A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

  “Why'd it have to happen, sir? I must know why—”

  She spoke like so many before her had—those who had sought him out in London, and the ones who years later had intruded on his retirement in Sussex—requesting his help, beseeching him to alleviate their troubles and restore order to their lives. If only it were that easy, he thought. If only every problem was guaranteed a solution.

  Then the perplexity that signified periods when his mind couldn't grasp its own ruminations cast its shadow over him, but he managed to articulate himself as best he could, solemnly saying, “It seems—or rather—it's that sometimes—sometimes things occur beyond our own understanding, my dear, and the unjust reality is that these events—being so illogical to us, devoid of whatever reason we might attach to them—are exactly what they are and, regrettably, nothing else—and I believe—I truly believe that that is the hardest notion for any of us to live with.”

  Mrs. Munro stared at him for a while, as if she had no intention of responding; then, smiling bitterly, she said, “Yes—it is.” In the silence that followed, she faced the desk again—the pens, the paper, the books, the vial—and straightened all she had previously touched. When finished, she turned to him, saying, “Excuse me, but I'm needing my sleep—it's been an exhausting few days.”

  “Would you stay with me tonight?” Holmes asked, concerned for her and prompted by a feeling that told him she shouldn't be alone. “Anderson's girl is doing the cooking, although you will find her meals are far from appetizing. And I am sure there're clean sheets in the guest room.”

  “I'm comfortable here, thank you,” she said.

  Holmes considered insisting she accompany him, but already Mrs. Munro was gazing past him, peering into the darkened corridor. Her hunched, determined body and head, her wide pupils—full and black, ringed by faint circles of green—had now disregarded his presence, pushing him aside. She had entered Roger's room without speaking, so he imagined that she would exit in the same way. Yet when she started for the door, he intercepted her, seizing her hand, stopping her from going forward.

  “My child—”

  But she didn't pull herself away, nor did he attempt to inhibit her further; he simply held her hand as she gripped his, neither saying more or looking upon the other—his palm against her palm, their regards communicated in the gentle mutual pressure of fingers—until, nodding once, she slipped free and proceeded on through the doorway, soon fading down the corridor, leaving him to navigate the darkness by himself.

  After a while, he rose to his feet and, not looking back, went from Roger's bedroom. In the corridor, his canes tapped in front of him as if guiding a blind man (behind was the brightness of the boy's room, ahead was the dimness of the cottage, and somewhere beyond him was Mrs. Munro). Coming into the entryway, he fumbled for the doorknob, clasped it, and, with some effort, opened the door. But the outside light stunned his vision, preventing him from advancing for a moment; and it was as he stood there, squinting his eyes, inhaling the rain-saturated air, that the sanctuary of the beeyard—the peacefulness of his apiary, the tranquillity he felt while sitting among those four rocks—beckoned him. He took a steadfast breath before starting, still squinting when he stepped to the path. Along the way, he paused, searching his pockets for a Jamaican, but he found only a box of matches. That's all right, he thought, resuming his walk, his shoes squishing in mud, the high grass on either side of the path glistening with moisture. Nearing the beeyard, a reddish butterfly fluttered by him. Another butterfly followed, as if in pursuit—and another. Once the last butterfly had passed, his eyes surveyed the beeyard, settling on the rows of hives and then the grassy spot that concealed the four rocks (everything now dampened, sodden and subdued by raindrops).

  So he continued onward instead, heading for where his property met the sky, and the sheer white earth fell perpendicularly beneath the farmhouse and flower gardens and Mrs. Munro's cottage—its strata showing the evolution of time and jagging beside the meager trail that wound to the beach, while each layer indicated history's uneven progress, gradually transforming, persistent nonetheless, with fossils and tendril-like roots pressed between them.

  As he began his descent upon the trail (legs coaxing him forward, the marks of his canes dotting the wet, chalky ground), he listened to the waves breaking against the shore, that distant rumble and hiss and brief silence afterward, like the initial dialect of creation before human life had been conceived. The afternoon breeze and the coursing of the ocean meshed in accord, as he observed—there beyond the shore, miles away—the sun reflected on the water and rippled among the currents. With every passing minute, the ocean grew increasingly radiant, the sun seemingly rising from its depths, the waves curling in expanding hues of orange and red.

