The Shape of Darkness Page 8

  Agnes sips at the water, giving herself time to think of a response. Either she has lost her wits, or Miss West has. Given her fainting fit, the former seems likely.

  ‘Special how?’

  Miss West considers. Just when Agnes thinks she will not answer, she says, ‘Tell me, ma’am. Would you like to speak with your dead sister?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ She drops her cup. Miss West lurches forward to save it, her brilliant eyes widening.

  ‘Careful. I didn’t mean to scare you. I know it ain’t for everyone.’ She hands the glass back to Agnes. ‘I was just trying to explain what we do here. I read auras. Cleanse and heal them with my Mesmerism. That’s not much good to you. But the Sylph … I thought the Sylph might be able to help.’

  Agnes struggles to get her bearings. Sylph … she has heard this somewhere before. But it does not help her make sense of the strange words this girl is saying. Mesmerism? Was that not proved to be quackery? She remembers Simon speaking of it once, after he attended a demonstration. He had been impressed by one aspect, although she is at a loss to remember what …

  ‘The truth is, ma’am, that I can’t help you identify your friend. You’ll have to go see the corpse, or else wait until someone else does. That might take months. Or’ – she looks straight into Agnes’s eyes, unabashed – ‘the other way. We ask the man himself.’

  ‘I do not have the pleasure of understanding you.’

  Miss West points. ‘Behind that door, asleep, is the White Sylph. She can speak to the dead.’

  Prickles run all over Agnes’s skin. The White Sylph. She remembers now: Mrs Boyle. Mrs Boyle spoke of contacting her murdered husband through a spirit medium of the same name.

  It all crashes together in her head: the large cabinet, the crystal ball on the table. Necromancy.

  ‘I …’ she begins, but it transpires there is no adequate response when people talk of communing with the dead.

  Can it really be possible? Can it?

  Agnes imagines skeletons, ghosts and ghouls. The pictures fill her with an abject, quivering dread, until she thinks of Papa and her heart stutters. If it was true … If she could actually talk to him, one last time …

  She clears her throat, raises herself to a higher position. ‘I thought you said that your sister was unwell, Miss West.’

  ‘She is,’ Miss West agrees. ‘The Power comes after a spell of bad illness, and it can make you sick, too. That’s the price you pay for the Gift. But in a few days I’m sure she could do a séance for you.’

  ‘And – and your father? You said you had two people to care for. He was in the army … He is wounded from a battle, I daresay.’

  Miss West’s pretty lips set. ‘The man in there ain’t my father.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ The harsh London accent returns. ‘My dad bit it when I was seven. Cannon fodder. I pleaded with Mother not to marry again, but what could she do? There was no one to help us. Neither hide nor hair of my uncle. And you see how it’s worked out for me. She’s popped off and I’m stuck caring for everyone.’

  Agnes pulls a wry expression. She knows exactly how that feels.

  ‘And what afflicts the poor man?’

  Miss West puffs out her breath. ‘Matches.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He got us into matches. The hours I spent, miss, in that stinking factory, dipping the lucifers. They’re right, you know, to name them after Old Nick.’ Her hands gain animation once again. ‘That work don’t do you no good. All them fumes, they eat away at you. He got sick. And of course they don’t care, do they, factory owners? Just paid him off. They said they’d keep me on there if I wanted, but would you fancy it, after seeing the work take his face away like that?’

  ‘Oh. I think I may have heard of this malady. The corrosive effects of the phosphorus … Phossy jaw, do they call it?’

  ‘They can call it what they like,’ she scoffs. ‘It’s me what has to deal with it. I brought him all the way here to Bath because a doctor said the waters would cure him, but that’s a cock and bull story, ain’t it? Bloody doctors. They didn’t help my mother and they can’t help him.’

  Poor Simon. For all his authority, she doubts he would fare well, pitted against this young woman.

  Miss West seems to catch herself. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t need to hear all that. I don’t usually lose my temper, but it’s been a trying week. That body and all …’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  ‘Like I said, my uncle was a sailor too, and he left us. Thinking of them always makes me angry.’

