whistled softly, moaning. It caused the loose shutters to flap and bang lightly against the house. There was a whole symphony of sound, once frightening, now reassuring. This was my home. Here I was safe from the fog and the cold night air and the shadows that lurked in darkened doorways. Here there was warmth and all the old ordinary things that I saw everyday and touched and loved.

  The shutters flapped, the tree limbs scratched, the wind moaned and the noise was comforting. I do not know at what point I noticed something out of tune. The rhythm was broken. There was a noise that did not belong. There was a clatter in the alley behind the house, but that was not unusual. Cats frequently prowled among the cans and boxes, and they sometimes knocked off a lid or pushed over a box. Then I heard a slow, creaking sound, as though someone was opening the back gate cautiously. I paid no particular attention to the sound.

  There was a long silence, almost as though the house was holding its breath, then the noises began again. They were soft, muted, not at all loud, steady. There was something wrong. I sat up, all my senses alerted. Something did not fit. I could not identify the noise that was out of place, but I knew instinctively that something did not belong. I strained my ears. There was a loud creak, a pause, a shuffle, another creak. It sounded like someone coming up the backstairs. It was not the wind. It was not the shutters.

  The noise was not repeated. It ceased altogether. I sat on the edge of the bed, alarmed. Several minutes passed. I could hear nothing unusual, and I was beginning to think I had imagined it all, yet I was unnerved, and I sensed something wrong. I knew this house thoroughly. I was attune to it. I knew its moods, its atmosphere, all its smells and sounds. It was a living thing to me, like an old friend, and now there was something that did not fit into the pattern. It was in the air. It was almost tangible.

  I heard a floorboard creak in the hall outside. There was a soft sliding sound, as though someone were moving along the wall. I felt my wrists grow limp, and my throat was dry. I tried to remain calm, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed with fear. I wanted to scream, but no sound would come. I listened, straining every nerve. There was silence; the silence was more frightening than the noise had been. I felt something hovering outside, something dark and sinister.

  The starlight danced on the wall opposite my bed, making spots of moving silver on the old blue wallpaper, but the rest of the room was in shadow. The furniture made dark forms. The window was open a little and the curtains rustled, blowing inwards. I could see the door to my room and the tarnished old brass doorknob. It was not locked.

  The doorknob turned slowly. I watched with horrified fascination as it revolved, so slowly, so cautiously. It stopped. The door began to open. It opened several inches, and I could see the dark of the hall. My heart was pounding so loudly that I was sure someone must hear it. I watched as the door opened almost halfway, making a soft, swishing noise that was barely audible. I could see a tall, shadowy form standing just inside the doorway, a darker shape against the darkness. I shook my head, trying to tell myself that this wasn’t happening. It was like a nightmare, not real at all. The only thing real was my pounding heart and my hands gripping the edge of the bed.

  “Julia—little Julia—”

  It was no more than a whisper, hoarse, the words shaped softly and thrown into the darkness.

  I had the presence of mind to light the lamp. My hands flew to the matches on my bedside table, the fingers trembling as I struck one of them. The sudden flare of yellow-orange blinded me, and I groped for the oil lamp, almost dropping it. I held the flame to the wick, and in a moment a bright glow began to spread into the room, driving away shadows and restoring everything to proper dimensions. The wallpaper was faded blue, unadorned with s
tarlight. The furniture was oak, painted white. The curtains were white, with green braid borders. The door was closed, a flat wooden surface, painted green, the tarnished brass doorknob still and innocent.

  The fear was gone. It had fled with the coming of light. So had the feeling of disharmony. The room was as it had always been, and it was incredible to believe that but moments ago something dark and sinister had been standing in the doorway, threatening the sanctity of it. I was alarmed at myself, trembling now with irritation, not fear. The nightmare had been so vivid, so real. I had been wide awake, or so I thought. I supposed the experience was the culmination of a week of nervous tension.