  But it all appeared so remote, so abstract and foreign to him. The more he watched the sea and sky, the more removed it felt from humanity; and this was why, he reasoned, mankind was at such odds with itself—this detachment being the inevitable by-product of a species accelerating way ahead of its own innate qualities, and that fact consumed him with an immense ruefulness he could hardly contain. Still, the waves broke, the cliffs loomed high, the breeze carried the smell of salt water, and the storm's aftermath tempered the summer's warmth. Proceeding down the trail, the desire to be a part of the original, natural order stirred inside him, the wish to escape the trappings of people and the meaningless clamor that heralded its self-importance; this need was set in him, surpassing everything he treasured or believed was true (his many writings and theories, his observations on a vast number of things). Already the heavens were wavering as the sun declined; the moon, too, occupied the sky while reflecting the sun's light, and hung there obscurely like a transparent half circle in the blue-black firmament. Briefly, he considered the sun and the moon—that hot, blinding star and that frigid, lifeless crescent—finding himself made content by how each one traveled in an orbit with its own motion, yet both were somehow essential to the other. The words sprang to his mind even as the source was forgotten: The sun must not catch up the moon, nor does the night outstrip the day. And at last—just as it had happened again and again for him while going along that winding trail—dusk approached.

  When he reached the trail's midpoint, the sun had dipped toward the horizon, spilling its rays across the tide pools and scree below, mixing its light with deep-edged shadows. After easing himself to the overlook bench, he set his canes aside, peering downward at the shore—then the ocean, then the shifting, endless sky. A few lingering storm clouds remained in the distance, sporadically flashing within like lightning bugs, and several seagulls, which seemed to cry out at him, swam around one another, swaying deftly upon the breeze; underneath them, the waves were orangish and murky and also shimmering. Where the trail crooked, angling for the beach, he noticed clusters of new grass and riots of bramble, but they were like outcasts banished from the fertile land up above. Then he thought he heard the sound of his own breathing—a sustained low rhythm, not unlike the droning of wind—or was it something else, something emanating from nearby? Perhaps, he mused, it was the faint murmuring of the cliffs, the vibrations of those immeasurable seams of earth, of the stones and roots and soil stating its permanence over man as it had done throughout the ages; and it was addressing him now like time itself.

  He closed his eyes.

  His body slackened: Weariness was running through his limbs, keeping him on the bench. Don't move, he told himself, and envision the things that are durable. The wild daffodils and the herb beds. The breeze rustling in the pines, as it had since before his birth. A tingling sensation began on his neck, a vague tickling among the hairs of his beard. He lifted a hand, raising it slowly from his lap. The giant thistles snaked upward. The purple buddleias were in bloom. Today it had rained, wetting his property, soaking the ground; tomorrow the rain would return. The soil was made more fragrant after the downpour. The profusion of azaleas and laurel and rhododendrons shuddered in the pastures. And what'
s this? His hand captured the sensation, the tickling going from his neck into his fist. His breathing had grown shallow, but his eyes opened anyway. There, revealed in the unfurling of his fingers, it flitted about with the skittish movements of a common housefly: a lone worker bee, its pollen baskets full; a straggler far from the hives and foraging on its own. Remarkable creature, he thought, watching as it danced upon his palm. Then he shook his hand, sending it into the air—envious of its speed and how effortlessly it took flight into such a mutable, inconsistent world.

  22

  An Epilogue

  Even after all this time, I am overcome with a heavy heart while taking up my pen to write these last paragraphs regarding the circumstances in which Mrs. Keller's life was cut short. In a disconnected and, as I now feel certain, a thoroughly unreliable manner, I have attempted to present some record of my rare connection to the woman, from the first glimpse of her face in a photograph, up to the afternoon which, at last, offered some fleeting insight into her mien. It was always my intention to have concluded there, at the Physics and Botanical Society, and to relate nothing of that event which has since fashioned a strange void in my mind—which the gradual passing of forty-five years has yet to fully appease or displace.

