| |
Ethel looked down at the sea of mud kicked up from the rain that had swept the southern coasts of Charlottetown. Along the planks that sunk into the slurping void of the city roads, people huddled in their coats as they went about their day-to-day, hemlines rust red and dripping with filth. Even the buildings thronged together on the banks of Great George Street seemed to slump, like tombstones falling into the very graves they were meant to commemorate. Beside her, Beulah was quiet, watching as Ethel glanced at a stagecoach struggling through the muck.
On days like these, most people had to walk, but as the two ladies waited at the corner of the Pavillion, they heard the squelch of the approaching mud wagon that was meant to ferry them back to Eden Hall.
Old and splintered, the wagon lumbered forwards like an aged creature attempting to hoist its body out of the sopping ground. Less than a stone's throw away, another coach was marooned with its whole front left wheel in the mud. Several young men groaned as they struggled to pull it up, while a young mother, beneath a store-top awning, tried to soothe her squalling baby.
It had been several days, and though the noises in the city’s core were typical on a sunny day, Ethel was much relieved to be leaving the confines of the grand hotel. Since Dolly was removed and carted away to Falconwood, Ethel had been in perpetual limbo. She was unsure what had to be done or whether she wished to do anything but grieve for herself, her family, and her sister.
But she had promised to help, and Eden Hall was empty now. Affairs must be set in order. Ernest deserved to be put to rest with dignity, and while his wife was in Falconwood, it fell to Ethel to pick up the pieces.
She hadn’t wanted to return to Eden Hall, whose name itself was a ragged mockery. If she had obeyed her impulse, Ethel would have left for Summerside as soon as Dolly’s wagon had vanished behind the looming properties. But she couldn’t, not without unyielding shame and with no other place to go, Ethel found herself again enroute to her brother's mansion, made glum and chilling by his absence.
“I’ll prepare you something warm, Miss Ethel,” Beulah insisted as they climbed the stairs to the outside porch. The stained glass windows winked with beaded raindrops, but as the mahogany door was hauled open, the scent of must joined the damp outside like two tides colliding.
“I suppose I’ll have to start a fire first.” Beulah made a noise as she shrugged off her coat and rubbed the warmth back into her arms. There was a shawl on a chair by the entryway, and she grabbed it after hanging her jacket and then helping Ethel out of hers. “Put this on.” Beulah handed the wrap to Ethel. “You don’t want to catch a cold. Perhaps it would be best if you rested while I got the house heated.”
Ethel had been staring at the staircase, wondering if at the top the burglar had been waiting for her brother. Did the assailant rush him first? Or was the gun nozzle the first and last thing Ernest saw.
“I don’t want to go upstairs,” she said. What if she saw a remnant of that night? Some little thing left behind like a bloodstain or a nick in the wood. What if the body was still beneath the white, linen blanket? Saying so would concern Miss Murphy, so Ethel cleared her throat. “It seems the police have left behind a mess. It will warm me up to help you clean, so please,” she smiled, pinching at the shawl to draw it closer, “allow me to do it.”
Beulah nodded and with a sigh, turned to lament the state of the house. Everything seemed out of place. The rugs were askew, glasses and dishware left out, while muddied footprints stamped across the floor and dust crept over the furnishings. It was easier to focus on the tasks at hand, and though Beulah huffed at the disorder the police left behind, Ethel thought it a mercy that they had given them something to keep their minds from wandering.
They started in the kitchen first, stoking the fires, and washing the dishes while preparing dinner for later. Beulah had found a half-filled box of limes under the counter and promised she’d make key lime pie, a dessert she came across in an old recipe book years ago.
After the kitchen, they moved to the downstairs den and then into the dining room. Ethel knew eventually she’d have to venture into Ernest’s study, but instructed Beulah to leave it for now until she was ready to search for Ernest’s will and legal papers.
“You ought to ask Constable Bertram for help,” Beulah suggested with her arm across Ethel’s shoulders. Ernest’s study was dark. The liquor bottles and emptied glasses winked from atop his large oak desk and mantlepiece. His gun cabinet, inherited from their father years ago, was on the far wall. Next to it, a window that could be opened in the summer to allow one to step into the side yard garden, was shuttered. Everywhere were papers.
