The Shape of Darkness Page 7

  Did you miss me.

  What if it is him?

  She remembers her father coming back to shore. How she would pitch into his arms and sob, overcome with the relief that she was no longer alone. It sounds foolish, because of course she had Mamma while he was away, but it was not the same, just as having Simon around is not the same as having Montague.

  She has missed Montague more than anyone.

  When she was so ill with pneumonia, Simon said it was a miracle that she survived, and maybe it was, maybe this is why: she has been granted a second chance to live the life that was stolen from her.

  Montague will be different now. Older, wiser, less susceptible to temptation. She can forgive his past errors. In all honesty, she never fully blamed him, but he left before she had the opportunity to explain that. She imagines the joy of introducing him to Cedric and their future taking a different course, away from Bath. She sees them being able to afford holidays together. How she would love for the three of them to visit the Isle of Wight!

  Left to her own devices, Agnes would have passed from the abbey and back home caught in her dreamy cloud. But half a dozen women are clustered in the aisle, blocking her way, their cloaks pulled high on their hunched shoulders. Although they lean forward and show all the indications of whispering, their voices echo.

  ‘Drowned, they told me. Humane Society couldn’t revive him.’

  ‘Oh, how sad.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. He would have been able to swim.’

  ‘Look, I’m just telling you what I heard.’

  ‘Does anyone know who he is?’

  She pretends not to heed their chatter, but she can feel herself growing cold. They seem to be talking of the River Avon, which always sends her into a panic. Whenever she thinks of it, her mind fills with black water, her mouth with a brackish taste.

  Agnes clears her throat. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she requests loudly.

  They draw aside to let her past.

  Before she opens the door, a hand reaches out and touches her arm. She stops and sees Miss Grayson: a small, sweet-looking woman; a portrait painter by trade, almost as short on work as Agnes herself.

  ‘Pardon me, Miss Darken,’ she says, drawing her aside from the group. ‘I wanted to tell you the news, in case you had not heard.’

  ‘News?’

  Miss Grayson offers a wistful smile. ‘I felt for you so awfully when that man was killed, right after your appointment. It was all anyone talked about.’ Her hand squeezes Agnes’s arm gently. ‘But that’s done now.’ She nods at a wide, red-faced woman holding forth to her companions. ‘Miss Betts has something new to gossip about.’

  Agnes knows the reassurance is kindly meant, but she feels belittled by it. ‘How fortunate for Miss Betts,’ she says tartly. ‘Pray, what is the latest scandal the crows are feasting on?’

  Miss Grayson shoots a glance over at her companions. They really do resemble carrion birds, and perhaps she sees this, for her mouth puckers.

  ‘A dreadful tragedy, Miss Darken. I swear it does not bring anyone pleasure to hear of it, but for your sake. A body has been pulled from the river at Weston Lock.’

  Although Agnes prickles with sweat to hear of it, the event itself is not uncommon, particularly amongst the poor wretches living down in the Avon Street slums. ‘Another drunk,’ she guesses. ‘Or perhaps felo de se?’

  ‘No, Miss Darken. That’s just it.’ Miss Grayson shakes her head sadly. ‘The man was a naval officer. He drowned wearing his uniform.’

  CHAPTER 8

  There’s an airless silence in the chamber as Myrtle stands over the bed. She looks at Father as if he offends her sense of order. Beside him she appears more vital than ever, her skin peaches and cream.

  She takes a breath. Then she begins.

  Crouched in the corner, Pearl watches, fascinated. Myrtle’s hands move with a careful intensity. Up and down, side to side, in fluid motions. It’s like hearing poetry.

  Sometimes Myrtle’s palms face downwards, magnetising the body. As she makes a pass from shoulder to shoulder, she flips her wrist, so that the backs of her hands are closer to Father’s skin.

  How does she know when to do that?

  Myrtle says a good mesmerist can see inside their patient, like they’re made of glass. Pearl wishes she could see, too. She’d rather that cold, clean image than the one actually before her eyes: the discharge and the wasted skin.

  Between each pass, Myrtle shakes her hands, ridding herself of the diseased magnetism. Pearl studies the air for a hint of the force but it’s invisible to her.