  However, my pen has been compelled on this dark night by my desire to report as much as possible, lest my rapidly faltering retention chooses, without my acquiescence, to soon banish her elsewhere. Fearing that inevitability, I feel I have no choice but to present the details just as they occurred. As I recall, there was a single brief account in the public press on the Friday following her departure from the Physics and Botanical Society park, appearing in an early edition of the Evening Standard; it seemed from its placement in the paper to have been judged an event of minor importance, and the account of it ran as follows:

  A tragic railway accident occurred this afternoon on the tracks near St. Pancras Station, which involved a locomotive engine and culminated in the death of one woman. Engineer Ian Lomax, of the London & North Western Railway line, was surprised to see a woman with a parasol walking towards the oncoming engine at half past two. Unable to stop the locomotive before it could reach her, the engineer signalled with the engine's whistle, but the woman remained on the tracks and, making no noticeable attempt to save herself, was struck down. The force of the engine's impact shattered her body, and she was thrown a good distance from the tracks. Examination of the unfortunate woman's belongings later identified her as Ann Keller of Fortis Grove. Her husband, who is said to be inconsolable, has made no official statement yet as to why she may have strayed onto the tracks, although the police are making private enquiries in an attempt to determine the reasons.

  Such are the only facts known concerning the violent end of Mrs. Ann Keller. Even so, while it has already stretched into too great a length, I shall prolong this narrative by mentioning how—on the morning after learning of her death—I donned my facade of eyeglasses and false moustache with unsettled hands, how I regained my composure while going by foot from Baker Street to the house on Fortis Grove, of how the front door was slowly opened for me and all I could see beyond was Thomas R. Keller's listless visage framed by the darkness which loomed behind him. He appeared neither dismayed nor heartened by my arrival, nor did my disguise register any questioning look from him. I immediately detected a harsh whiff of brandy de Jerez—La Marque Speciale, to be precise—reeking strongly from him when he uttered flatly, “Yes, please come in.” But the little which I wished to share with the man was left unspoken for the moment—as I then followed him silently through rooms where the curtains remained drawn, past a staircase, and into a study which was illuminated by a single lamp; its glow was cast over two chairs and, between them, a side table holding two bottles of the very spirit I had smelled upon his breath.

  And here it is that I miss John more than ever. With clever details and hyperbole verging on grandeur, he could transfigure a mundane story, which is the measure of a writer's true talent, into a thing of interest. Yet when I forge my own story, I have no real ability to paint in such lavish but refined strokes. I will, however, do my utmost to draw as vivid a portrait as is possible of that pallor of grief which had descended upon my client: For even while I sat near Mr. Keller, conveying to him my deepest expressions of sympathy, he said almost nothing in reply, but kept motionless, his stubbled chin upon his breast, sunk in the gravest stupor. His vacant, inanimate stare was fixed on the floor; with one hand clutching an arm of the chair, he kept the other wrapped tightly around the neck of a brandy bottle—yet in his debilitated state he was incapable of lifting the bottle from the side table to his mouth.

  Nor did Mr. Keller behave as I imagined he would; he assigned no blame for her death, and when I absolved his wife of any wrongdoing, my words sounded hollow and unimportant. What did it matter, then, if she had not been taking covert armonica lessons, or that Madame Schirmer had been unfairly judged, or that his wife had, for the most part, been honest with him? Still, I imparted the few bits of information that she had withheld, explaining about Portman's tiny garden oasis, the books borrowed from the shelves, the music lessons which played to her as she read. I mentioned the back gate which led her into the alley behind the shop. I mentioned the aimlessness of her strolling—along footpaths, down narrow avenues, beside railway tracks—and how she managed to guide herself to the Physics and Botanical Society. All the same, there was no reason to bring up Stefan Peterson, or to point out that my client's wife had spent a late afternoon in the company of one whose pursuit of her was less than noble.

  “But I don't understand it,” said he, stirring in the chair and turning his miserable gaze towards me. “What made her do it, Mr. Holmes? I don't understand.”

