CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Marie assumed Maclish’s extended absence was merely a continuation of his increasingly erratic behaviour. She considered for a moment that it was the regret and shame of what had happened on the night of the dinner that kept him away. But that theory did not swill around her experienced mind for long.

She savoured the unexpected solitude, enjoying the quiet space, free for the first time of masculine posture and strut, of those endless noises that men make to convince themselves and others of the necessity and toil of their presence.

She sat and thought about the future of their child. She would be a good mother; she would keep the child safe from any excesses of clumsy love or dictating attitude that her husband might bring to its infancy. She still hoped that he would make a good father, even through all her nagging misgivings. Wasn’t he showing eagerness towards the birth? He had tried to be supportive before, when the last child was stillborn. Hadn’t he even let Dr. Hoffman examine the poor wee thing to understand what had gone wrong? She convinced herself that William would change when their family began to grow. After all, they were stronger now: Money was being saved; the house and the job were secure; he was becoming a man of consequence.

She lit a lamp in the kitchen against the growing night and started to prepare food. It was a notably dark night, with only a curved rind of moon to light the way of any late visitor to their home. Her eyes were continually drawn to the window, expecting to see him walking down the hill at any moment, his form silhouetted against the glow of the slave house and its reflection on the chain-link fence. Then it dawned on her why the gloom was so unusually impenetrable: The slave house emanated darkness. Its humped shadow was entirely black. An iced apprehension infiltrated the warmth of her blood. She opened the back door and stepped nervously through it, into the night. The yard was unnaturally still; the quiet held the loneliness of cooling embers. She returned to the safety of her home and locked the door, a shiver escorting her around the room until the air was stirred by her bustling and the house had stopped holding its breath.

—

The next morning, the Chinese cook found the slave house empty; the night guard was gone, and a chair had been turned over. Apart from that, the prison felt unused, as if no one had ever lived in it. They found the cold train later that day, but an extensive investigation revealed no trace of Maclish or the Limboia: they had vanished into the whispering trees.

The Timber Guild immediately started a search; one of their representatives was sent to inform Mrs. Maclish. The man would later report that Marie Maclish had seemed taken aback at first, but as he had delicately reassured her that she would not be left alone to struggle, should something untoward have happened to her husband, she had seemed to become less worried, a little euphoric even. He would put it down to shock and explain that the poor woman was undoubtedly grievously disturbed by the news of her husband’s disappearance.

—

They searched for a week but found nothing; they contemplated extending the search area but were unwilling to delve any deeper into the forest. In addition to the loss of their best foreman, there was the more pressing problem of finding another workforce as quickly as possible. Many business empires and livelihoods were utterly dependent on the company’s constant supply of forest timber; the panic of commerce far outweighed the concerns of a lost employee and his tribe of soulless heathens.

But when Hoffman went missing, the rumours began to squawk and fly. His working relationship with Maclish was well-known but unclear. Also, for years there had been complaints and rumours attached to the eminent physician’s conduct. These had been brushed under the carpet or paid off, while the larger chunks of accusation had been crushed by threat. All began to surface in his absence.

When officers of the Civic Guard started to look into the doctor’s affairs and lift some of the more conspicuous stones and lumpier carpets, a scree of innuendo came loose and tumbled onto his reputation. They searched his house and laboratory, discovering more facts than rumours, stopping midway to seal the rooms and leave with grey complexions. Pathologists from foreign cities were brought in to continue the search; the findings were never publicly announced. The Timber Guild absorbed the wrongs of its own, even when they revealed malpractice, illegal experimentation, and crime. All was stifled and kennelled, patted quiet by wads of money or choke-chained by itinerant accident; perfect erasure by perfect symmetry.

The bells of the cathedral were wallowing the city in their depth and counterpoint when Cyrena read of the disappearance of Maclish and Hoffman.

Pacing the room in time with the bells, she tried to hold back a smile, knowing it was all connected in some way to their search for Ishmael. She felt responsible and elated in the same moment. She cared nothing for those men, but the consequences of these portent happenings had a weight that unbalanced her equilibrium, causing a flutter in her ribs and setting her imagination racing. The game was under way. A huge obstacle had been eradicated; her embarrassment had been erased with their departure. She rang for Myra and asked her servant to tell the chauffeur to bring the car as quickly as possible. They were going to see Mistress Tulp.