  Why can’t she get a glimpse of it? Myrtle says it has colours, a different one for each person. It sounds pretty.

  Pearl shivers and wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She’s been freezing all day. She turns even colder when she remembers that the shivering started just after Myrtle came home, yesterday afternoon. Almost the exact minute her visions of water abruptly stopped.

  She shakes her head like Myrtle shakes her hands; ridding herself, casting it off. No good. Bad energy might drip from Myrtle’s fingers, but it remains firmly lodged in Pearl’s mind.

  The ceremony reaches its conclusion. Myrtle dips into her apron and produces a clean handkerchief.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Pearl whispers.

  She doesn’t receive an answer.

  Myrtle opens the handkerchief out and lays it gently over Father’s face, like a shroud. It sticks to the ooze around his jaw. Myrtle leans over him. Then Pearl hears her breathe.

  A heavy inhalation through the nose and out through the mouth, onto the handkerchief. Four, five times. The sound of air puffing through her sister’s lips. She’s reviving him. Trying to pass some of her own vigour to Father.

  Pearl hunches into her shawl and closes her eyes. It’s so cold. But only she can feel the chill, and that means … After yesterday’s discovery, she daren’t think what it means.

  Myrtle’s hand latches on her shoulder. ‘Come on. Let him rest now.’

  Her sister bundles her out of the room, back into the darkened parlour. Pearl climbs into an easy chair and curls her feet up beneath her for warmth. The crystal ball is back in pride of place on the table opposite her. It took them ages to clean up the shattered fishbowl. All that glass and water, everywhere …

  The kettle whistles.

  When the teacup finally arrives, it’s so hot that it burns. Pearl cradles it in both hands, nonetheless.

  ‘Don’t spill it,’ Myrtle warns.

  Pearl thinks she wouldn’t mind being scalded by hot liquid today.

  Myrtle sits down, takes a bite of the toast she’s made them. She’s given all the jam to Pearl. ‘That went well, I think,’ she says through her mouthful. ‘I’ll keep at it. Phew! Mesmerism don’t half take it out of me.’

  But she doesn’t look depleted in any way. Her eyes still dazzle beneath the frame of her widow’s peak.

  ‘How can you be so calm?’ Pearl marvels.

  ‘What d’you mean? He weren’t no worse than usual …’

  ‘No! Not about Father. I mean after yesterday.’

  ‘Oh.’ Myrtle picks at the crust of her toast. ‘That. It’s sad, Pearl. But these things happen. And we both know death ain’t the end.’

  ‘But you found the body in the river! Touched him …’ A tremor runs through her as she thinks of the cold, clammy skin.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about. You were here, you didn’t see nothing.’

  ‘Yes I did!’ Pearl insists. Tea slops from her cup onto her shawl. ‘I kept seeing water in my head … And then the fishbowl exploded … Don’t you follow? I predicted the death. All I could think about was water, and then you found a drowned man.’

  Myrtle shrugs and takes a vicious bite of toast.

  ‘You don’t think that’s weird?’ Pearl prompts.

  ‘You’re a spirit medium, ain’t you? ’Course you’re going to see things. And you need to deal with them better th
an you did that one in the cabinet, if we’re going to make any money out of you.’ Pearl pouts at her. ‘Well, what did you expect when you got the Power?’

  Some acknowledgement, maybe, of how frightening it is. A sense of wonder, at the very least. But Myrtle’s seen it all before. ‘I didn’t think it would be … like this,’ Pearl says lamely.

  She wanted to see Mother, to hear her voice for the first time. And maybe she’d hoped the ghosts would be like the friends she never had, making the house less lonely when Myrtle’s out and about on her errands.

  ‘It’s different for everyone,’ Myrtle reasons. ‘You’ll figure it out. Maybe we’ll try and contact the drowned man at our next séance. See if he’s all right over there. Would that make you feel better?’

  It really wouldn’t, but Pearl finds herself nodding. She drinks the tea, hoping it might dilute the power that’s inside her body.

  ‘Myrtle?’

  ‘What?’

