Irene burst into the street and saw her mother walking away. She took off after her. She had no idea what she would do once she caught up to her mother, but her feet pounded on the pavement as she dipped and dodged the people walking to the shops lining Baker Street.
She skirted around a large gentleman and skidded to a stop. Her mother had paused and gazed at some jewellery through a window.
At the commotion, her mother turned her small hazel eyes to Irene, blonde hair secure under her hat.
“What do you want?” she snapped without a single hint of recognition in her eyes. “I have no money for you. Scram.”
Then she carried on down the street, leaving Irene staring after her. Her stare turned to a glare, and she pivoted on her heel and marched back home.
She trudged up the seventeen steps of 221B, counting them out of habit, and entered the sitting room.
Father was folded in his chair next to the fire, a pipe between his lips, long legs pulled up to his chest, arms around his knees.
She recognized the scent of tobacco as his harsh, thinking blend. As soon as he saw her, he pulled the pipe from his mouth and set it in a holder.
“My dear child,” he exclaimed, voice soft and caring when he turned his dark, sharp eyes to her. “What happened?”
Irene shook her head. “Nothing. Just silly thoughts playing with my emotions.”
He stretched out his arms and beckoned her. She felt tears start in her eyes again as she went to him and curled up on his lap, too big to fit properly. Her feet stuck down the side of the worn cushion, but she folded her body and tucked into his arms.
Father made comforting, shushing noises and patted her shoulders.
They sat there for the longest time, tears silently streaming down Irene’s face until there were no more left and Father’s pipe had stopped burning. He gave her a firm hug.
“How do you feel about bees, my child?”
Chapter VI
Searching Through Personal Belongings
Joe watched with worry as Irene poked at her eggs and toast with a stoic expression on her face. She’d never refused Miss Hudson’s poached eggs and usually gobbled them up while they were still too hot to eat.
She’d been slow to rise out of bed this morning as well, seeming to have forgotten they had somewhere to be.
“Do you need help with your disguise today?” Joe offered, attempting to get her back on track.
Irene stared past him, and when he followed her gaze, he realized she looked at her father’s chair by the fireplace.
Joe frowned at his breakfast. He never knew how to approach the topic without Irene shutting down. She held a fork in one hand, and the other hand sat on the table, empty and motionless. He reached out wrapped his fingers around hers and gave a small squeeze.
“You need to eat,” he softly encouraged.
She suddenly snapped out of her mood and focused on him, then spotted the clock on the wall.
“Oh dear, Joe,” she said, then shovelled the eggs into her mouth. “We must get going.”
Irene continued eating, but never released her hand from his.
* * * * *
Joe’s arms strained under the weight of the cooker as he and Irene shuffled toward the centre of the kitchen. His face pressed against the cold metal as he tried to see which way they were going. They managed to move the cooker enough to see the rear fixture and just as Joe’s arms protested to the point of giving up, Irene spoke.
“Here,” she said, and they both released the cooker. They must’ve put the large appliance on an uneven patch of the flooring, because it wobbled and, without the wall to support it, tipped backwards.
Joe attempted to stop it, but his knee buckled and the cooker continued its fall. The only thing he could do was leap out of the way as the great metal beast crashed to the floor with a loud enough bang to shake all of the dishes in the cupboards.
“Well, that’s never standing again.” Irene wiped some sweat from her forehead, and a pin fell from under her hat, a curl popping down across her cheek.
She groaned as if the prospect of fixing her hair weighed heavily on her shoulders. Joe chuckled and stepped forward to assist her.
He gently tucked the hair back under the cap, split the pin with his teeth, and tucked the pin back into the curl.
At Irene’s raised eyebrow, he laughed. “I have three younger sisters who were constantly having hair trouble.”
The kitchen door opened, and Joe quickly stepped away from Irene, heart pounding at the idea of someone having seen their exchange.
They both relaxed when Miss Flagner entered the room.
“I’ve managed to get them out of the house again,” she said, keeping her voice low. “We are running through wedding routines and standing arrangements, even though no one is coming to the wedding.”
“What do you mean?” Irene asked dumbfounded. For such a wealthy family, that didn’t sound right at all. “I thought the Johnstons knew everyone worth knowing in London?”
Miss Flagner shrugged. “I asked if Mrs. Johnston’s bridge friends were coming, and she gave a desperate shake of her head as if the idea was absurd.”
“That’s a bit odd,” Joe said.
“I agree,” Irene said. “But we don’t have time to dwell on the implications. We have found something, but we need as much time as possible to investigate it. So, the longer the Johnstons are kept away from the house, the better.”
“I will do my best,” Miss Flagner said, words slowing as she took a decent look at the cooker. “Oh my. I thought I heard a crash when I entered the house...”
Joe followed her gaze. The cooker laid on his back, looking like a defeated foe with its front panel hollowed out, the pipe out of the top screwed on backwards, and all three doors and the burner missing.
“Did I really break the cooker that terribly?” Miss Flagner said, worry on her face. “I thought I’d only taken apart one small piece.”
