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It was a bright morning, the kind that could inspire even the poorest of souls. The sun came up and smiled on all that clung to its auroral skirts while Ethel watched its daytime blanket fall upon Charlottetown from the window of her bedroom.
She hadn’t slept but sat upon her bed and wondered at the sunrise that promised life, love, and hope on a day she wished would never arrive. Perhaps the sun—that hung alone in the darkest part of Heaven—was lending succour because it knew how lonely the darkness was. The brightest thing in all the world, also knew the depths of the abyss, because within its pit it dwelt and shone its rays outward in hope to lend comfort to those beyond.
Ethel had wanted to sprint like a mad fox back towards Dolly’s room the moment Bertram had left. Instead, she remained in the hotel’s parlour and watched as a heavy set man, spangled with polished buttons and his officers badge, walked towards her sister’s room. Outside he stood, like an unknown guardian to the rest of the Pavillion’s patrons. Protecting Charlottetown from sweet Dolly Arsenault.
Of course, Ethel knew that he was there to keep them separated until daybreak forced the path onward, but the thought that Dolly should awaken alone was agonising, if only because Ethel had promised to stay.
Her room was cold, and her breath made ghosts in the air as she wandered to wash and dress. Beulah lay sleeping in the adjoining room, exhaustion a heavy crown upon the young maid’s brow. Ethel had heard her cry several times during the night, moaning, tossing in an effort to thwart the demons that were heralding the sunrise. Ethel didn’t wake Beulah, for Dolly’s sake and the sake of the rest that they would all sorely need in the coming days.
The Pavillion, now less a pleasant lodge of hospitality and more a stable of unnerving inevitabilities, was quiet. The silence hung like Damocles’ sword as Ethel marched towards Dolly’s room. Daylight warmed the panelled windows of the hotel’s halls, and maids already bustled through the winding corridors, but in Ethel’s mind, all was still. Though the gas-lit lights were off, the outside world was mirrored back at her as Ethel watched her reflection in its glass.
In black, she looked like the grim reaper, whose presence was fit enough to usher in a person’s ill-fated future. That her presence was to be a comfort for Mrs. Arsenault, seemed ironic. What words could she say to ease the plight of her sister? What words did Ethel have but the hollow and pitiful pleas that everything would be all right? Words she did not believe in herself.
She didn’t say anything when she arrived at Dolly’s door. The officer moved like the great beast Cerberus, sliding to the side to let one more soul into the Hadean heart of the opulent bedchamber. Though outside was a portrait of pleasant weather and airy light, inside Dolly’s room, Ethel had to light a lamp. It shone like a wisp amongst treasure troves. Heavy curtains that blocked the day were drawn, and sleeping in the centre, like a doll whose companion absconded, was what Constable Bertram believed to be the beast that killed her brother.
Lovely, bright, happy Ernest, who lived now as a memory that would fade over time. His wife was asleep, her breast rising and falling like the keel of a boat upturned at sea. Ethel was glad that her entrance had not awoken the girl nor did her trek across the room stir the young woman from rest.
She laid the lamp upon a dressing bureau, and then searched through hastily prepared trunks for a suitable dress. Nothing of Dolly’s was suitable. It was all patterned and jovial, with lace and flowers and light colours. If she thought Dolly would fit them, Ethel would have gifted her one of her own gowns. Mourning clothes Ethel had aplenty, and they may have garnered sympathy from any early morning onlookers that chanced to see Dolly being shuffled inside a stagecoach. Ethel loathed to see her in black however, especially adorned in a gown she had brought from Summerside.
“Etty?”
Ethel turned, grief clawing at her features. Dolly was sitting up, her long hair less flouncy than usual. It stuck to either side of her face and pulled at her features until her cheeks seemed to hang above the corners of her downturned lips. Spectres of light that insisted past the heavy curtains, sent shadows over the bed.
Ethel bent towards the trunk and hefted a gown of white lace to lay at the foot of the bed. It was simplistic compared to the other gowns Dolly owned, but Ethel hoped the image of white would lend credence to her sister’s innocence.