  Pearl looks down at her cup. ‘D’you think it was the same killer? Who murdered Mr Boyle then drowned that man? Because a sailor would’ve been able to swim …’

  ‘Might’ve been.’ Myrtle considers. ‘Or maybe the sailor was just drunk and hit his head before he fell in the river. You can ask him, can’t you?’

  ‘But Myrtle …’ Pearl’s feet are growing numb beneath her. She adjusts her position in the chair. ‘What if I’m … seeing him? The murderer? Seeing the ways he’s going to kill people. First it was water, when I was so thirsty, and now I’m cold. What if he’s going to freeze someone to death next?’

  Myrtle rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be daft. You’re just poorly.’

  But Pearl can’t stop talking now; she’s opened the dam and her thoughts are spilling from her. ‘Maybe that’s it. That’s why I’ve got this Gift, and we can use it, use it to catch him—’

  ‘Enough!’

  Myrtle slams her plate down. It makes Pearl jump. ‘Listen to me.’ Myrtle’s voice comes tight and low. It’s how she speaks to the Society when she’s angry but trying to sound polite. ‘This is silly. You’ve got a fever and you’re raving, Pearl. You’d better go to bed.’

  ‘But I—’ she starts.

  Myrtle’s eyes fix upon her, snuff out the rest of her sentence. ‘Bed. And no more talk about stopping killers. You’re a spirit medium. People getting knocked off is your bread and butter. Do you understand me?’

  It’s an awful thing to say. Pearl knows it deep down, and yet somehow … It makes sense.

  All her arguments melt like sugar on the tongue before Myrtle’s gaze. She touches her forehead, starts to feel that she’s been the one in the wrong, this whole time. ‘You’re right. I think I’ve got a fever. I’d … better go to bed.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Walcot Street is not far away. About ten minutes by foot – or at least, it used to be. Even if it takes her failing body twice as long, Agnes would rather make the walk than face the ordeal of riding in a fly or an omnibus.

  But although the physical distance is short, there is a great social divide between her home, flanked by the abbey and the banks, and this bustling area of commerce. Everyone hurries: to the dyers, to the locksmith, to the grocers, to the chophouses that issue a malodour of hot beef fat. She cannot keep pace. And none of the men emerging from their work at the brewery possess enough gallantry to grant a lady a wide berth on the pavement.

  Coal dust flecks the atmosphere. Buildings are white, yellow and black, like a set of progressively mouldering teeth, some with clapboard fronts and papered windows.

  Struggling against the throng, who jostle her, Agnes checks the address she has written down one last time. She could travel further, to the coroner at Walcot Parade, or visit the men at the Humane Society, or even contact that boorish policeman, Redmayne, for information. But she feels that this Miss West, who found the body, will be more likely to give her assistance; the woman will probably have observed more than all of the men put together.

  Only yesterday she walked to church trying to convince herself that the man she had seen in the cocked hat was indeed Montague. Now, she would give worlds to be certain he was not.

  The house she seeks stands just short of Ladymead Penitentiary, beneath the stern gaze of Paragon Buildings, its windows shrouded in soot. Behind the black smudges, she makes out a card advertising something, but the words are indecipherable.

  Pedestrians push on behind her and tut. Taking a deep breath, she screws up her courage and knocks.

  No footsteps sound behind the door, but it is opened instantly by a striking young woman, comely and golden-haired, perhaps twenty years of age. She stares at Agnes, all piquant features and bright, questing eyes.

  ‘Yes?’

  A London accent.

  Agnes feels absurd, and very, very old. ‘I … Good morning. Forgive me for disturbing you. I daresay this is going to seem a trifle odd, but … Are you – by chance – the Miss West who found the drowned man?’

  An eyebrow arches, its shape unnervingly reflected in Miss West’s widow’s peak. ‘Knocked on this door by chance, did you?’

  ‘N-no,’ Agnes stutters, face aflame. ‘Of course I discovered Miss West lived here, but I did not like to assume that you … She might not be the only resident.’

  Miss West stares at her.

  ‘Pardon me for interrupting you,’ Agnes repeats. ‘It is only that … They do not seem to have identified the body yet. I am anxious for a friend of mine and I wondered if I might … ask you a few brief questions about what you found?’

