by Quenby Olson
I'm halfway through the stack when something makes me pause, my fingers tightening on one of the photographs as I drag it back before my eyes. The girl’s features are softer than the ones in my memory, so much that I almost fail to place her. And then the image appears, gaining clarity, of a fine dress, of soft-spoken words to her acquaintances on the street, of a single bare hand knocking on a plain wooden door.
I know what else I will see as I continue to sift through the pictures. I flick through three more, four, five, and settle on the fifth as a sigh slides out of my mouth. Here is the woman’s companion, the one who answered the door, who welcomed her friend with such a great show of benevolence.
"What is it?" Chissick asks, his voice quite near to me, but still several inches above me. "What do you see?" He glances down at the photograph for a moment, but his gaze is soon darting away, seeking another object on which to bestow his attention.
"I know these women," I say, and shake my head at my own half-truth. "Or, I’ve seen them, in passing. But something about them… I felt myself being drawn to them." As if I recognised Ryall’s taint upon them, I neglect to add.
By now, Chissick has resigned himself to the role of companion, rather than protector, for he has taken up a post beside me on the floor, his gaze skimming over each portrait with a detached interest that struggles to equal my own. I lay my hand on the next to the last picture in the collection, but before I uncover it, I grit my teeth against the sudden thrum of pain that presses out from behind my temples, one ear pressed onto my shoulder, as if that is enough to block out the sibilant whisper that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
This is what I came for, is it? All of the voices, all of the visions in my head led me here, led me to this secret drawer, to this stack of photographs, to this next to the last picture, to this moment when I uncover the portrait, and my hand freezes, a breath sliding out of me as Chissick stifles a groan.
It would be comforting, perhaps, if there were more differences between the figure in the portrait, and the figure laid out on the bare wooden table. But if there were, she might not have been able to catch my attention quite as well as she does now. It's startling how much I remember of her, from the tapered elegance of her ankles to the mysterious emotion hidden away in her smile. And now my eyes are searching her throat, unmarred here, a beautiful column that supports a head turned to one side, half of her face cast in shadow. But it is undoubtedly her, the dead girl on the table. And now I'm left to ponder how irksome fate can be, that it brings me here to prove, without a doubt, that she was yet another recipient of Ryall's attentions.
The other pictures tumble from my hands, scattering like crisp leaves across my lap, a few of them sliding onto the floor where they may remain for some time. I have no way of knowing. All I can see is the photograph in front of me, its dog-eared corner. I turn it over, and the looping scrawl of a name, of all the names to find there, singes itself onto my memory.
Isabel Capaldi
There's a kind of music in the name, in the way it rolls off the tongue. So much that I find myself pronouncing it under my breath at first, and then louder, my voice gaining strength as the initial shock of the discovery begins to fade.
But I must admit that the surprise isn't as severe as it should be. If I hadn't already known, if I hadn't already possessed some small clue as to what I would find in this house, in this room, the idea of coming here would never have entered into my head. Ah, another manipulation of Fate? Or are all of my movements under the control of something more sinister?
I stare at the name for another minute, not reading it, but admiring the quality of the handwriting, the elaborate dips and curves, almost a reflection of the figure posed on the other side of the card. But it is not Ryall’s hand this time, though the various curlicues and adornments are familiar to me. I have seen this person’s handwriting before, and I feel a heated rush of frustration at not being able to match it up with its corresponding memory.
"Well."
It's neither a clever nor fitting thing for me to say, but it's enough to break the silence that has fallen over us, as stifling as the heat that draws the sweat from my pores. A quick search through the rest of the letters, but there is nothing else that stands out to me at the moment. The picture is all. The picture and the name, tied together, tied in with Ryall now, and always tying itself tighter around myself.
It is a sound from Chissick that pulls me from my thoughts, a strangled sort of cry that carries such a panoply of emotions that I do not think I could identify a single one if given endless hours to examine it. I look towards him in order to trace the line of his gaze, but I'm disappointed to find him gazing at nothing in particular, his eyes cast down, his chin so close to his chest I cannot make out his neck at all.
"That man," he says, still without looking at me. "Your Ryall. What does he know about…? Did he…?"
And even though none of his queries reach completion, I can already interpret the direction of his thoughts. "Ryall is not a good man," I tell him, and before I continue, I see a flicker in his eyes, of revelation, or at least of the promise of some such thing. But I shake my head, ready to stifle any accusation he may be about to make. "But that doesn’t make him a murderer."
"And you’re sure of that?"
For the first time in our acquaintance, I feel the doubt radiating from him. Not so much due to any lack of faith he has in me, but because he wants this ordeal to be done away with. He wants to know what happened, and he wants that to be the end of it.
"I have no proof." I spread my hands, palms up, before him. "Only what I sense, what I am able to relay to you. Nothing more."
He mulls over this for a full minute. Behind him, set far in the background of our scene, I hear the steady thrum of life. All of Ryall’s guests, still gathered one floor below us, creating a noise that calls to me with the promise of drowning out the low hiss of sound currently pressing into my eardrum.