Joe opened his mouth to confess that this was his and Irene’s doing and that if they’d been actual repairmen, or simply people with any basic knowledge of how a cooker worked, then they could’ve fixed it without trouble.
Irene cut him off before he could say anything of the sort. “Not to worry. The Johnstons have more than enough money to purchase a brand new one.”
“I suppose,” Miss Flagner took one last worried look at the cooker. “Good luck.”
She fled the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.
Joe sighed. “Shall we attempt to right this thing?”
“Hm?” Irene said before glancing at the appliance. “Oh, forget about the cooker. We’ll deal with it later.”
Joe hesitated, but Irene rushed past him, grabbing the camera from the bag on the counter. Joe started for the kitchen door, but Irene stopped him.
“Our boots,” she said. “They will leave quite a mess.”
She pulled the camera strap over her head, hanging it from her neck, then plopped down on the ground. Joe followed suit, and they took off their boots, tossing them under the counter.
They both wore black socks, and as Irene went to stand, Joe grabbed her ankle.
“Those are my socks,” he said.
“I know.” She tugged her ankle out of his grasp and stood. “I wasn’t going to wear my nice thin stockings with these boots. You’ll get them back, I promise.”
The maid had gone into town for the day to do the shopping, so the house was empty, which significantly alleviated Joe’s worries. He never thought of himself as the sneaky sort, and the prospect of tip-toeing through a house, as exciting as that sounded, made his nerves shake. Especially had there been someone they needed to avoid.
Joe followed Irene out of the kitchen, the marble floor beneath him slippery due to his socks. Somehow Irene managed to speed down the hallway and past the dining room. Joe attempted to keep up and settled on a half-run, sliding at the end of each step. He wasn’t planning on Irene stopping in the foyer, however, and he
smacked into her, both of them waving their arms to steady themselves, as if on a skating rink.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
She pointed to the large window looking out to the front garden. “Making sure we aren’t seen.”
The Johnstons and Miss Flagner milled about the lawn, chatting away to one another.
“C’mon,” Irene whispered before taking off toward the grand staircase. Joe followed, taking the steps two at a time behind her. Running down the carpeted hallway was much easier than on polished marble, and they quickly reached the double doors at the end.
Irene pushed through the doors, disappearing inside the room.
Joe hesitated, though. He had come to love investigating and solving mysteries, but he always felt guilty doing any kind of snooping.
“Joe.” Irene popped her head out of the room with a frown. “We do not have time for your morals to get in the way.”
His ears warmed with embarrassment. She was right, and there could possibly be a missing girl on the line, so he swallowed his fears and stepped into the room.
The photos didn’t do justice to the difference between Mr. and Mrs. Johnston’s sides of the bedroom. It was like night and day. Like a single woman, and a father who loved his children.
He heard wood scrape against wood. Irene rummaged through Mr. Johnston’s dresser, opening each drawer and overturning each piece of clothing.
“Oh my,” she said before taking a picture of the inside of the drawer.
Curiosity got the better of Joe, and he rushed to her side, peering into the drawer.
A box of trinkets lay beside piles of framed photos. Inside the box was a collection of items belonging to a young girl including a jewellery box, ribbons and bows, and small toys. A pile of photographs was tucked in the corner, and Irene plucked them out, spreading them in her fingers.
The photos followed a young girl’s life from infancy to adulthood: A little girl in her bassinet, then a child on a bicycle, and a young woman in a debutante dress.
Mr. Johnston was in a few of the photos, looking every bit the proud father.
As the girl grew into a woman, she looked more and more like Miss Flagner.
Joe and Irene glanced at each other, and a shiver ran down Joe’s spine.
“What is going on, Irene?” he asked it rhetorically, but she shrugged.
“Let’s get through that door in the closet and find out.” She pointed to the bedside table. “Look in there for a key.”
Joe felt that same guilt again but gritted his teeth, attempting to push out the feeling.
He pulled open the drawer and found a pack of cigarettes, some magazines, and a small loose key. He swiped the key and shut the drawer.
“Try this.”
When Irene looked at him, he tossed the key to her.
She held it up, studying the teeth. “I think this will do just fine.”
Joe spotted the window, curtains drawn, and strode over to it. He peered out of the one-inch slot between the drapes, cautious about making sure he wasn’t seen by the family below. Mr. and Mrs. Johnston sat in the garden while Miss Flagner walked up and down in front of them. Hughie stood about ten feet from her, hands in his pockets and looking as disinterested as one could possibly be in a family affair.
“Looks like they’re practising for the wedding,” Joe said, stepping back from the window.
“Good.” Irene’s voice was muffled, and when Joe turned to find her, he saw her arm disappear into the closet.
Joe followed her in, shoving Mr. Johnston’s clothes to the side with a grunt. A strange odour came to his nose and he wrinkled his face. There was something grotesquely familiar about the smell, but he couldn’t quite place it. All he knew at this particular moment was it was foul and made his stomach turn.
Irene stuck the key into the knob and the door unlocked. She tugged at the door, but it didn’t budge, earning an exasperated noise from her.
“It’s stuck,” she grumbled before giving it a good pull. The door popped opened and the unholy smell hit them like a sharp slap to the face.
