| |
After breakfast, Lance, Arthur, and James parked Mrs. Wylit outside with another cup of tea and her cigarettes. They returned to the house to say an awkward goodbye to Lance’s aunt and uncle, and then disappeared back into Lance’s room to avoid his father’s glare.
“You’re sure it’s not wrong to go through his things?” James' body jerked when Arthur put a reassuring hand on his back, an automatic reaction to being so suddenly exposed. He took a breath and forced his shoulders to drop.
Lance diffused the moment effortlessly. “You’re safe, remember?”
“Sorry.” James smiled up at Arthur, who continued to rub his shoulders. “I forgot. It’s hard to just let go of all these years of... fear, I suppose.”
“Doesn’t help your dad’s a policeman,” Arthur added.
“I understand. But in answer to your question, I’m sure it’s all right.” Lance crossed the small room to kneel before the crates and the steamer trunk, each coated with a fine layer of dust. “Granddad loved the two of you. He saw how happy you made Lady Barlow in the end. Besides, he wanted us to find Matthew. I don’t know where else to start. You lads have any other ideas?”
They both shook their heads.
“Ought to get started. Don’t have all day. Need to take the train back.” Arthur cracked his neck.
“Or to wherever the journey takes us.” James half-smirked as he knelt down next to Lance to help him with the first crate. “Mrs. Wylit seems to think we’ll be gone awhile. My suitcase is stuffed.”
Together, James and Lance opened the lid on the first wooden box. Arthur opened the other, and systematically they lifted Mr. Marlin’s things from their orderly places and spread them out with gentle, reverent hands. There were framed pictures of steel-faced Victorian relatives, the family bible, a brass-handled trench knife, and a velvet box, lined in satin, in which rested his war medals. In another small box they found a locket, which Arthur handed over to Lance immediately, knowing his large fingers would never open it.
“Careful,” James advised as Lance attempted to run his fingernail through the seam.
“Better let you do it.” Lance took James' hand and opened it to drop the chain into his palm.
James' quick fingers clicked the locket open. The picture inside, yellowed with age, was of a soldier with a youthful face and an oval chin, so boyish beneath his sharp cap. They puzzled over it a moment until Lance said, “It’s Grandad. This must have belonged to my grandmother.”
They uncovered tiny, lacy dresses, likely ancient familial baptismal gowns, a portrait of Mrs. Benwick as a child, and Mr. Marlin’s uniform, wrapped in crumbling tissue. Books, official papers, and a set of solid silver candlesticks emerged as well. “A parting gift from Lady Barlow, I should imagine,” said Lance.
At last, all of Harold Marlin’s worldly possessions lay on the rug or on Lance’s bed. The only item that might be of any use to them was Mr. Marlin’s black leather address book, full of his spidery, perfect handwriting, a lifetime’s worth of friends, acquaintances, and family. James pointed out their names and the address of the flat they shared above Mrs. Wylit, one of the final entries in the book.
“I suppose someone in this book might know something about what happened to Matthew.” James turned the pages with gentle fingertips. “But there are so many names to go through.”
Lance put a warm hand on his shoulder, and then stood up to light a cigarette near the window. “Perhaps Granddad was... out of touch with reality. In the end. Perhaps he simply wished that Matthew was still alive. He did love Lady Barlow, you know. Of course those who serve are always proud of the house they care for, but there was something very special to him about the Baroness.”
“She was an incredible woman,” James said, and Arthur nodded in assent before he hung his head to hide the sudden tears in his eyes. “Arthur and I owe her so much. If Mr. Marlin thought it important that we put these matters to rest, then we must put these matters to rest.”
“You really think he was losing his grip at the end?” Arthur stood and brushed the dust from his trousers.
Lance stood as well. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. The doctor never said anything about dementia when he visited in the final days.” He sighed, and tapped Mr. Marlin’s black address book in the palm of his broad, smooth hand. “I suppose this is where we’ll have to begin, then.”
Mrs. Wylit’s voice growled up from the hallway, muffled slightly by the closed bedroom door, although the impatient cadence cut through the pocked wood. “I know it’s all unexpected, Alice, I do, and I promise we’ll be going soon — but for now I need you to stop chirping in my ear. At least you have your son is all I’m saying.”
“Mrs. Wylit!—” Lance’s mother’s exclamation cut off as Mrs. Wylit burst through the bedroom door with Alice at her heels.
“I need to go to the shops.” Mrs. Wylit hugged her arms over her chest. Her yellowed nails tapped madly on the crook of her arm. “I need cigarettes.”