As if sensing my sudden disconnection from him, that I have no more insights of Ryall’s character to offer him, Chissick begins gathering up the discarded papers, pausing for a moment over the pictures, before he simply stuffs them into the middle of the growing stack. I fail to pay him any attention, knowing that he must need these moments to absorb everything he's seen tonight. And this might be my mistake. For so engrossed am I in imagining myself elsewhere, that I don't notice a particularly accented rustle of paper, followed by a few seconds of silence, before he whispers something unintelligible and rises to his feet.
"Miss Hawes."
The power of his voice, substantial enough that it never fails to grab my attention, no matter how occupied my mind may be with other matters. I tilt my head back to look up at him, his face strangely illumined in the candlelight that trembles at his feet.
"Did you write this?"
I'm rendered silent by the accusation, though I'm not even sure I can call it such. His tone is conversational, so calm that I could almost fool myself into believing that he'd inquired about my health, or made a random comment concerning the weather. But I notice the single sheet of paper in his right hand, the other letters and documents all clutched beneath his arm. I hesitate, not because I'm reluctant to answer, but because I don't know what answer he expects me to give.
The paper is plain, the handwriting illegible from this distance, in this poor light. It could've been authored by anyone. And then his wrist turns and I'm able to make out a few lines of the script. Very neat, it is. And so small that the average reader would be forced to use a magnifying glass in order to decipher the words so tightly squeezed into the margins. My mother had always been appalled by the quality of my handwriting, Marta as well, and it's only deteriorated since those first years of my paltry education.
"Yes," I say, my voice such a small thing now. I wait for any sign of emotion to pass across Chissick's face, to distort his features. I would take anything, I think. An arched eyebrow, a glint of sadness, of fury, of shock. But his
face remains a blank canvas, and he glances at the letter a second time, fully awash in the realisation that he's prying into other people's business.
"You knew him better than you implied." He says this more to himself than for my benefit.
"I guess I should be flattered, that he thought well enough of me to hold onto it, after all this time."
He refolds the letter and hands it back to me, but I shake my head. No need to see it again. I have only a vague memory of what was written on that page, more than half of it no doubt dictated by Marta, and I've no wish to drag it back to its former clarity.
Grasping the front of my skirt in one hand, I rise to my feet before Chissick can put out a hand to help me. "Ryall had a strong penchant for young women," I say, the bluntness of the statement registering a change in Chissick's face. "Young women who were preferably untouched. Though, he was willing to lower his standards from time to time, when it suited him."
I take the letter from his hand, my fingers running over the worn edges of the paper before I walk over to the lamp, thrust a corner into the juddering flame, the light fading and then shuddering brightly as it attacks this new fuel. As the flames climb high enough to reach my fingers, I fling the burning page into the empty fireplace, watch the corners of the letter curl inward, turning black before settling into a small pile of smouldering ash.
"I’ll be glad if I never have to see him again."
And there it is, my entire history with Lord Geoffrey Ryall laid bare. Beside me, Chissick shifts uncomfortably, and I know how much he's able to glean from that simple statement. I know it without having to raise my eyes to his face.
"Miss Hawes," he says, and there is a break in his voice, enough to finish me. "The girl, Isabel... Well, I think you should know..."
I close my eyes. Already, the words are tumbling about inside my head, the words he has yet to say.
"You loved her."
He hesitates. "Yes."
"Your sister."
"Yes."
I imagine I can hear the tremblings of his own heart, the unsteady pulse that shakes his arm all the way to his fingers. He is too quiet, and I look up to see his lips parted, as if there is so much more for him to say.
"You understand," he says, his voice pitched higher than normal. Still, he has yet to take a breath. "I have to find out what happened to her."
A small nod, my face turns back towards the fireplace. "I know."
"She was all I had left."
I know this, too, but I don't bother saying it aloud.
"And you'll help me?"
What choice do I have? Already, I’m drawn in too deep.
"Her name was Capaldi?" I ask, so neatly avoiding his question that he doesn't blink an eye before he answers.
"Yes, it was my mother's name. She preferred it, I think."
There is still a tendril of smoke writhing upwards from the fireplace. Leaning forward, I scatter the ashes with my toe.
"I am sorry," I say, and watch him turn around, pace to the other side of the room.
Too much, it must be, for him to absorb in one evening. His sister... Lord Geoffrey Ryall... and even myself... all of us inextricably linked, a connection that seems to have been several years in the making. And now he must be wondering how he fits into the puzzle, his mind going over each and every fresh question with the same frantic energy as my own.
When he faces me again, there are new lines of strain around his eyes, deep troughs flanking his mouth.
"It's strange," he says, such fitting words at a time like this. "For so many years, I feel as if I've been chasing after you. And I could never understand why." The last words spoken with a laugh, of all things. "And I still don't, really. But it all comes back to you, doesn't it?"
I can't bring myself to form a reply. And there isn't a need to, because he forges on without any signal from me.