Fifteen minutes later, they were purring through the streets, the cathedral bells still ringing as she passed beneath the twin spires. She craned her neck to see the silver bridge and laughed aloud. The chauffeur gave her a glance in the mirror and she brought her smile under control. It would not do to be so obviously happy at the rogues’ misfortune. But in truth, it was not their disappearance but her reunion with a part of herself that left her so elated, a part that had been imprisoned by their actions and attitude; she had almost forgotten that it was locked away until it had flown out of the rustling pages of the discarded newspaper.

By the time they reached 4 Kühler Brunnen she had composed herself. She rapped sharply on the gate and heard shuffling on the other side. She rapped again. Not even the miserable servant would dampen her current enthusiasm.

Mutter opened the gate a few inches and peered at her.

“Well, open up, man, for goodness’ sake; let me in!”

Mutter reluctantly pulled the heavy gate back and stood aside.

“That’s more like it,” she said, beaming down at the wide man as he seemed to chew on a sticky and knotted word. “Now, go and tell your mistress that I am here,” she commanded.

He made a strange gesture, his eyes seeming to roll around in his head, as if he were trying to observe the entire courtyard via his peripheral vision. “Please wait inside, madam,” he said in a flush of unsurpassed politeness. She was taken aback at such a remarkable change of attitude and let herself be swiftly escorted across the cobbled yard, away from the stables, and into the house. He left her in the reception room and went to find Ghertrude. She was delighted that Mutter had responded to her firm but polite commands so well: There was hope for the man yet.

Several minutes later, the door opened soundlessly and Ghertrude curved into the pale room. She had changed. Cyrena’s first thoughts were that she looked older since their last meeting, larger somehow, but that was impossible. Yet her complexion, it seemed, was also different from what she remembered. Cyrena’s new eyes were still hungry for detail, even if the rest of her mind found them rather too unrelenting.

“My dear, how are you?” she said, pushing aside her doubts to greet her friend with the great warmth and pleasure she nonetheless felt.

“Very well, thank you, Cyrena. How are you?” Ghertrude replied, her few words exposing so much—it was obvious that she was anything but well. The speed with which she had politely changed the direction of attention was overly polite, and Cyrena began to suspect that her presence was less than welcome. She quickly crossed the room and made a soft extension to grasp her friend’s hand. She saw the flinch. It was involuntary and momentary, but it was there. She held it anyway, shuddering at its coldness.

“My dear, you are freezing!”

She instantly brought the warmth of her other hand to cup the cold paw. Ghertrude looked away. Cyrena’s concern grew; the built-in determination that so marked Ghertrude’s character was nowhere to be found: Whatever had happened, it was serious.

“What’s wrong, Ghertrude?” she asked in a caring, solid tone.

She felt the movement again, trapped beneath the warmth of her grip. This time, it was not a flinch but a tiny tug of escape.

“Ghertrude? Tell me. You know you can trust me.”

Ghertrude wrenched her hand free and looked at Cyrena with an expression that neither of them recognised.

“Don’t treat me like a child!”

Cyrena felt the words slap against her face and looked on, speechless.

“We are in serious trouble and you pretend nothing has happened?! You breeze in here as if all those horrors never occurred? You are laughing and I cannot even smile!” Ghertrude was fighting back the tears, her shaking fists beginning to bunch. “I cannot sleep; I keep seeing those men and that horrible monster. Ishmael is lost and we will be dragged into the very depths of this dreadful crime!”

The younger woman was instantly overcome by a great gushing of contained emotion. She erupted in sobs and shudders, collapsing her stance and her speech into uncontrollable, wet convulsions. Cyrena guided Ghertrude to the sofa as she gave in to the tumult and wept until there was nothing left inside. Little sniffs punctuated the growing weight of her body as she fell into an exhausted sleep in her friend’s arms.

Cyrena was very still, cautious not to move and wake Ghertrude from the depth of such vital rest; she had been turned inside out by the strenuous action, but sleep would re-form her in its flat, calm wake. They were both soaked from her tears; Cyrena’s blouse clung coldly against her bosom, where Ghertrude rested.