  ‘Why don’t you just go to the mortuary chapel? Have a look at him?’

  The mere concept sends Agnes dizzy. ‘I cannot do that.’

  Miss West sucks her teeth, looks Agnes up and down. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in, then.’

  The light is strangely muted inside, not unlike Mrs Boyle’s house of mourning. Agnes has a dim impression of a thinning carpet and cracks in the ceiling. What strikes her most is the odour: sulphur and rot.

  There is no obvious sign of its origin. The parlour Miss West leads her to is clean, if rather worn. Faded lilac paper peels at the edges of the walls. A black walnut cabinet skulks beside the fireplace. There are several chairs grouped together in dark communion, a sofa and a circular table covered in cheap red plush. Rather than flowers, the table has a glass globe as the centrepiece. Agnes has never seen anything like it.

  Miss West seats herself upon the sofa and flicks her eyes towards one of the chairs.

  Agnes takes it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Miss West warns. ‘I’ve a sick man and child to look after.’

  ‘We are alike, then.’ Agnes jumps upon the common ground, grinning rather foolishly. ‘Since my sister passed, I have been caring for my nephew and aged mother. It can be a trial to—’

  ‘You said you’ve got questions.’

  She was going to begin with a preamble, apologise for dredging up unpleasant scenes, but it seems Miss West was born without a sense of delicacy. She imagines this bold young woman touching Montague’s drowned body and her stomach turns over. ‘Yes. I-I wondered if you happened to see, from the coat of this naval man you found, whether he was an officer? And of which rank?’

  Miss West cocks her head. ‘My dad was a soldier. Dunno about the navy, though I should. Had an uncle in the service.’ Agnes opens her mouth to speak, but Miss West cuts her off again. ‘And it’s no use you explaining all the stripes and whatnot now, ma’am. To be honest, the coat was that torn up, I didn’t even realise what it was until later on.’

  Agnes grips the arm of her chair. She must see this through, no matter how painful the details. ‘Perhaps … the age of the man?’

  A sigh. Miss West’s expression softens, along with her voice. ‘The thing is … A drowned body ain’t a pretty sight, ma’am. It swells something awful. Don’t look like the person no more. Even the hair … I mean it’s darker when it’s wet. Looked kind of sandy to me, but …’

&nbs
p; The girl speaks with her hands. Not nervously; these are no fluttering birds but swift, decisive motions that sweep Agnes with them. She is grateful to have them to focus upon. The words are a buzz in her ears, for she knows exactly what Miss West is talking about: she too has seen a corpse pulled from the water.

  Softened, puffy. The flesh spreading out of its firm lines.

  ‘… do you see what I mean? Ma’am?’ Then, sharper, ‘Ma’am?’

  Strong arms catch her out of the swoon. Agnes has a vague sensation of being moved and having her feet elevated. The next thing she feels is water against her lips. Forcing its way in, as if she is back in the river … She splutters.

  ‘Easy, now,’ Miss West croons. ‘Take a drink. It’ll bring you round.’

  Reluctantly, Agnes does. Her vision returns. Miss West offers a teasing smile.

  ‘I see, now, why you didn’t go to the mortuary.’

  She is not amused; she feels like a colossal fool. Why does she keep charging about on these mad errands, instead of following Simon’s advice to stay home and rest? Perhaps he has been right all along. Perhaps she does need someone to care for her, to tell her what to do. She makes such a hash of things alone.

  She tries to sit up, but Miss West pushes her back down. ‘Not yet. Give it a minute.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Agnes murmurs. ‘I must seem terribly weak.’ Then, feeling some explanation is necessary, ‘That was how she died, you see. My sister. She … well. Her body was recovered from the Avon.’

  She is surprised to see Miss West’s face, which until now she thought rather sharp, melt into understanding. ‘Terrible thing for you.’ After watching her a moment, Miss West adds, ‘I can see it. That dusky, ash of roses colour. Like a wound slowly bleeding in water. It left its mark on your aura, didn’t it?’

  Agnes is too astonished to reply.

  Miss West chuckles. ‘Ah. You didn’t read the card in the window, then? This is a special house.’