Mrs Fitzroy

by Rachael Wright

The click of her heels on the floor echoed like the tolling of the bells in a churchyard as a black veiled procession moved underneath. Her heart pounded and her throat closed around the lump of fear. She stretched out a quivering hand, touched the cool wood, felt the grooves, and pushed.

  The door swung inward. For a moment she saw John's tall muscular frame rise from the chair, his eyes flashing with anger, his top lip curling into a snarl, and the terror froze her, body and mind. No shove or punch came and she looked around. Her breathing eased. The sense of death slipped away. The desk lamp was on. Everything else was as it should be. It was quiet. It was still. It was wrong.

  She backed out and pulled the door closed. She walked through the house: to the kitchen where dinner warmed in the oven; to the library where the books gave the air a musty magic fragrance; to the morning room and the wall of windows that overlooked the darkening sky; and then upstairs where she barreled through the double doors, gathered what she needed to sleep and bathe and took it all to a bedroom at the opposite end of the corridor.

  She drew a bath, sprinkled in lavender oil, and slipped beneath the warm water; her dark hair spilled out in tendrils on the surface. She washed her face and dragged a pink rose scented soap bar over her body. Davonna stood and water streamed from her naked body. She wrapped a thick white towel around her torso. She brushed her hair and pulled on silk pajama pants and buttoned the shirt. Davonna collapsed onto the bed and listened. Nothing stirred. She thought about taking the food out of the oven, but before she could move, a deep sleep claimed her, and dragged her off to a quiet land.

  Strange dreams clung to Davonna's mind. She dreamt of John, of the waves that turned red and blue and crashed into walls, of seeing his face distorted by the shifting waves. Before dawn, when night’s grip was tightest, she woke, and stared, utterly confused, at the ceiling. She couldn't remember this room. The sheets weren't silk. There was no Bonheur du jour desk in the corner. A faint whiff of lavender rose around her, undulating on the air, and she remembered the bath. The whole mind-numbing episode paraded through her mind.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and gasped for breath. Was he gone? What was there? She sat for so long that the sky lightened to a pale blue and the warm outlines of the hills and coast were visible.

  With a long sigh, she stood, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stripped off her pajamas. The warm water and the constant flow of it massaged the tension from her tired back. She stayed there, her back to the tiny droplets, and tried not to think.

  The kitchen reeked of onion and burnt steak when she walked in. She pulled the roast from the oven, which had turned off long ago, and wrinkled her nose. It reeked. She prodded the kitchen door open with her foot and stepped outside to throw the contents of the pan in the trash. The morning was cool and quiet, a light breeze rippled through the hanging wisteria and the perfectly shaped lavender bushes and the leaves on the olive trees.

  Davonna smiled: such perfect peace was rare in the world. She would have happily stayed out in the garden, if not for the steady drip of fat, which made a puddle on the rocks. Davonna scurried inside and put the pan to soak in the sink and fell to her normal chores.

  The hall clock chimed ten; she was in the kitchen curled in a chair, clutching a cup of tea, when the doorbell rang.

  "Hello?" Davonna said, opening the door to the captain who drove with her to the Morgan. He looked drawn, his dark eyes were dull, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a frown. His suit was a study in crisp lines though, his tie tied as expertly as to make a former Greek prince jealous.

  "Kalispera, Mrs. Fitzroy. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself last night; I'm Captain Alexandros Savva. If it's all right, may I ask you a few questions?"

  Davonna smiled and pulled the door open further. "Come to the kitchen, I made tea."

  The captain looked askance as she led him to the back of the house, his eyes darted this way and that as she led him onward. But he smiled when he sat at the wooden table and Davonna put tea and a fresh scone with generous helpings of clotted cream and raspberry jam.

  "This looks delicious."

  "I bake a batch every day."

  Savva took a bite of the scone, cream oozed out the sides and a stream of raspberry jam slid onto his pinky finger. He licked if off and hastily wiped his hand on a white cotton napkin; folded under his plate. Davonna smiled, pleased, but Savva took only one more bite before he cleared his throat and began.