“I’m sorry to wake you, Dolly,” Ethel replied as she moved to sit beside the bed. There were hairpins on the nightstand and a brush made from ivory. “Let me do your hair?” she asked, smiling as the woman shuffled across the mattress to sit beside her.
“It seems so early. Did morning even come?”
“It did. However, we’re not yet ready to face it. Let us get you dressed.”
Dolly’s hair was snarled, and her skin smelled of salt and brine like she had been sleeping in the sea. “I’m sorry Etty, that you have to wear black again. I... I—”
“Shh. Everything is going to be all right. Let us put you together. You’ll feel better then, and it will be easier to confront the day, confront all... the unpleasantness.”
By noon Dolly would be sitting in a cell somewhere, while Ethel contemplated whether her sister-in-law could have killed her brother.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
Ethel pursed her lips, pinning another lock in place as she glanced at a bottle of spirits winking in the corner. Doubts of Dolly’s compassion were waving banners in her head, but Ethel shook them down. There was no feasible way that Ernest’s wife, whom he loved more than anything, could have killed him. There had to be something more, something sinister...
“Listen Dolly, I need to tell you something,” Ethel said when they had finally dressed and prepared her for the day. Ethel sat on the bed beside her but jumped to fetch a glass of spirits. “Drink this first, it should help.” She didn’t know if it would, only that she had seen her father take a dram to calm his nerves when the news was sour.
“Etty, what is going on?” Dolly asked, taking a pull of the proffered drink.
The silence between them was telling. Ethel tried in vain to pluck the gentlest words to describe what was about to happen, but she saw panic strike the young woman’s features.
“Etty, you’re scaring me.”
“Listen, Dolly,” she said again, like a mother who promised to fix it all. “There are constables outside. They are going to take you to Falconwood. They believe you killed my brother.” Why Ethel hadn’t described him in relation to their nuptial connections, she wasn’t sure, but the clumsiness of it tied her tongue in knots as Dolly’s panic threatened to pour past her throat in something visceral.
“It’s going to be all right,” Ethel said, tucking Dolly in towards the hollow at her throat. “You must not yell or make a scene. You must go with the constables and hold yourself up confidently.” But not so much that they think you callous. “I will get everything in order while you’re gone.”
“Ethel,” she cried, forcing herself away, “You don’t think I did such a thing, do you?”
Dolly’s face was a litany of woe, and for all the world, as Ethel looked into the young girl’s face, she thought she’d never forgive herself for considering such a creature could harm her brother.
“No,” Ethel said at once, pulling Dolly back into her shoulder. She was unable to keep the well of tears from spilling on her cheeks. “But you need to listen and do as the officers say. We will get to the bottom of this. We will find who did such a thing.”
“Why is this happening?”
Ethel’s resolve was breaking, the fissures of her heart worming into the countenance of the now widow that sobbed within her arms. She was clutching at Dolly’s back now, to keep herself from shaking, and though it felt like seconds had passed, it must have been more because the door spilled open.
Constable Bertram, looking stern and melancholy like a sinking ship, walked inside the room. Abreast was another man, older but less sure.
“Mrs. Arsenault, you have to come with us.”
Dolly sat up, a few discordant curls falling out of place as she spun on her heel. “This is a mistake! All of it. I never killed Ernie, I would never—”
“Mrs. Arsenault, the police have granted you liberties that were beyond our obligations. I would advise you to come with dignity.” His eyes caught Ethel’s, and his glance was of earnest request.
She leapt from the bed like a shadow late to follow. “Listen to the constable, Dolly. Was he not your friend?” Ethel embraced her sister’s shoulders, proffering strength and balance as Dolly stood up straighter.
“I’m scared, Etty.”
Ethel quaked, her words boulders in her mouth. “They’ll keep you safe. They’ll find who did it and put them away.”
“What if they don’t?” She backed away. The police moved up to escort her. “What if they never find out who did it?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Arsenault. Your husband was a well-respected man in Charlottetown. We will find the culprit.”
“Will you, Constable Bertram?” Ethel whispered from the room as the door yawned wide at their departure. What if the murderer was not Dolly. And what if the murderer struck again?