  I had repeatedly asked myself the same question, yet found myself at a loss to hit upon an easy answer. I patted him kindly on the leg; then I looked into his bloodshot eyes, which, as if wounded by my stare, moved wearily again to focus on the floor.

  “I cannot say with any degree of certainty. I really cannot say.”

  It might well have been that several explanations existed, but I had already tried test after test in my mind and nothing convincing presented itself. There was the possible explanation of the pain of losing her unborn children being too much of a burden to bear. There was the explanation that the supposed power of the armonica's tones had exerted some control over her fragile psyche, or that she was driven mad by the injustices of life, or that she had some unknown disease which caused her madness. I could find no other solutions which were as adequate, so these became the explanations which I had spent hours sifting through and balancing against one another—without a satisfactory end.

  For a time, I settled on madness as the more plausible conclusion. The restless, obsessive preoccupation with the armonica suggested something psychoneurotic about her nature. The fact that she had once locked herself in an attic for hours and created music to summon her unborn only gave strength to the idea of insanity. On the other hand, this woman who read romance literature on park benches, who showed great empathy for the flowers and creatures of gardens, seemed at peace with herself and the world around her. It is not impossible, however, for the mentally disturbed to betray any number of behavioural contradictions. Yet she showed no outward signs of being deranged. Indeed, there was hardly anything about her which hinted at a woman capable of walking headlong toward an approaching train; for if that had been the case, why, then, had she displayed such an infatuation for all that lived, flourished, and thrived in the spring? Again, I could not reach a conclusion which made sense of the facts.

  There remained, however, a final theory, which seemed rather likely. Plumbism was, in those days, barely an uncommon ailment, especially since lead could be found in dinnerware and utensils, candles, water pipes, the leading of windows, paint, and pewter drinking vessels. Without question, lead would also be found in the armonica's glass stemware and the paint applied to each bowl as a means to differentiate the notes
. I have long suspected that chronic lead poisoning was the cause of Beethoven's illnesses, deafness, and ultimate death, for he, too, devoted hours to the mastering of the armonica's glasses. Therefore, the theory was a strong one—so strong that I had determined to prove its validity. But what soon became apparent was that Mrs. Keller carried none of the symptoms of acute or chronic plumbism; she had no staggering gait, or seizures, or colic, or decreased intellectual functioning. And while she could have acquired lead poisoning by never having touched an armonica, I understood that the general malaise she experienced early on had been eased somewhat by the instrument and not compounded by it. Furthermore, her very hands dismissed that initial suspicion; they were lacking of blemishes or the blue-black discolourment which would have been seen nearest the fingertips.

  No, I had finally concluded, she was never mad or ill, nor was she despairing to the point of insanity. She had, for reasons unknown, simply extracted herself from the human equation and ceased to be; doing so, perhaps, as some contrary means of survival. And even now I wonder if creation is both too beautiful and too horrible for a handful of perceptive souls, and if the realisation of this opposing duality can offer them few options but to take leave of their own accord. Beyond that, I can give no other explanation which may strike closer to the truth of the matter. Still, it has never been a conclusion I have wanted to live comfortably with.

  As it happened, I was finishing this analysis of his wife when Mr. Keller eased forwards in the chair, his hand sliding limply down the bottle's length to rest palm upwards on a corner of the side table. But for once, his grim, haggard features had softened and there was a gentle breathing which rose from his chest. Too much grief and too little sleep, I was sure. Too much brandy. So I remained for a while, indulging myself with a glass of La Marque Speciale—then another—rising to go only when the liqueur flushed my cheeks and blunted the melancholy which had saturated my entire being. Soon I would cross the rooms of the house, seeking the sunlight which was seen faintly along the edges of those pulled curtains—although not until I retrieved Mrs. Keller's photograph from an overcoat pocket and, with some reluctance to do so, placed it in the lax palm of my client's outstretched hand. After that, I made my exit without looking back, traversing the space between darkness and light as swiftly as possible, jettisoning myself into an afternoon which persists in my memory just as bright and blue and cloudless as it was on that long-ago day.