  "Mrs. Fitzroy, when I asked if you could tell me more of your husband's movements, you said he had been away for the last week and had only returned yesterday for a few minutes before he left for the hotel."

  "Yes, a conference in London. The hotel knows where he stayed."

  "You don't know?"

  Davonna frowned, "My husband didn't disclose his travel plans."

  "Do you find that odd?"

  "Do you?"

  "I do. My wife likes to keep an eye on me," he said, and had the grace to blush.

  "My husband didn't like to be tied down. He didn't want me to interrupt him at work; if there was an emergency, I'd call his mobile."

  "I see," Savva said, he took out a pen and small notepad and made notes. "And when he came home, yesterday afternoon, did he talk to you?"

  "No, he didn't. I heard the taxi pull in, I walked outside to greet him, but he ran inside and then ran back out five minutes later, got into the Morgan, and drove to the hotel."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. He is ... was a private man. I didn't like to smother him. He was home at the same time every day, that's how I knew something was wrong. He's never late."

  "How was your relationship? I apologize for asking ... but your marriage …"

  Davonna's mouth went dry. As she looked at his inscrutable face, a sharp gust of wind blew through the kitchen door, sending it snapping off the back wall. They jumped. Savva scrambled to shut the door, but the chill wrapped around Davonna, gripped her chest with its long tendrils, and on its wings, John's voice whispered threats. She bit her bottom lip; the cracked skin underneath split.

  "Our marriage was fine. Happy even."

  Savva nodded. "What did you do while your husband was in London?"

  "I set myself a list of chores. Our grounds had gotten out of hand. We had left it too long. It's there, what I did," Davonna said, pointing to the list behind Savva.

  Savva swiveled in his chair and looked around. He stood and peered at the paper. "This looks like a man's handwriting."

  "I asked John to write it for me. I wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything."

  "Was he in the habit of making you lists?"

  "He didn’t make the list. I did. He wrote it."

  "This is extensive, I'm surprised you got it all done."

  "It was touch and go," Davonna said, with a wry smile.

  Savva was quiet. He looked from the list to Davonna and back again, a frown spread over his weathered face. "Forgive me, but you are handling this well, in fact, I don't believe I've ever seen a bereaved spouse handle such tragedy so well."

  "It hasn't sunk in yet. This morning I woke and couldn't remember where I was or what had happened last night. I found comfort in my normal routine."

  Savva nodded. "May I take the list?"

  "Of course."

  "I'll have someone come and escort you to the morgue tomorrow for the identification."

  "All right," Davonna said, her voice shook.

  "Yassas, Mrs. Fitzroy." Savva said, and rose and thanked her for the tea and scone.

  Davonna led him back through the house. He complimented her on the cleanliness and elegance of the rooms, but she could only nod her.

  She shut the door on Savva and fell back against the wood, her chest heaved. The morgue, when she saw John's body … would it all become real?

  VI

  Μονάχος, μήτε στον παράδεισο.

  Alone, not even in heaven.

  Clouds gathered on the horizon, ominou
s and dark, as Davonna lay in bed; still and silent. The wind grew to a mild roar, and through the window the olive grove swayed and whispered as their leaves flashed in the weak light.

  Davonna rose, hesitantly, from her warm cocoon, and made for the shower. She stood there; her arms crossed over her breasts, the spray of water on her back, and watched the droplets make their way down the long pane of glass. She couldn't take her eyes off them and the long, predetermined dance they took. One small one at the top might outlast the waterfall from the showerhead but fell, bowled over by a larger drop.

  She stepped out onto a bamboo mat and swathed herself in a thick towel. After rushing through dressing, she left the bathroom, taking great care not to notice the woman in the mirror, and escaping to the library. John never had much use for it. He wasn't a wide reader but considered, in a very Victorian way, libraries to be a great sign of wealth even if the owner never read a page.

  Davonna walked around the room, her hand outstretched so that her fingers might just brush the leather and soft spines of the books. They reached out to her as friends; alive in the pages, they recognized her presence. The air of the library crackled with the most exquisite magic: the power of words to transport a reader beyond her circumstances, beyond self, beyond pain. Davonna closed her eyes and gave in to the pull of the books and just as it seemed she was going to tip over, a sharp, assured knock rattled the front door.

