The Happy Family Facade

by Allison Osborne

  “We can head to Scotland Yard now,” she said, staring at the broken family in front of them.

  Joe looked at Mr. and Mrs. Johnston one more time. “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t know what else to say, so he turned and followed Irene back to the Vauxhall.

  “What are you sorry about?” Irene asked when they reached the automobile.

  Joe shrugged, one hand on the door handle, as he watched the coroner’s vehicle drive away. “I’m not sure. Perhaps we should have left it alone and just helped Miss Flagner escape.”

  They climbed into the car, and Irene started the engine.

  “I’m trying to understand all of this,” she said, voice soft. “As you know, I don’t know how to handle others grieving, or others in general, very well. I don’t even know if I handled my own grief at all. But this situation was a disaster waiting to happen. That body would start to rot even more, and he would not have been able to hide it. Now, at least, Mr. Johnston can get the proper help he needs to grieve, and perhaps the rest of the family can as well.”

  Joe nodded and leaned his head on the door, cool wind blowing in his face.

  * * * * *

  Joe stood in the tiny viewing area at Scotland Yard, pressed between a row of over-stuffed filing cabinets and a window ledge that needed a good dusting, watching the interview in the adjoining room. Mr. Johnston sat at the table, fiddling absentmindedly with his fingers, handcuffs clinking together. He stared into the corner of the room, in a complete daze.

  Lestrade paced in front of the poor man, trying to get his questions in order, and flipping through the files a constable had brought him about Virginia Johnston.

  Irene entered the small door next to Joe and sighed.

  “They’ve released Miss Flagner,” she announced. “And they took Hughie’s statement. Apparently, he was going to run away before the wedding actually happened.”

  Joe shook his head, still confused at the boy’s actions. “He never questioned why his father wanted him to marry someone who looked like his sister?”

  Irene shrugged. “He thought that it was inappropriate, but his father was in mourning. Hughie was a soldier, he saw men do many things when overcome by grief.”

  “And Mrs. Johnston?” he asked.

  “Denies she knew anything,” Irene replied, a bitter tone entering her voice. “I believe her. She was already grieving the loss of her own life when she married and had children. She’d dealt with her daughter’s death when Virginia was declared sick and unable to recover before she even died. Once Virginia finally passed, it was a sort of release for Mrs. Johnston. It was as if she didn’t care enough to comfort her husband with his grief...”

  Irene trailed off as if suddenly lost in some sad memory. She stared into the window, but Joe knew she wasn’t looking at anything. This case took its toll on her, just like the last one had affected Joe. He kept trying to find the common thread tying this case to Irene’s personal life and now, hearing how she spoke about Mrs. Johnston, Joe finally confirmed his suspicions. Whatever happened between Irene and her mother, this entire case was bringing up those terrible memories.

  Joe knew that a viewing room at Scotland Yard was not a place to ask her any sort of questions pertaining to her mood, so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle hug.

  She relaxed into his arms for a moment. Then, as if flicking a switch, she straightened and rolled her shoulders.

  “I’m going to help Eddy with the questioning,” she said.

  “Does he need help?”

  “Technically no,” she admitted. “But sometimes he doesn’t ask questions strong enough to get a satisfactory answer.”

  “Irene,” Joe warned. “This man is in some broken mental state. Remember that.”

  She gave a soft chuckle. “We are all in some type of broken mental state, Joe. But I will heed your words, don’t worry.”

  She left Joe staring after her, worried she would push Mr. Johnston to his limit and that he would either break completely or go after her in a rage. Joe toyed with the idea of going into the room with Irene and Lestrade, then opted to stay back and simply watch instead.

  Irene entered the interview room and sat opposite Mr. Johnston. If Lestrade objected to her being in there, he didn’t say a word.

  “The notes from your family physician,” Lestrade began, reviewing the file in his hands. “State that Virginia Johnston died of a severe cough that she couldn’t recover from.”