And a bottle of whiskey, James thought darkly. “We’re right in the middle—”
“Now.” The wild hunger flashing in her bloodshot eyes urged him to cease his protestations.
“All right,” James relented. “You two have a look through the address book and try to decide where we’re headed. I’ll take her into the village.”
“I’ll do it,” Arthur stepped forward to loom over Mrs. Wylit’s frizzy head. “I can handle her if... well, you know.”
“No, I want James to take me.” Mrs. Wylit pointed a claw at her desired companion.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Mrs. Benwick backed up out of the doorframe and allowed Arthur to steer Mrs. Wylit outside by the shoulders.
She struggled. “No, you send James with me, I want James!”
“Careful, Vi, you’ll hurt his feelings,” James called after them.
Mrs. Benwick shot her son a look of pure, venomous annoyance. “Tonight, I want a peaceful house,” she said, her voice cool, but low, and dangerous. “I think we’re owed a bit of rest after burying your granddad.”
“Mrs. Benwick, I am so terribly so—” James tried, but she shut the door.
Lance turned to him, and scratched the back of his head, eyes squinted in a rueful expression. “We’ve got to shove off, or she might murder me.”
“I ought to apologize to you as well.” James knelt down to avoid Lance’s gaze, and folded up Mr. Marlin’s uniform with delicate fingers. “I can’t believe Mrs. Wylit followed us up here.”
“Well, I think she’s a holy fool.” Lance dropped his knees to help pack things away. “Or the jester in a Shakespearean play. Speaking the truth when nobody else can.”
The bedroom door shuddered and burst open again. Mrs. Wylit made it one step inside before Arthur’s meaty forearms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off her feet. “You’re not looking hard enough,” she shouted before being carried away back down the hall and out the front door. “Look for the yellow!”
She shouted on about yellow until the slamming front door cut her off. Lance jumped up and shut his door against the barrage of “bloody this” and “bloody that” emanating from his father’s chair in the living room.
“We’d better hurry.” Lance picked up the family bible and prepared to replace it in the box. As he did so, the ancient cover flapped open, and a small yellow envelope fell free from where it had been tucked in the pages.
Lance and James stared at it where it fell on the edge of the rug, one corner on the dusty wooden floor.
“L-look for the yellow,” James whispered, wide-eyed, and then knelt down to snatch up the envelope.
As he picked up the envelope, James turned to look at Lance, who was kneeling to position himself beside James. James bonked his eyebrow right into Lance’s knee, lost his balance from the balls of his feet, and fell sideways onto the floor. He saw stars for a moment before Lance’s concerned face swam into focus.
“Oh, now I’ve gone and done it.” Lance gathered James up by his elbows and hauled him to his feet. “Sorry, mate, entirely my fault.”
“It’s nothing.” James cupped his hand over his eye. His eyebrow stung, a dull ache beneath the surface. “Clumsy of me.”
“Let me see.” Lance took James' wrist and led him a step closer to the window’s summer light. “Move your hand.”
James dropped his fingers. He blinked with a series of rapid grimaces. The eye watered a bit, but seemed undamaged. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“I don’t think it’ll bruise,” Lance said.
And then, simultaneously, they each realized that Lance still had his warm hand attached to James' cool, slender wrist.
Lance let go immediately and James stepped back and cleared his throat. James’s cheeks prickled with heat. “Stay still this time, I’ll get it.” James bent and scooped up the envelope, which could have started its life as a creamy white, but had aged to a tell-tale yellow.
“What did I tell you? Holy fool.” Lance took it from James' outstretched fingers. The flap was unsealed, and Lance lifted out a bundle of thin papers. He unfolded them one at a time and set them out on his desk for James to see. They were letters, clearly, but the penmanship was haphazard, and each page was marred with savagely scratched out words and paragraphs.
James lifted one of the letters between his fingertips and squinted at it. “Dear Mother, I regret to inform you that I plan to end my life... Though I love you... Father never understood...”
Lance tapped the desk and James set the delicate paper back down. Frowning, Lance stroked his square chin and studied the letters a moment before slowly rearranging their order on the desk. “Do you see it?”
“They’re drafts. Each one longer than the next. This one seems the most finished, do you agree?”
“Let’s see if we can make it out.” Lance opened his middle desk drawer and removed a magnifying glass to aid their toil.
Dear family,
I have lived in this world for fifteen years. Many of them have been miserable, but not all. I remember the happy times as a child. I remember Father picking me up and swinging me around, or playing soldiers with me all afternoon. I remember a time before Mother was afraid to kiss me or brush my hair, before she was accused of sissifying me. Life was happy. Life was beautiful. It is precisely because I remember what a happy life could be like that I have decided that I can no longer live in the misery my existence has become.