“Constable Bertram... I suppose I should ask him for help.” Bertram had told her that a gun from the cabinet was missing, and the bullets removed from Ernest’s body were similar to those used in the missing firearm. Ethel didn’t know anything about weapons, but she was aware that the gun cabinet had been a topic of pride for their father. Rooted even in their family name and history, those were stories her father had told Ernest. Tales of war, heroism, and galloping soldiers. Perhaps if Ernest and Dolly had ever birthed a son or daughter, Ernie would have passed those stories down. Now they were shades of the past, locked inside a cabinet with a missing gun.
But why would a gun go missing? Ethel furrowed her brow, hearing the grandfather clock upstairs chime out the dinnertime hour. Ernest’s pride in their father’s gun collection was hardy. He never would have lost a firearm. Didn’t he keep the cabinet locked, like their father always had?
“Let’s go, Miss Ethel. The meat pie ought to be ready by now, and I am aching to try that lime dessert.”
Tomorrow, Ethel thought, wandering away from Ernest’s den to the kitchen. She’d contemplate that all tomorrow. For now, she had to conquer the stairs and the landing where Ernest died. But even then, she’d do that after supper.
A knock on the front door was followed by an awkward cough and holler. Both Ethel and Beulah looked up from the kitchen countertop, having just set the plates for their evening meal, ears straining to hear the greeting from the backside of the house. As the women approached, all that followed were several more loud knocks and the pattering of wet feet shuffling on the patio.
Ethel called out, glancing through the stained glass that framed either side of the large front door. Whoever it was, doddered back and forth, running their hands through their hair as they turned to glance towards the road. Their boots were heavy and thumped like the carcass of a doe upon a game cart. Ethel’s hand paused, her fingers poised to grip the brass knob handle. What if this person, this guest, was dangerous? Was she opening Eden Hall to friends or serpents?
She pursed her lips, a whistle of wind from beneath the door heralding her to hurry and respond.
“Goddamn it, weren’t they coming home today? I swore she said today. Where the Hell’s that pap—”
“Mr. Carlow?”
“Aloysius?”
Al Carlow leapt, almost skidding over the wet floorboards of the outside porch. His short, cropped hair was wet but slicked back. A few rogue strands stuck to the slope of his brow as he committed himself to not falling prone. His shirt, suspenders, and trousers were dry from the calf up.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he yelled, rushing to excuse himself. “I-I’m sorry, Miss Arsenault. I didn’t mean—”
“Would you call me Ethel? Miss Ethel, if you’d prefer.”
Al was already nodding.
“It’s just, hearing that name right now, in this big empty house is... isolating.” She was holding the door and looking towards the harbour that crowned the crest of the field before it. Pinning a smile in place like a butterfly, Ethel let the door yawn wider.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Carlow? We were just sitting down to eat if you’d like to join us. Beulah?” Ethel looked back, her eyes settling on the wide-open gaze of her maidservant.
“Ye-yes, Miss Ethel?” she replied, brushing at her skirts to manage her shaking hands.
“Is it... all right?” Ethel kept space in the doorway as Al Carlow stood in the rain outside. He was as still as a moored coach in the mud but, as Beulah nodded and walked forward to take Ethel’s place, his boots thudded across the threshold.
“Of course. Come on in,” Beulah said, closing the door behind him before turning on her heel to leave. “I’ll set out another plate. There’s enough for an army, though you’re only allowed one slice of lime pie.” The slight shake of her voice gave her away. Beulah’s poorly manufactured ire whispered of something more as she hastened to depart Al’s presence.
“Thank you, Miss Ethel. I’m so sorry I didn’t meet with you earlier. Ernest was a good man, a great man to work for. I—” he stammered, blinking in an effort to keep himself whole. “I’m so terribly sorry this all happened.”
“As am I, Mr. Carlow,” Ethel didn’t have the energy to put on a brave face, and in the midst of friends, she thought that was all right. What was to happen to Al and Adella and all the serving lads and lasses now that Ernie was gone? Ethel would figure that out later. Right now, she wanted a hot meal, something in her belly to keep her sturdy when she ventured up the stairs.
“Let me get you something warm to drink. Come, we’ve set up in the kitchen.”
Sitting in the dining room seemed wrong somehow. Without Dolly or Ernest, Ethel thought she’d feel dwarfed by the empty chairs and stark placement of dinnerware. In the kitchen, where the stove and the heat were welcoming, all three of them sat around a countertop, the very same Dolly had been slicing limes at the first night Ethel caught her downstairs. Copper and cast-iron pots cluttered the walls, while dried herbs, glassware, and preservatives collected on shelves around the room. Adjacent to the wood stove, was the door to the basement. The laundry and the larder were beyond, secured behind the iron latch of the door handle. A small pantry was opposite the kitchen’s main entrance, just to the right of the servants’ corridors.