  Mr. Johnston kept staring at the corner of the room. Irene reached out and tapped his hand, but he didn’t budge. She pinched the thin skin between his pointer finger and thumb and that finally shook him back to the room.

  “What was the question?” he asked, voice hoarse.

  “Your daughter,” Lestrade repeated. “Died from a cough?”

  Mr. Johnston nodded. “She would come with me during our reconstruction of properties we purchased. She loved seeing the construction and the tools and the noise. But she had weak lungs, and the smoke and dust often put her in bed for days while she coughed it all up. Over the years, her cough got worse. We tried every medication the doctor suggested, but her lungs must’ve been so damaged that her body couldn’t handle it. She became quite sick, and the cough persisted. I finally moved her to the attic a few months ago.”

  “When she died.” Irene corrected.

  Mr. Johnston didn’t respond or react, he just found his spot in the corner again and stared.

  “You kept her illness from the public,” Lestrade continued. “Shutting yourself and your family inside the house. Your wife refused to talk about it to anyone, meaning no one actually knew she was sick. When she died, you had a private ceremony in your backyard, where you presumably buried Virginia. Both your wife and son attest to that. But what happened afterwards? Why did you exhume her body?”

  Mr. Johnston began shaking, face turning red. Joe inched toward the door, ready to run into the other room should this man attack either Irene or Lestrade.

  “She shouldn’t have been in the ground,” Mr. Johnston finally said. “She still needed me.”

  “She was dead,” Irene said, and Joe caught the bitterness that hadn’t entirely left her voice. “She needed to be left at peace.”

  Lestrade put his hand on Irene’s shoulder to silence her. She was probably one or two questions away from being thrown from the room.

  “Tell us about Mrs. Johnston,” Irene said, clearly ignoring Lestrade’s warning. “It was obvious she didn’t want to be a mother.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Mr. Johnston’s voice cracked in presumed sadness and frustration. “From the moment Hughie was born, I knew she never wanted anything to do with him. Then Virginia came along, and she withdrew even more. She played the part at the picnics and with our friends, but she had no love for those children, nothing more than superficial care because it was her job.”

  “I want to talk about Miss Flagner,” Lestrade kept his voice calm and soft, in contrast to Irene. “Did you hire her because she resembled Virginia?”

  Mr. Johnston nodded.

  “When I saw her on the street, I thought she was Virginia,” he said. “I realized that if Chloe came to work for me, I could take care of my daughter in the evening and still see her walking around the house during the day. I could still have meals with her, and she would be part of the family again. I gave her Virginia’s dresses to wear, and she even got her hair cut like Ginnie’s.”

  “You begged her to,” Irene added. “She did not have a choice.”

  Mr. Johnston didn’t answer, he just stared at the table.

  “The newspapers,” Irene said, changing the subject. “Did you steal them?”

  Joe saw Lestrade’s frustration. Sometimes, Irene’s questions only helped to clear up some detail in her own brain and didn’t matter to the overall crime narrative. They also forced the poor inspector into doing more paperwork because of all the chatting the suspects did.

  Mr
. Johnston nodded again. “I did. I took all the newspapers I could find. All the ones with her picture. I needed to keep her safe and I wanted every single picture for myself.”

  Lestrade ran a hand over his hair and Joe saw him let out a slow breath. “Why didn’t you just tell people that she had died? If there was no foul play, then that would’ve been the thing to do.”

  “She was still with me,” Mr. Johnston said, but his words were shaky like his fantasy was crashing down around him. “I could still care for her.”

  “All you had was her body,” Irene said.

  “Her dresses still fit her, and her hair could still be plaited,” he protested. “I still... She was still with me...”

  Mr. Johnston dropped his head and started sobbing. Joe let out a sigh and knew the man had finally realized his daughter was dead. He hadn’t accepted it yet, but his fantasy was gone.

  Mr. Johnston eventually looked up at Lestrade, his face soaked in tears.