  Agnes feels ashamed of how silly she has been. Neither the waterlogged corpse nor the river are here; they cannot touch her. And Miss West is not a wicked heretic, only a frustrated and poorly educated girl.

  She drains her glass and, for want of a side table, places it on the carpet. The fibres are unpleasantly stiff and coarse, like sackcloth. ‘Thank you so much for your kindness, Miss West.’ Slowly, she sits up. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you. Please accept my best wishes for your family’s return to health.’

  Miss West watches her stand, one hand outstretched to catch her in case she should fall again. ‘That’s all right. And what will you do, ma’am? About your friend?’

  ‘I am not certain.’

  She touches Agnes’s shoulder. Her flesh feels startlingly warm through the black fabric of her gown. ‘You should talk to the Sylph. Honestly, ma’am. Just to know for sure.’

  Agnes gives a thin smile. ‘And what is the price for a consultation with the dead, these days?’

  ‘For you? I’d take sixpence. Just this once, mind.’

  Half a shilling! Half the price of a shade, for a piece of mummery. But she must not be rude to Miss West in her own house.

  ‘I will think upon it,’ she says.

  ‘Make sure you do. Miss … ?’

  It surprises Agnes to realise she has come inside Miss West’s home, heard her secrets, and not even given her own name. She was taught better manners than that.

  For a second she considers inventing an alias, just in case the police come to hear of her visit, but her imagination fails her. ‘Darken. My name is Agnes Darken.’

  It is clear she has made a mistake.

  Miss West removes her hand from Agnes’s shoulder. A change comes over her, like a veil dropped across a bonnet.

  Is the young woman literate? Could she have read the newspaper article describing Mr Boyle’s murder?

  ‘Well, you know where I am if you want me, Miss Darken,’ she mutters.

  Chastened, Agnes leaves the house. She thought she would enjoy being free of that close, stale air but the streets are as chaotic as ever: the rattle of wheels and the cries of the hawkers a rude awakening.

  There was something soothing about that parlour which she cannot put her finger on. A feeling of being outside of herself, wrapped in Miss West’s voice.

  Agnes had thought that she was lying when she told the girl she would think about the séance. But she does.

  She thinks about it all the way home.

  CHAPTER 10

  Most girls of Pearl’s age and station share a bed with their sisters. She’d like that. But Myrtle’s always reluctant for them to bunk together, even when Pearl is poorly. She says it’s important that they each have their own space.

  The problem is, Pearl’s bedchamber isn’t exactly a space to boast about. The wainscot is chipped, mould buds on the ceiling and a thick, dusty curtain covers the small window – Pearl’s not sure it’s ever been washed, or even drawn back. There’s a dark wardrobe, which looks alarmingly like the cabinet in the parlour and is mostly full of Myrtle’s belongings.

  There’s just one good thing about being alone in her twilit room: she can pray. Not like Father taught her, exactly; she doesn’t know much about God other than His name. But she likes the idea of someone hovering beyond her sight, watching over her. Someone she can talk to who will maybe – maybe – talk back.

/>   She sits on the bed, crosses her legs. This time it will work.

  She can’t stop the murderer or explain the shivering on her own, but there’s a person on the Other Side who can help her: Mother. If she can contact Mother, they’ll catch the killer together as a team. The idea fills her with a sweet glow. Not only the prospect of finally meeting her parent, but of being of use to the world outside for a change.

  If she managed to call up that phantom in the cabinet and make the fishbowl explode, surely she’s strong enough to find Mother now?

  She closes her eyes. Waits.

  Horseshoes clack distantly outside.

  The colour behind Pearl’s eyelids has a brownish tinge, it isn’t as dark as it should be. Frustrated, she takes off her shawl and wraps it around her head. That’s better. Warm, muffled. She can hear her own breath. It dampens the wool that presses to her face.

  Where are you, Mother?

  She tries to recreate that sensation of falling into an abyss that comes so easily in the parlour. Showers of light and stars usually spill from her, beyond her control, but now she actually wants to reach out and pluck something, there is … emptiness. Just her hot breath and the terrifying blankness.