  The spell broke, and Davonna stopped, her arm hung at her side, and she left the library. The private who had driven her home from the accident stood at the door, hat in hand, looking at the ground. His eyes darted to her face and then fell back. Davonna wanted to smile, to assure him, to comfort him, but she didn't have the words.

  "Captain Savva sent me to take you to the morgue, Ma'am."

  "Thank you, I'll get my coat," she said, and turned toward the closet. She put on a seldom-used trench coat and stepped out of the house.

  "Do you want to lock it?"

  "My husband had the key with him," she said blandly.

  As they pulled out of the drive, Davonna turned so she wouldn't have to watch the private frown at her every few seconds. Mitilini swung into view. The car curved around the crowded streets with ease. She stared at the locals as they set out signs and produce and opened windows and smiled at each other. They existed in a world beyond her; further even than they were yesterday when John was alive.

  "Here we are, Ma'am."

  Davonna looked. The car had stopped in front of Mitilini's hospital, whose white walls and pale red roof shone: even in the weak sunlight. A nurse met them as they walked through the doors. The hall, even at this early hour, bustled with patients and concerned family members. The private grabbed her arm, as the milling crowd threatened to tear them apart, and led her through a swinging door. Staircase after staircase led them deeper into the bowels of the hospital. Davonna wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  Captain Savva stood at the far end of a long corridor, conversing with an older man in blue scrubs. Savva's companion was tall, with a perfect round stomach and a hairline, which receded to the far back of his head. His eyes were deep set and Davonna couldn't decide whether they were benevolent or judgmental.

  "Let me introduce, Dr. Leventis, Mrs. Fitzroy. He'll do the autopsy on Mr. Fitzroy."

  Savva stepped forward to usher Davonna through a small door. Dr. Leventis walked towards the first gurney in a line of four. Davonna was carried irresistibly forward, to the shape of the white sheet. They told her he was under there: dead on a slab. A slain monster.

  Savva was silent as he motioned to the pathologist to remove the sheet from the dead man’s face. Davonna shrunk back. His face, oh his face, mottled by the ocean, a ragged cut across his forehead. She bolted, fell against a frigid steel rubbish bin, and was sick. Neither Savva nor Leventis moved but stared as she heaved again and again. When it stopped, and the bin was full of vomit, she fell against the wall and rubbed bile off her lips. John's body loomed above her like a pagan sacrifice.

  "Is this your husband?" Savva asked.

  Davonna turned her gaze to him. Gaping. Had he not seen? "Yes," she whispered. It was still John. It was his stiff smirk and high forehead and strong jaw.

  But it was more than the fact it was John's body that she trembled. Surely Savva and the doctor, they knew, they could see how she shrank from him, that she didn't dare touch his body. She rose, pulled a paper towel from a dispenser on the wall, wiped her mouth, looked at the two men for a long moment, before she wrenched open the morgue's door.

  The private drove her home in silence. The expression upon Dr. Leventis and Captain Savva's faces replayed in her mind. She couldn't quite place the meaning of the glint in Savva's eyes—and it frightened her.

  The city had grown crowded and noisy in the few minutes she'd spent in the disinfected halls of the hospital. The car crested the top of a hill, and the sea stretched out far into the distance. A small, capsized boat was being dragged ashore by the coast guard and a fishing boat. More dead bodies for the morgue. Davonna hung her head. So many frightened people, now dead in the merciless sea.

  "Have a good day, Ma'am."

  "My name is Davonna, or Mrs. Fitzroy; I'm not royalty," Davonna snapped.

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  Davonna slammed the door.

  Davonna woke; the sheets swathed around her, and listened to the silence. The room fell in and out of focus and she frowned, desperate to remember what had happened yesterday. It was a blur, except for the terror of seeing John's face and the sharp, sickly smell of the morgue.