  I got up, pulling on a ruffled blue robe over my white nightgown. I stepped over to the mirror and examined my face. The violet blue eyes looked enormous, surrounded by shadows, and the cheeks were pale. I had evidently been asleep, drifting off without knowing it, the nightmare curiously merging with the reality. I rubbed my cheeks, staring at the face that looked back at me in the cloudy glass. I wore my hair in two long blonde braids, and they rested one on each shoulder, tied with blue bows.

  I could feel the old house all around me, large and silent. I had that curious feeling that always comes over one when everyone else is asleep. I felt like the only survivor in a house of death, and it was a comfortable feeling that I could break at any moment if I chose to make enough noise and awaken everyone. I picked up the lamp and left the room determined to satisfy myself that I had had a nightmare. I knew that I could never sleep until I had proven that.

  I walked down the long hall, my slippers making soft noises on the worn carpet. The light of the lamp cast flickering shadows on the wall. The house was rather cold, tomblike, the air chill. I turned a corner and stood at the top of the back staircase. It was steep and narrow, making a sharp turn halfway down. I hesitated for a moment, looking into the pit of darkness. I was afraid, but it was only the ordinary fear everyone feels when confronted with darkness, a fear easily put aside. I held the lamp high and started down.

  The heels of my slippers clattered on the bare wooden steps. I had to hold on to the bannister, and my hand slid over the cool wooden surface. There was a window high up over the staircase. It was opened and the wind blew in, fluttering the curtains over my head. I could smell the odors of the kitchen which was immediately beneath the stairs. Mattie had been baking bread that afternoon, and the smells lingered, mixed with the smells of wax and copper and coal.

  I stood at the bottom of the stairs. The lamp cast moving waves of light over the kitchen, dancing over the old oak table, burnishing the copper pans that hung along the wall, stoking the surface of the gigantic black iron stove that hovered in one corner with a yawning mouth. An old straw broom leaned in one corner, and the house cat slept curled on a pallet in front of the pantry door. I moved silently across the newly waxed tile floor over to the back door. It was securely locked, and no one had tampered with it. The bolt was pushed firmly into its socket. I tested the doorknob. It did not yield at all. The window over the drain-board was locked, too.

  I peered through the window at the alley behind the house. I could see the crumbling brick backs of the buildings that opened out from the other side of the alley. There was a darkened doorway, and a pile of rubbish beside it. Long black shadows slid over the walls like huge, stroking fingers. Scraps of white paper and bits of rubbish blown by the wind drifted along the alley like weird nocturnal butterflies. A black cat prowled silently among the heap of rubbish.

  I was satisfied. The back door and window were locked, and no one lurked in the alley behind the house. I felt rather foolish, standing there in the deserted kitchen with a lamp in my hand while everyone else was sound asleep. I decided to go through the hall and check the front door, just to be certain. I might as well be completely reassured before I went back up to my room.

  I pushed open the kitchen door, trying to keep the hinges silent. They creaked loudly, and the noise was a little unnerving in the dark. The door swung shut behind me. I moved slowly down the long narrow hall. I passed the old grandfather clock that stood across from the front parlor and saw that it was after four o’clock in the morning. I passed into the front foyer and touched the doorknob of the front door. Thin blue curtains were stretched in tight pleats over the glass, and fragile rays of moonlight streamed through. The doorknob turned in my hand and the door opened. Moonlight spilled over my feet. The screen was unlatched, the wind banging it a little against the door frame. I stood there for a moment, looking out over the small yard enclosed by the stone wall. The heavy iron gate that opened onto the sidewalk was closed. I wondered if it was latched.

  I stepped across the narrow front porch and went down the flat steps into the yard. The night air was cold and the limbs of the oak trees groaned. A cat curled on the stone wall, his body flat against the stones. I went to the gate and touched the rusty latch. It hung loosely, unfastened. I fastened it, unreasonably angry. The last chorus girl to come in had not only left the gate open, she had also left the front door unlocked. It was probably Addie, I thought, an amiable, scatterbrained creature who never remembered anything.