  “What will happen to her now?”

  “We will need to do an autopsy,” Lestrade said, cringing as Mr. Johnston let out a cry. “To confirm the cause of death.”

  Lestrade sighed and tried to get another word in, but Irene beat him to it.

  “She is at peace,” Irene said quickly. “My suggestion to you, Mr. Johnston, is to make an announcement that she has passed, mourn with the public, then move into another house. One without so much death.”

  Mr. Johnston stared at her, and even Joe was taken aback by her blunt statement.

  “Miss Holmes,” Lestrade bit out. “If you could wait outside, please.”

  Irene stood, the chair scraping the cement floor, and she left the room.

  Within seconds, she burst into the viewing room with Joe.

  “That was a bit harsh,” Joe scolded.

  She scowled. “This man tried to replace his dead daughter. You can’t do that, Joe. You can’t just replace people you lose, regardless of how they exited your life.”

  “No, you can’t,” Joe agreed. Irene looked at him, probably expecting a quarrel, and was surprised when he didn’t say any more in protest. “But you also can’t choose how people grieve.”

  “This wasn’t grief,” Irene said. “This was coping poorly.”

  “Some people simply do not have anyone to help them cope,” Joe said. “And some people reject the help that’s offered to them, or keep things to themselves, so no one else has any idea what is going on inside their mind.”

  Joe looked to see her expression now that he’d accidentally steered the conversation in another direction. Her jaw worked back and forth, her mind seemingly lost in thought.

  “I do not like how this conversation has taken a detour and is now about us,” she said, still staring through the glass. “And I’m simply not ready to do anything but have a bath and a cup of tea back at Baker Street.”

  She looked sideways at him, up through her long lashes. Her body language screamed anger but sadness seemed to swirl behind her dark doe eyes.

  “I think a bath and a cup of tea are in order for both of us,” Joe allowed, softening his tone. “And perhaps I can ask Miss Hudson to make some of those cakes you brought me from the tea house.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Irene’s lips. “I’m sure she knows the perfect recipe.”

  Irene took his arm and began walking towards the door.

  Joe glanced at Mr. Johnston one last time. Lestrade had gotten him under control, and he seemed to have regained his composure, nodding along with the inspector. Their family would need some time to heal, but hopefully, Mr. Johnston finally found the help he needed.

  Miss Flagner sat on a bench at the end of the hallway, and she stood as they approached. She gave a small cough and touched her nose, most likely blocking the offensive scent of the perfume still on their clothes.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “Though, I do feel terrible for putting this family through so much.”

  Irene waved her off. “It was only a matter of time before all this came crashing down on Mr. Johnston.”

  “This was not your fault, Miss Flagner,” Joe offered, trying to soften Irene’s words. “Unfortunately, you may need to find another employer.”

  Miss Flagner nodded solemnly. “Perhaps I will search for a secretary position. Sit safely at a desk and choose my own dresses to wear.”

  “I think that is a good choice,” Irene nodded. “And do get in touch should you need anything else.”

  “I will,” Chloe promised before smirking. “Unless it is to repair my cooker, then I shall seek a professional in that department.”

  Joe’s cheeks warmed, but her comment made Irene laugh.

  “Wise decision,” Irene said. “Take care, Miss Flagner.”

  Miss Flagner gave a quick smile to Joe, then turned and made her way out of Scotland Yard. Irene hooked her arm through Joe’s again.

  “We do still smell quite bad, don’t we?”

  “Quite bad is an understatement,” Joe sighed. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter IX

  Preserving Memories

  Joe entered the living room, and Irene grinned at his shaggy hair and clean-shaven face.

  “Ah-ha!” she cried from her position on the couch. “There is my darling Joe. Do you feel more yourself?”

  “My face certainly feels less itchy.” He chuckled, rubbing his cheeks and walking to his desk in the corner.