  She cradled her head in her hands, trying to force the image, the memories, to leave. The room turned in circles around her, morphing into the shivering hospital corridor. She left the bed, shoulders hunched, and crept to the kitchen where she curled in a chair, and wrapped herself in a thick plaid blanket. A chill swept through the room, rifling the towels hanging on the stove.

  Memories of the past two days flooded back. The look on Savva's face popped into her mind, her fingers twisted around the frayed ends of the blanket. What was he thinking? Why did he ask about the list John had written? Had Thanos been there at the barricade that night, among the flashing lights and black-coated policemen? Would he tell her what they'd found?

  She froze, a steady crunch, crunch, crunch, echoed from the driveway. Davonna paled and catapulted from her chair to shrink against the wall. He was here. He was back. But being caught there, shivering in the corner, forced her from the chair and she escaped the kitchen, into the crisp morning air, the plaid blanket flew out behind her like a cape.

  A short man in jeans and a white half-buttoned shirt stood in the driveway, pushing a cart full of tools. His eyes flew open with astonishment and his cheeks bloomed red as Davonna careened to a halt ten feet in front of him.

  "Who are you?"

  "Kalimera," he said. "Kostas. I am Mr. Ioannis' gardener. He said you'd be expecting me. I am to help with the garden."

  "Kostas?"

  "Yes."

  Davonna studied at the short dark haired man. He couldn't be over five-foot-five but he stood tall and confident. His clothes were old but clean and well maintained.

  "May I?" Kostas said, motioning towards the garden. Davonna stared, as though she hadn't heard him. "Mrs. Fitzroy?"

  "Yes, sygnómi, I'm sorry, go ahead. Please tell Ioannis I said thank you. No, I mean thank you, for coming."

  "My pleasure," Kostas said. He tipped an invisible hat to her and pushed the wheelbarrow towards the back of the garden.

  "Efharistó," Davonna shouted an apology.

  Kostas turned and smiled with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  She watched him go, and when he turned the corner and vanished from sight, she ran to the library, curled into one of the leather chairs, and watched him from the windows. He moved quickly for a middle-aged man, but he didn't hesitate as he worked, he knew instinctively what to do.

  Davonna sat for so long she could feel the slo
w pulse of blood in her legs. She watched Kostas move around the garden. He pursed his lips now and then and Davonna imagined him whistling a tune. He looked calm, at peace even.

  How strange it was, to sit, with only a pane of glass separating, and watch another human. He was as distant from her as it was possible to be. Kostas didn't have his spouse's death or a lifetime of worry hanging over him. He was content. Wasn't he?

  Davonna frowned and wished herself in the older man's shoes—better a happy but poor man, than a prisoner in a gilded cage. Then, as Kostas knelt by a long row of English roses, Ioannis walked across the gravel driveway and waved. Kostas rose, and the two shook hands. Davonna sprung from her seat and scurried to the front door.

  "I'm glad to find you looking better," he said, embracing Davonna on the threshold.

  Davonna smiled but did not ask him inside. She stood on the step, hiding her shaking hands behind her back.

  "I am better."

  Ioannis gave her a weak smile as if he didn't completely believe her.

  "Will you come for dinner tonight? It won't be grand, we don't want to overwhelm you."

  "I will."

  Davonna fought the urge to close the door. They had nothing more to talk about, and Ioannis appeared to sense that she was uncomfortable, and so hurried home. As she watched him stride down the road, she wilted. John would know. He'd know men were at the house. Her breath caught in her throat. John—John was no more. But the worry, the cloying fear, and the way she couldn't move—it consumed her. She sank, onto the cool floor, wrapped her arms around her legs, and keened. He was so close. Wave after wave of torture broke over the sad, thin woman, she had become, and she shattered into a hoard of jagged pieces.

  The walls collapsed around her, and reality left. Everything she'd constructed; the chores, the timetables, the walks into town, they were meaningless. What was real? What did she know? Davonna wiped her eyes, tried to calm her hysterical breathing, to soothe her heart. John's car had gone over the cliff two days ago. The police had been in her home. John’s body was in the morgue—the frozen, mauled face.