What kind of life can I expect to live? One of secrets, of shame? Shall I be an actor in a play, portraying a role for the rest of my life? Pretending to love some poor wife, forever keeping my true feelings in the shadows? Or should I loudly and publicly proclaim who and what I really am, and go to prison or to my death?
If these are the paths offered to me, I choose to steer off the road and over the cliff into the sea.
Mother, I know you tried to protect me as long as you could. I love you for that. But once Father knew, your protection wasn’t enough. I know you felt as trapped as I, limited by the laws and Father’s indignation. I know this will cause you pain, but it’s for the best. I can’t help but feel as though I never should have been born. I know you never said as much to me, but your late age at the time of my birth, with my siblings so much older, speaks for itself. I was an accident. I should not be here. I do not belong on this earth.
I do wish to extend my unending gratitude to Mr. Marlin and Mrs. Galhad for their kindness. There were countless times Mr. Marlin found me crying in the garden or in my chamber, and dried my tears. Of course, he knew nothing of why I suffered, but he offered silent solace and companionship. There were many nights that I sat up in the kitchen with Mrs. Galhad, drinking warm milk until past midnight and talking about everything in life. She, too, knew nothing of my secret, but offered a listening ear and unending patience. Strange how a young man’s servants should be closer to him than his own family. To Mr. Marlin and Mrs. Galhad, I am truly sorry for any trouble I caused you. For you both, it is better this way.
The moment that John and I were discovered in the forest was the moment my life crumbled away to nothing. I know it is too much to hope that whoever is reading this will carry my message, but please, please tell John how much I felt for him, and how sorry I am that he was dragged into this horrid predicament because of me.
I hope that death will not be painful, and that it will not take long to drown. I have put stones in my pockets. The river is deep, and the currents swift. I hope when we meet in heaven that we are able to love and understand each other once again.
Goodbye.
Matthew Barlow
“Crikey.” Lance squinted through the magnifying glass.
“It’s Matthew’s suicide note,” James said. Lance glanced up in surprise at the sound of his utterance, its cracked quality. James swiped the heel of his hand against his face hurriedly, then sniffed and coughed casually. “These must have been his attempts before he got the words right.”
“Here I was, ready to make a little joke — lad’s rather hyperbolic, I mean, fifteen, you know — a little gallows humor, perhaps — but you’re upset.” Lance squeezed James' shoulder with his free hand, and his gesture of reassurance made his eyes leak further.
“I’m all right.” James sighed and accepted Lance’s handkerchief. “I feel like all I’ve been doing is crying these past few days. For God’s sake, he was your granddad, wasn’t he? But this...” He sniffed again and gestured to the note. “Don’t you see? Matthew... Matthew was like Arthur and me. I remember Nim told me as much. And all of his pain, written out here, God, it’s... it’s like I wrote it myself, do you see?”
“I do. I understand.” Lance kept his large palms on James' shoulders, and squeezed them again to emphasize his promise.
“There were so many times when I... when I thought about...” He took a breath and tried again. “When I thought about doing the same thing to myself, Lance. Arthur was the same way. Even as little children we contemplated it. Throwing ourselves in front of a train, diving into a river, drinking poison — and we were children! If we hadn’t found each other during Pied Piper, with Nim’s help, and Mr. Marlin’s protection, this same thing might have happened to us.”
Lance shifted his weight awkwardly and dropped his arms. He bit his lip. “Don’t... don’t think about it, James. Look, ah... well, you did find each other, and Granddad said Matthew is alive, so perhaps he never went through with it all.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being childish.” James wiped his face and gave Lance the handkerchief back.
“It’s all right.” He accepted the damp cloth back and tucked it in his pocket. “It’s that I can’t stand to see you like this. It’s breaking my heart.” He knuckled James' face with a gentle fist. “So chin up, yeah? Look, if you ask me, Matthew was dead set on making it appear as though Mr. Marlin and Mrs. Galhad knew absolutely nothing about his secret. I mean, what that says to me is that they did know. They must have known, based on how close they seemed to be. I bet Matthew took them into his confidence.”
“I think you’re right.” James' voice returned to its usual cadence. “Well, unfortunately we can’t ask Mr. Marlin. But perhaps we could ask Mrs. Galhad. She might know what happened all those years ago.”
“Right. Let’s see.” Lance stepped over to the bed and picked up Mr. Marlin’s black book to flip through the entries. “Here.” He tapped the book with a triumphant finger, and read the entry to James, “Louise Galhad. Church Lane, Welby. Lincolnshire.”