It was a crowded room, workable, but with every available space filled with purpose and design. As the three of them sat, soaking in the scent of bread baking, Ethel sighed. Their meal was good, the meat pie hearty and filling. Hot tea and coffee accompanied their dinner and was a suitable retreat when words refused to flow. For the most part, all three were quiet, the woe of the last few days pushed aside as they nourished their bodies for the hard conversations ahead. It was a comfort at least, to dine together, even though Ethel was certain the air between Miss Murphy and Al Carlow was tainted by something more.
When they had begun to clear away the plates, Mr. Carlow lingered at the door, leaning on its frame as he jangled keys in his trouser pocket. He was chewing on his cheek, making a subtle glance at Miss Murphy now and again when he thought no one was looking. After a while, however, perhaps in an effort to alleviate the awkward silence, he stood up straight and rubbed his lips together.
“I need to tell ya, Miss Ethel, that the day all this,” he waved his hands between them as though searching for the right word, “unpleasantness happened, Fritz took a heart attack. He’s all right,” he continued before Ethel could shout out, “I brought him to my sister’s so she could look after him awhile... but I think all this—I think it was all too much for him.”
Ethel glanced at Miss Murphy and took a seat on an old wooden stool next to one of the countertops. Her heart was beating in her chest, and a barrage of happy memories flashed like a falling deck of cars in her periphery.
“He’s all right?” she echoed, taking the slight nod from Aloysius as an antidote to her budding fear. She took a deep breath in. “I need to visit him.”
“We can go tomorrow,” Beulah agreed. “We can bring some fresh bread.”
“My sister lives on Dorchester, a few roads up from Water Street. Her husband works on the ships, but he’s been home the last few weeks. If ya have a scrap of paper and something to write with, I can scribble her address.”
Ethel nodded, swallowing to keep her mouth from going dry. Al excused himself after that, saying he had work in the stables and mud to wash off. Though Ethel wanted to head straight up to bed, instead, she stayed down to help Beulah with the dishes. It seemed like every single cup and saucer was dirty, but the menial tasks were greater than her desire to sit alone with only a wall as a barricade to her brother’s final moments.
What if I go up there and...
What? What could happen?
The stairs were prelude, like a spade at work in the boneyard. As they attained the second floor, Ethel and Beulah saw that the hall was pristine. The floorboards, once disguised with white linen covers, were unstained, while the walls had been wiped down, and no remnant of chalk was evident upon the floor. As Ethel let her breathing settle, she clasped Beulah by the hand as they marched towards her bedroom door.
Everything was normal. There was no marker that spoke of Ernest’s death. Nothing.
“I don’t want to linger too long. I want to see Fritz after breakfast,” Ethel said, running her hands down the grainy surface of the oakwood door. As soon as they’d entered her room, she’d shut it closed, and now, leaning upon it, the frame pressed grooves into her fingertips.
“I understand, Miss Ethel, and I’m sorry I—about myself and Mr. Carlow.”
Ethel’s eyes floated from the polished floorboards towards her servant’s gaze. Beulah Murphy was her oldest and fondest friend, around even when Ethel had been a seedling sprouting at her mother’s stalk.
I still have you, don’t I, Beulah?
Ethel smiled, though the corners of her eyes slanted downward. Letting go of the threshold, she reached between them and cupped Beulah’s cheek. In the belly of the grandfather clock down the hall, the hour struck almost on cue.
Beulah winced.
“If we both weren’t hurting so much, I’d tease you for your happiness.” Even while I’m jealous of it. Ethel’s eyes didn’t catch Beulah’s as she looked away, but neither did Ethel wait for their return. “I’m glad you have it,” Ethel continued. “Happiness. Even small bits of it. Keep it as something to cling to.” She pressed her fists into her chest and was dazed as the floor rose to secure her eye. Her parents were gone, Roland, Ernest... Dolly...
But here was Beulah, who’d also suffered, apologising for an instant of happiness that dared to share the hour that her brother died.
“If you don’t mind, I may cling to your happiness too, Beulah... if only by our close bond and proximity.”