"It can't all be coincidence. It simply can't. There's something happening, isn't there? Something drawing us together?"
"I don't know." I glance at the oil lamp, the flame soon to be asphyxiated in its own smoke. "Perhaps we should go now."
I give the room a final cursory glance, retrieve the stacks of letters and photographs from the floor, snatch my gloves from the waistband of my skirt. Chissick walks beside me, only stepping back to give me space as we move into the hall. I hear the creak of a floorboard, behind me—or behind us, I should say, as when I turn around to look back, I lock eyes with one of the maids.
Her dark eyes widen as she takes in the sight of us up here, strolling out of her master’s bedroom with a parcel of documents in our possession. I suspect she is about to raise some sort of alarm, and already my mind struggles to form an excuse, but in that moment before the girl opens her mouth, I find that there is no need for me or Chissick to say anything at all.
Because that is when we hear the scream. A man’s scream, cut short by a strangled sound, and then nothing but the most wretched silence.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
* * *
I imagine that some years from now, I will remember it differently. The pungent odours of perfume and pomade will not strike me as having been so harsh, nor will the spicy scent of perspiration lay so thick on my upper lip. The press of bodies will be the same, the tight circle of guests gathered around the two figures on the floor, the one kneeling over the other. But will I remember my first thought as I move near enough to peer over the shoulder of a woman whose breath reeked of spirits? That particular detail, I believe, will be better left forgotten.
Chissick is quite near to me, but I’m struck with a sudden wish to send him off on some trivial errand, anything to take him away from the tableau before us. But as the kneeling figure stirs to life, his shoulders rounding beneath his jacket as he pushes back onto his heels, I know that nothing short of my own peril would remove him from my side.
It is a man on the other side of the circle who is the first to speak, an oath muttered beneath his breath as Lord Ryall’s body is revealed first to that section of the room. That single whisper of profanity is enough to instigate a buzz of voices from all around me. Another cry goes up, this one from the man formerly on his knees, his deep rattle of a voice running down a list of orders made to no one in particular. He gesticulates wildly, as if this physical movement will lend authority to his words, but no more than a few people pay heed to him, everyone else too busy marveling at their own shock to do more than stand still and murmur.
"I want to go," I say to Chissick, but if he hears me, he makes no sign of it. In fact, I feel his weight shift as he leans forward, the better to see over and around the people in front of us, the better to see the dark gash that nearly severs Lord Geoffrey Ryall’s head from the rest of his body.
"Miss Hawes." His eyes are bright when he looks back at me, and I see the mingling of emotions that I have no desire to identify. "Do you see?"
I want to think that he would understand by now. I don’t have to look. I don’t have to rise onto the balls of my feet or crouch down to find a window in the crook of someone’s arm. I know very well how Ryall is laid out, down to the bend of his wrists and the strange, unnatural curve in his lower back. I know that his eyes are open, that his face registers no expression of horror or fear. And this, I know, is what startles the assembled guests more than the crime itself—that Lord Ryall looks to have welcomed his last breath with a smile.
"Chissick, please." I grasp for his arm, but only succeed in snagging the edge of his cuff. I feel him begin to pull away from me, and… No, I'm mistaken. He is not moving away from me, but instead trying to lead me into the centre of the circle, towards Ryall’s body.
"I want to leave," I say again as my heels dig into the floor.
"What?" When he looks at me this time, I see some of the old concern return to his gaze. "Are you…?"
"I am not well. I want to leave."
"But…"
"I will leave without you, if I must."
It is the threat of separation that is enough to make him abandon his former endeavour. Lord Ryall is rendered unimportant as Chissick takes my arm and does his best to shield me from any curious eyes as we pull away from the circle and find our way to the door. For a brief, fearful moment, I wonder if our departure will be impeded by the approach of a constable or any other emissary from Scotland Yard. But it seems that immediacy is our friend, for no one has yet thought to close the doors or to make any effort to catalogue the number of guests in case there is future need for a list of suspects.
Chissick and I step out into the night, from one form of warmth into another. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him wipe at his face and throat with a handkerchief, a scrap of white fabric that he shakes out before returning it to his pocket. He has no hand on me now, and I'm left to keep pace with him as we turn from one street to another, neither of us paying attention to our direction, but simply moving forward and away from the smudge of shadow that I struggle to leave behind.
"How—" he begins to ask, but I cut him off with a flick of my hand.
"Not now," I say, wincing at a new pain behind my eye.
"But he is dead?"
I’m surprised at the note of question in his voice. Could a person survive with half of their throat sliced open? "He is dead," I assure him. Completely and unequivocally.
"Miss Hawes, do you know what happened?"
I make no reply.
"Miss Hawes?"
I find that I'm unable to look at him, yet I notice how his steps draw him closer to me, until his arm is brushing against my own and I think that I could lean into him for support.
"Please," I say, my voice so low it is nothing but air passing between my lips. "Please, don’t say anymore. Just walk with me, for a little while."
"Of course," he says, before he takes my arm, his fingers solid upon my sleeve. "We will walk."