  Both of them had been quick to take turns in the bath, and Miss Hudson had immediately taken their clothes outside to the back garden to wash the stench from the fabrics. The landlady had insisted they use a citrus scent to counter the perfume in their baths and Irene overestimated the amount in her water. Oranges and lemons filled 221B, and she wouldn’t be surprised if the scent drifted out of the windows and down to the street.

  With the bathing out of the way, Irene perched on the couch, her floor-length mirror precariously balanced against the table. She grabbed a pin, securing the last roll in her damp hair before wrapping all her pin curls in a scarf, tying a tight knot at the top of her head.

  She stared at Joe for a moment, feeling restless, her forced memory of her mother from her dream the previous night swirling around in her head. She needed a distraction.

  Joe pulled some stationary from the corner box on his desk and began scribbling away on the paper. Irene hopped from the couch and dragged her own desk chair over next to him. He didn’t seem at all bothered by her looking over his shoulder, and she grabbed a small horse statue from the top of his desk, twirling it in her fingers.

  “Do you write to them about me?” She asked.

  “Hm?”

  “Your parents,” she added, setting the horse statue back down on the desk. “I imagine you mention me often because there is not much else in your life but myself and the cases we solve.”

  He paused his writing and looked at her, giving a little laugh. “Of course I mention you. It’s mostly to assure them that I have friends in London and that I am not entirely alone. I write to Alice about our adventures. She loves reading about the mysteries we solve.”

  “She is the youngest?”

  “Yes,” Joe answered. “Eleanor is seventeen, and Heather just turned twenty-one. In fact, Heather recently got engaged, and I think they are planning a spring wedding. Mother is beyond excited. I think they thought I would be the first to marry, and I’ve spent the better part of a decade disappointing them.”

  Irene scoffed, slouching in the chair. “Marriage...”

  Joe chuckled. “Let me guess, your thoughts on marriage are completely negative.”

  She picked up the horse statue again. “I grew up surrounded by people who either weren’t married or in the case of my uncle, divorced and never remarried. I’ve yet to see marriage serve better than a solid friendship.”

  “Marriage is supposed to come from a solid friendship, is it not?”

  Irene shrugged. “I do not know. For me, it makes no difference if I am a 'Mis
s' or a 'Mrs.'.”

  She looked up from the statue and met Joe’s gaze. He looked at her like she’d told some sad tale. “I am thirty, Joe. Who is going to want to marry me, anyway?”

  “I am thirty as well!” he reminded her.

  “Bah!” Irene twirled the horse statue in her fingers. “For men, it does not matter. So, you can tell your mother that there is still hope for you.”

  Joe laughed. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. It’s funny, I could write to her every day telling her what I ate for lunch, and she wouldn’t complain one bit.”

  Irene stared at the small white horse and wanted to feel happiness for Joe. He’d come from a picture-perfect family, and she’d come from the exact opposite. He must’ve thought he’d insulted her because he set his pen down.

  “Oh, Irene, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked. “Do not feel sorry for others feeling something that you cannot control. Your family sounds wonderful, Joe. I’m glad that you write to them. Now, I shall leave you alone.”

  She gave him a small smile and held out the statue. He took it, setting it back on his desk.

  Irene started to walk away before also remembering his sister, and the letters he said he wrote to her. “Do you get the right amount of detail in the letters to your sister? The details make or break the case, you know. Make sure when you tell her about this case, you mention the skin and how–”

  “Alice is only nine years old!” Joe said.

  “Oh!” Irene said, gleefully remembering how eager she’d been at that age. “Well, would you like to send her some pictures of the crime scene, then? I know I was delighted at that age to see how decomposition works.”

  “Absolutely not,” Joe guffawed, then chuckled at the very idea. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  He picked up his pen again and continued with his letter. Irene dragged her chair back to her desk and trudged back to the couch, at which point Miss Hudson entered the room.

  She set the tea tray down on the table. “There you go. All your clothes are hanging to dry. That perfume is a costly kind, and lord knows why you both were drenched in it.”