  What would help? She hasn’t anything that belonged to Mother. Doesn’t even know what Mother looked like. But surely she’ll know when she comes, she’ll know instinctively.

  Pearl holds out her arms like she’s playing blind man’s buff. She gropes into the darkness, concentrating with all her might.

  ‘Please, Mother.’

  Nothing happens.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Why can’t she feel the ghosts? Normally, they scare her with their whispers and their butterfly touch, but in fact this void is worse. Calling out for help in a pitch-black cave and hearing nothing come back to her but her own voice.

  The shawl itches her face.

  Reluctantly, she unwinds it and tosses it aside, but keeps her eyes closed.

  Maybe she’s been too alert, too desperate? Myrtle says you don’t catch ghosts with stomping feet. Pearl tries, tries so hard, to compose herself.

  But still the blankness taunts her.

  Slowly, she inches her eyelids open, hoping that by some miracle Mother will be standing before her, covered in a white shroud.

  She isn’t. There’s only the wardrobe and the scuffed walls.

  For the first time it strikes her that maybe Mother doesn’t appear because she doesn’t want to be seen. Not by Pearl.

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to die,’ she whispers. ‘I was only a baby. I didn’t know. I couldn’t help it.’

  But it seems she is unforgiven.

  CHAPTER 11

  Agnes first met Montague over a table like this. Of course they went to Molland’s in those days, but the essential layout of the refreshment room is the same here in Marlborough Lane: circular tables with sprigged cloths, pale green and white crockery, spiced steam in the air. They even have a similar bell over the door. It tinkles sporadically, making no impact on the chatter and clinking spoons.

  When she thinks back, her memory is hazy. To tell the truth, she had no indication at that first meeting of what Montague would come to mean to her. She was more interested in sponge cake and cocoa than the two young men Captain Darken had rushed across the shop to shake hands with.

  Bedford and Montague had served under him as midshipmen, her father explained. They were due promotion any day now, and he would put in a good word for them, if his word still meant anything to the navy. It had meant something to Agnes. When the engagement was finally formed, after Captain Darken’s death, one of her chief pleasures had been the certainty that Papa would have approved of her match.

  But on that day, John Montague was simply an agreeable young man who shared stories of life below deck. The only virtue to recommend him over his companion Bedford was the honour of his attention. For Bedford relished a challenge and had set out to engage Constance in conversation.

  Although the sisters were similar in appearance, it was generally agreed that Constance’s visage lacked the prettiness Agnes’s possessed. Constance’s chin was more pointed, her nose like a freshly sharpened pencil. Beside the rest of the family’s brown eyes, her blue ones struck as particularly cold. But still there was something that drew gentlemen to Constance. That face: provocative, even at repose. Daring you to animate it.

  Bedford did not succeed.

  Was it that day, or later on, that she discovered Montague’s fondness for marchpane? A box of it sits on Agnes’s lap now, ready to take home for Cedric. It emanates a scent of almond that is almost unbearably sweet. Like her memories – one can only indulge in moderation. A surfeit is sure to cause rot, somewhere down the line.

  The bell tinkles. Simon steps into the room, carrying his small black dog under one arm. The animal has a ribbon tied around his neck that matches Simon’s best waistcoat.

  She is oddly touched. He always remembers the day.

  ‘Miss Darken!’ He walks over, takes her hand and raises it to his lips. ‘Many happy returns to you. Forgive my tardiness. A gentleman should never keep a lady waiting.’

  ‘So why did you?’ she enquires archly.

  ‘A patient.’ He sits opposite her, placing the dog upon his lap. ‘This snow has caused a flare in all the rheumatic complaints.’ The dog yawns. She suspects he would rather be home by the fire than trussed up for her benefit.

  ‘Well, you see how extravagant I have been in your absence: a whole box of marchpane!’

  ‘On the anniversary of your birth, I believe you may do whatever you wish.’

  This is not something she often hears, especially from Simon. ‘Anything?’ she teases. ‘You would let me order a cup of coffee without a warning that it excites my nerves?’

