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As the week went on to digest each day, Ethel found a queer sort of calm in the routine of Eden Hall. Ernest’s funeral had to be prepared as the thaw reached farther into the frozen topsoil, and the house, once again, had to be cleaned from the passage of mindless police officers. Print powder and mud, and the leftover glass and chinaware found in the nooks upstairs, all had to be brought down and assessed.
Most of the blood had been picked up from the floor, but not all had been scrubbed away. Splatter was found all the way down the hall towards Beulah’s room, and on the chandelier that hung from the second floor landing. It was hard to believe they were cleaning up blood, but as Ethel scrubbed at the macabre stains, she had to wonder if any of it had been her brothers.
Due to his work, Constable Bertram had been unable to visit since the arrest. The papers were happy to oblige each week with a suitable update rife with conjecture and rumour.
“The same papers that were fast to condemn Miss Dolly this time last week, are now raising Hell about her not being let free!” Al sat back in one of the old wooden chairs that were tucked against the kitchen countertop. A straw hat was hitched up on the top of his head, and his boots were kicked together across the polished wooden floor. Beulah was puttering around making breakfast but made sure to shoot him a glare every time she managed to avoid tripping over his shoes. He was reading from the Summerside Journal.
“Apparently, Mr. John Dowie is now at the Pownal Square Jail. So, I guess that means they must’ve got all that lead outta him.”
Beulah kicked his foot, ushering Mr. Carlow to move as she wandered past him towards the stove. Ethel was at the table, writing out cheques and signing papers regarding her brother’s funeral.
“Watch what you say around Miss Ethel!” Beulah chided, rolling up her sleeves as she grabbed the bread pans and began to grease them.
Al shrugged but continued reading on his own. “Around here, we call it Harvie’s Brig,” he muttered.
“Isn’t that jail infamous for public hangings?” Ethel looked up, catching Al’s eye before the man risked a glance towards Beulah.
“Well... I suppose it is, yes.” He tipped his hat to scratch at the base of his hairline. “But I wouldn’t be worrying too much about that, Miss Ethel.”
“I read in the Examiner that there’s been a lot of opposition to the death penalty, especially in and amongst Charlottetown. I wonder if they’ll hang him.”
Ethel signed another document without hardly reading it. I hope Dolly will be back soon. I hate to even think it, but I’ve had my fill of funerals...
“Do you think Dolly will be sending word soon?” Ethel asked, picking her head up from the table.
Al looked relieved. “Well, I’ve got the coach all ready!” he said, rolling up the newspaper. “So as soon as she does, we’ll be on our way.”
“I can hardly wait...”
Ethel rubbed her eyes and watched as Al stood up from the chair. They had all just finished breakfast together, and Fritz was set to return to the house. Doctor Johnston had been around to check on Ethel several times, and it had been at his discretion that Fritz Humphrey was to return to Eden Hall for rest and the reinstating of light duties.
Ethel was happy about it. She was also sure that Fritz would be relieved, as Al often reported that Fritz only opened his mouth to eat, and to grouch at how bored he was, staying at his sister’s house.
It had been a week since John Dowie had climbed down from the third floor, and yet Ethel’s spirits were slowly climbing. Her brother’s killer had been caught, Eden Hall was safe once more, and its Lady was set to return any day. The terrible chasm Ethel had fallen into when her brother had been slain, was rising beneath her with every spark of joy she managed to light beneath her heel, and now knowing that Beulah and Al were innocent, Ethel’s hope was ignited.
She found out right away that John Dowie had lived, and though the feelings were strange to process, Ethel was glad she had not ended his life. Doctor Johnston told her that he’d survived only due to the rifle’s close range that had reduced the spread of the ballistics and because Dowie had been facing straight on when the gun went off. Ethel hoped to meet him someday, to see the man who murdered her brother. She figured she’d go with Dolly...
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“Ethel? Constable Bertram is here to see you.”
Ethel looked up from her brother’s desk. It was evening time, and the candles shone like flickering wisps from off the mantlepiece. The light from the foyer lit the outline of the large, mahogany desk in the middle of the room. The gaslit lanterns on the walls were in shadows.
“Are you here signing papers in the dark?” Beulah huffed, looking across the room before crossing it to light the sconce. “You’ll be a blind old shrew if you read without light! I’m terribly sorry, Constable, I’d no idea my Ethel was a bat.”
With the favour of darkness, the officer hid a chuckle.
Ethel set down her pen. “I was working, and it got dark. I had figured I’d finish before then.” Her frown deepened as the light came on.
Beulah turned to receive it. “Look at your eyes narrowing! You’re like an abhartach, allergic to light.”
As though to press the sentiment home, Ethel was wearing a black tea gown with a slight train. It hung as a coat around her shoulders. She had not been out at all today, and so her hair was done up in a simple chignon that was letting go at the sides. Ethel stood as the light made a strong popping sound.
“Mr. Bertram,” she called, standing from her brother’s chair to cross the room. He was wearing a long coat, dappled with rain upon the shoulders.
“Miss Ethel.” He nodded his head, inhaling as though to resituate himself.
Ethel’s brows drew together as he received her greeting and paused. “Do you have Dolly with you?” she asked, having expected him to say so right away. She looked past him, wondering if she had been made the target of a jest. “Has Dolly been discharged?”
He didn’t answer right away, and the pause was enough to sink her stomach.
Ethel wrung her hands and looked back inside her brother’s office. With only a brief gesture from Mr. Bertram, she stepped back to sit upon an armchair in the corner. The constable followed, picking up the desk chair before taking a seat in front of her.
“Ethel...” Mr. Bertram took her hand before pausing, as though to reconsider the act. Looking down, he swallowed hard, and placed his other hand atop her own and squeezed.
“Dolly isn’t coming home. She has been placed in quarantine.”
Ethel’s heart leapt against her chest, and she sat forward. “For what?”
“They believe it could be Typhus.”
“Typhus!”
Mr. Bertram shook his head, his piercing eyes intent on holding her where he could not. His grip upon her hand tightened. “They don’t know everything yet. She’s been ill a few days, and it has popped up at Falconwood before, so... the nurses are taking extra precautions.”
Ethel sighed and caught her head as it threatened to roll from off her shoulders.
“That’s not all, I’m afraid.”
“Andrew, I’m not certain I can take anymore.” She rubbed at her temples and pressed the pad of each thumb onto the back of her eyelid until she was unable to see when she opened her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Ethel. I wanted to tell you in person before...”
“Before?” She sensed his hesitation, sourced by their growing fondness of one another. Ethel could tell it bothered him. His inability or reluctance to dutifully relay the information to her for concern of the pain it’d cause. Ethel didn’t like the thought of forcing that position on him, and so despite her trepidation, she carried on.
Fall down all the way before getting yourself back up, Ethel.
Andrew exhaled with a sigh and sat up straight, like an old oak ready to catch the rain.
“Dolly has admitted that John Dowie, a sailor from north of the Island, was her lover.” He gripped her by the shoulders, as though expecting her to fall forward. “Dolly has admitted... to having an affair.”