  I went back into the house, fastening the screen door and shoving home the bolt of the main door. I went through the front parlor, and as I turned towards the front staircase, I paused, startled. I could hear voices, low, muffled voices coming from one of the rooms on the other side of the house. I crossed through the parlor and saw a small sliver of light beneath the door of the little sitting room which Mattie used as her study. I wondered who could be up at this hour.

  I blew out the lamp, not wanting to be seen. That would entail explanations which I wasn’t ready to give. I did not want to discuss my nightmare and the exploration that followed it. I paused in front of the sitting room door, not meaning to eavesdrop. I merely wanted to listen to the voices and determine who was in the room. I stood there, leaning against the door, hidden by the darkness. I could hear Mattie’s voice. It was loud and distinct. Bill’s was muffled, as though he was sleepy. There was no other voice, but I had the strange impression that there were three people in the room.

  “Of course it is a dreadful mess,” Mattie was saying, “but exactly what do you propose to do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Bill replied, his voice very low.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. You never have any ideas of your own. I have to do all the thinking.”

  “All right, Mattie. Calm down—”

  “Calm down! The girl is in danger.”

  “What would you have me do? We can’t go to Scotland Yard.”

  “Think of a better idea if you don’t like this one. You don’t want to send her away. Neither do I. I want her near me, where I can keep an eye on her, but that’s not reasonable. You know it’s not. It isn’t safe. We can’t afford to think about what we want. We must think about Julia and her safety—” Her voice broke.

  “I’m as concerned as you are,” Bill replied, trying to soothe her. “I realize how serious this is.”

  “That poor child—” Mattie said, her voice almost a whisper. “She has no idea. We mustn’t let her know.”

  My shoulders were trembling, and I tried to get hold of myself. I tried to push aside the waves of terror that threatened to envelope me. I wanted to fling open the door and rush into the room. I wanted to be in Mattie’s arms. I wanted her to reassure me that this was just a continuation of the nightmare that had begun in my room. I leaned against the doorframe, my forehead pressed against the cold wood, my eyes closed tightly.

  “Lyon House is the only answer,” Mattie said flatly.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “She will be safe there for the time being.”

  “That’s all that matters,” Bill replied.

  There was a short silence. I heard someone shuffling in a chair and a rustle of some stiff material. Bill coughed. I don’t know why I had the impression that there was a third person in the room, but it was a very strong one. Mattie and Bi
ll were not alone in the sitting room. I was sure of that. I wished I had the courage to open the door and see for myself, but all the courage had been drained out of me. I doubted if I had enough strength left to go back up to my room.

  “I’ll tell her tomorrow,” Mattie continued. “We must be very jolly about it. We mustn’t let her suspect.”

  “It’s going to be hard,” Bill said, “damned hard.”

  “I know,” Mattie replied. “She’s like our own. I hate to send her away, but it’s the only solution. We have to do it.”

  A chair scraped against the floor as someone got up. I moved quickly away from the door and fled into the darkness. I hurried down the hall and up the back staircase. The house seemed to spin around me, black walls pressing in on every side. I do not know how I managed to get up to my room. I threw myself on the bed, burying my face in the pillows. I tried to cry, but I couldn’t. I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the darkness slowly dissolved. I could hear the clock ticking on top of the bureau. I don’t know how much time passed, ticking slowly on that clock. The room turned gray, misty. Everything took proper shape, emerging out of the darkness, and a bird began to sing on the branch of the oak tree outside. The first apricot colored fingers of dawn were reaching into the room before sleep finally came.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BRIGHT blue curtains of the dining room were pulled back, and sunlight poured into the room in dazzling rays, making silvery bursts of light on the polished surface of the long table. Outside, the leaves of the oak tree were dappled with yellow, and the ground was a network of alternate sunshine and shadow. A bird sang lustily, hopping from branch to branch. All the active, cheerful noises of a business day in London surrounded the boarding house: the clattering of wheels on the cobbles, the shouts of the news vendor, the constant tinkling of the bell hanging over the door of the bakery across the street.