Irene pulled her shirt over her nose. As Joe did the same, his brain finally registered the smell surrounding them, and he gasped. Unwanted memories he thought he’d chased from his mind months ago returned with a vengeance.
“Irene,” he hissed as if something or someone would hear them. “Stop.”
His ribs squeezed his lungs and he leaned on the closet wall. He tried to get the rest of his sentence out, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words his brain wanted to say.
Irene immediately grabbed his hand and gently turned his head to look at her.
“You’re back in London,” she told him softly. “You’re with me, and you’re safe.”
He nodded, attempting to keep the panic-induced episode at bay. He hadn’t had an episode for at least a month, and the previous one had been so small he didn’t even need Irene’s help.
But now, he welcomed and accepted it.
He calmed his breathing and his ribs released his lungs as he squeezed her hand.
“I’m fine,” he said, nodding to emphasize his answer. “But I don’t think we should go up there.”
“We must,” she urged. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“That smell,” he said, still clutching her hand. “I remember it from the battlefields.”
For months after he returned home, that stench lingered in his nose and churned in his stomach.
“Then stay here,” Irene said. “I will go up–”
“You’re not going up there alone.” His voice came out sharper than he’s intended and he saw the surprise in Irene’s eyes.
“Then we go together,” she decided.
She led the way up the dark and narrow stairs, the warped wood surprisingly quiet beneath their feet. The stairs emerged into the attic, the sickly-sweet decaying smell ever stronger. Joe’s stomach turned, his body begging him to flee.
The attic was full of additional furniture, most likely from the bombed-out half of the house, a coat of dust covering every surface. The large room was dark except for a small flickering light shining from behind a pile of trunks towering to the ceiling.
Irene looked back at Joe with a questioning raised brow, and he nodded at her to keep going. He’d regained control of his panic attack, and though his stomach still felt queasy, he could at least breathe again.
Though, with the stench filling the room, he really didn’t want to.
He kept hold of Irene’s hand as she led him around the pile of trunks. He nearly bumped into her as he turned the corner.
The light came from a single oil lamp burning on a small vanity.
Propped up in a chair beside the vanity, in a blue frilled dress, was a decomposing body.
Chapter VII
Time to Call Scotland Yard
If the smell hadn’t been piercing through Irene’s nostrils, she would’ve thought the body in front of her was fake. She took a step closer as poor Joe turned away. He let out a sickened moan and leaned on a piece of furniture to steady himself. Irene patted him on the shoulder before inching closer to the corpse.
The body sat propped in a chair, a new dress hanging off its skeletal figure. The skin, darkened brown and dry like leather, clung to the bones like a draped sheet. The hair was nothing but light brown strands, strung together in a thin plait secured with a dingy bit of lace, hanging from an otherwise bald skull. The jaw hung open and seemed to grin at them.
Irene immediately snapped a few pictures.
“The body has been here for at least three or four months,” she observed, stepping closer. She crouched, gently touching the dress. “This fabric is new. How did this even get on the body?”
She circled around the chair and realized the dress wasn’t secured at the back. She took another picture.
“Whoever dressed her, cut the dress so the body wouldn’t fall apart when it was jostled.”
Joe seemed to regain his composure and ne
ared the crime scene.
“Irene,” he said. “There’s a piece of cake on the vanity.”
Irene continued her circle and came to stand beside Joe.
A day-old piece of cake sat next to the woman’s elbow, fork on the plate, ready to eat. Irene crouched to study the floor. Fresh tracks in the dust dotted the scene.
“This is his daughter,” Joe said, voice wavering. “Isn’t it?”
Irene nodded.
“I think we should call Lestrade now.”
Irene stood back with Joe, surveying the gruesome scene once more. “This is one time where I will welcome the help of Scotland Yard.”
She took a few more pictures then they headed back down the narrow stairs, Joe leading the way.
Irene locked the door and pushed out of the closet, arranging the shirts to cover their tracks.
Joe had stopped in the middle of the room, holding his shirt away from his body, nose wrinkled.
“Do you think we stink?” he asked. “Will Mr. Johnston know the door’s been open?”
The stench of death was so pungent in Irene’s nose that she couldn’t tell if it had settled in her nostrils or was on their clothes.
She walked to Mr. Johnston’s bedside table and tossed the key back in the drawer, the smell following her.
“I believe we do stink quite a bit,” she sighed before noticing the perfumes on Mrs. Johnston’s dresser. “Come here.”
She crossed the room and swiped a bottle, opting for the biggest one with the most liquid. Joe followed her order and stood shoulder to shoulder with her.
“I don’t think spritzing us with perfume will help–”
Irene threw the bottle on the ground, and it smashed into bits, releasing the overwhelming smell of expensive liquid into the air.
Joe immediately turned away, coughing and covering his mouth. Irene grabbed his wrist, tears in her eyes, and they both stumbled out of the bedroom.
“All I taste is perfume,” Joe moaned, voice hoarse.
“That was perhaps a little drastic,” Irene said. “Find the stairs for me, Joe. I cannot see.”
The Happy Family Facade Page 7