From her fixed position, she looked around the room, letting her mind recall their adventures together. Why had Ghertrude said “crimes”? Nothing they had done could be called a crime; their involvement with those dubious men may have been a secret, but it was not illegal: She had paid for their services, which had proved to be less than useless. She moved slightly, to shift her weight; the sleeper gave a quiet moan. Cyrena stroked her friend’s head and settled her weight again. She continued her casual inspection of the room, trying to alleviate the growing discomfort and take her mind off the pins and needles developing in her feet.

Sometimes, she thought her inquisitive eyes had a life of their own; they constantly flitted and settled on things to embrace their shape and meaning. They looked into the tangled garden of the Persian carpet, imagining all kinds of arabesque creatures hiding within. They stroked the curved legs of a dark mahogany chair and rolled smoothly over its satin cushion. They took in the squat shadow that crouched behind the chair, swept over to the bright brass of the fireguard, then flicked quickly back to the shadow to look more deeply.

There must have been a shock of recognition, because something awoke Ghertrude. She flinched and pulled herself up, realising her embarrassing position. Still confused and wiping drool from her face, she noticed thin traces of it on Cyrena’s blouse. “Oh, oh, I am so sorry!” she spluttered. “Please forgive me—this is dreadful.”

She arose quickly and staggered back, still unbalanced from her folded sleep and the sticky webs of its unformed images. Cyrena was on her feet and ready for her fall, her hands outspread. Ghertrude righted herself and looked at her friend, clasping both Cyrena’s hands in her own. She had returned, secure in her old self.

“You must think me such a fool. How can I ever apologise? I am so sorry; I have not slept for three nights and my nerves are worn ragged.” She again noticed Cyrena’s crumpled, wet blouse and her own dampness. “Please forgive me. You have been such a dear friend and I have treated you terribly. I will get something warm for you to wear and light a fire; it is cold in here; we hardly ever use this room.” She fussed, dithered, and twirled, making her way to the door. “I will be back in one moment,” she said. “Please, do make yourself comfortable. We will light a fire.”

And then she was gone. Cyrena waited for silence, then swiftly crossed the room, searching out the Gladstone bag that skulked behind the chair.

Several minutes later, Ghertrude returned carrying a dressing gown and a tray with a flask of warm milk laced with rum. Mutter followed, holding kindling and logs. Cyrena had returned to her seat, but her colour had changed; she was pallid, and her smile was drawn over clenched teeth. Neither of them noticed; they were too busy lighting the fire and laying out the drinks. Ghertrude offered the dressing gown for her damp friend to step into, holding it out with a smile and a flourish, like a suddenly joyful matador. Cyrena donned the gown and they sat together with their warming drinks in front of the blazing fire. Mutter left the room without a word but with a significant glance at Ghertrude, which they both assumed Cyrena was oblivious to.

“Cyrena, please forgive my appalling behaviour. I am very tired and under the weather.”

“I should have told you I was going to visit. I think I took you by surprise,” said Cyrena, sipping her drink.

“No, no, you are always welcome. Now, tell me about what you have been doing.”

Cyrena was not prepared to change the subject, but she patronised her friend for a moment.

“Oh, this and that, attempting to find another purpose in my life.”

Ghertrude raised a quizzical eyebrow and cocked her head.

“Did you hear about Hoffman?” Cyrena quizzed.

“Oh! Yes, he disappeared, didn’t he?”

“Off the face of the earth.”

Ghertrude changed the subject immediately, though only as far as Hoffman’s unfortunate accomplice. “And what about the other one? Maclish!”

“Yes, he, too, apparently.”

They put their drinks down simultaneously, as if to mark the end of a difficult conversation.

“I feel I must apologise again,” said Ghertrude.

“You mean for not trusting me?” said Cyrena, closing in.

“Well, no, I meant…”

“I know what you meant. And I know what’s disturbing you,” interrupted the older woman.

“I am just unwell,” Ghertrude stammered.

“Don’t lie to me! I deserve more than this,” replied Cyrena, her voice rising and changing pitch. “I truly am your friend; now, tell me the truth!”

Ghertrude was silent.

“Ghertrude, tell me the truth; I already know what you are hiding.”

“It is…very difficult for me to say,” said Ghertrude gently.

Cyrena looked at her silently, her eyes dark and demanding. She would not be deterred.

“Very well,” Ghertrude sighed. “I am pregnant.”