  Concern flickers across his brow. He quickly wards it off with a smile. ‘For today, I believe I would.’

  But Agnes can be kind too, and she places an order she knows he will approve of: ginger tea and a small apple tart in honour of the occasion. If one can call it an occasion.

  They amuse themselves by feeding sugar lumps to the dog while they wait for their refreshments. She wonders why it never seems to strike Simon that this is also the day that Constance was born. That would be reason enough to dampen the celebrations. Yet each year they re-enact this charade: him, so desperate to treat her; she, trying to appear pleased for his sake, as if growing older were a privilege rather than the burden it feels.

  She has stopped counting her age with any accuracy. Simon could probably tell her the exact figure, but his gallantry would never allow it.

  ‘That is enough, now, Morpheus,’ Simon finally says as the dog’s tongue works busily at his fingers, trying to lick off every stray grain of sugar. ‘We are both of us portly already.’

  ‘But you are strong,’ Agnes tells him. ‘Whereas I do not think Morpheus can say the same.’

  The dog answers with a burp. They laugh.

  ‘It is true, of course,’ Simon chuckles. ‘I indulge him. He is a greedy, lazy little brute. But I do so enjoy seeing him content.’

  Morpheus is content, she thinks, because he never met Simon’s wife. His previous dogs were not so fortunate.

  She gestures to the box beneath the tablecloth. ‘Perhaps I am the same with Cedric. Taking home treats although he never remembers to wish me a happy birthday. And Mamma cannot remind him. You know how her mind wanders these days.’

  He shifts uncomfortably, but is prevented from replying by the arrival of their victuals.

  The aroma of her ginger tea is pleasantly warm. She has not drunk it in a while, but she remembers now it was always her sister’s favourite. That kick of spice, just like the woman herself. Simon has ordered coffee, proving that physicians never follow their own advice. To be fair, he looks as if he requires a whole vat of the liquid. Despite his attempts to dress smartly and oil the remains of his hair, Agnes can see his fatigue. In the moment he pauses to lift his cup, the mask slip
s, and what she glimpses beneath is exhaustion.

  It frightens her. She has become so reliant upon him.

  Morpheus’s round eyes grow large at the sight of the apple tart. Agnes pulls it to her side of the table.

  ‘Simon,’ she begins. She does not look directly at him but stirs her tea, round and round. ‘I did wonder if … With it being my birthday … I might ask a favour from you?’

  ‘As ever, I am at your service.’

  Her heart flutters its wings inside her chest. It is only Simon; she should not be afraid to speak candidly before him. But the problem is, Simon knows her better than anyone; he sees the things she keeps hidden, even from herself.

  ‘There was a man. He drowned in the Avon not long ago. You may have read of it.’

  He clears his throat. ‘I did, yes.’

  Her spoon is moving very fast. Morpheus watches it, his eyes flicking forward and back. ‘With your medical connections, I wondered if you might … make some enquiries for me. See if they are any closer to establishing his identity.’

  The sound of cups and plates moving only exaggerates Simon’s silence.

  He is so quiet that she thinks he may have stopped breathing.

  At last, he says, ‘And may I ask why … ?’

  She must concentrate. She cannot let either feature or voice betray her. ‘He was a naval man, it seems. I very much doubt he ever served with Papa, but I should like to know if—’

  ‘Miss Darken, it is not him.’

  Her cheeks scald, as if he had thrown his coffee in her face.

  ‘You mistake me,’ she snaps.

  ‘Do I?’

  Morpheus whines.

  Agnes lets go of her spoon. It chimes loudly against the cup. Without it to clench, she notices that her hand is unsteady. ‘Yes. This is not about Montague, precisely. But I was not being wholly honest when I said it was about Papa, either. The truth is, Simon … Something very strange is happening. Do you remember when the policeman came around? Asking about Mr Boyle?’

  ‘Naturally, I recall it.’

  ‘That very same day, I took a study of a naval officer by Sydney Gardens. Do you understand? The silhouette – and then – the man – he drowned! What if it was him, Simon? What if it was the same man?’