Elijah’s Mermaid (20 page)

I took Freddie’s arm and he led me upstairs and into his private sitting room – a room not seen last time I came – a room that spread over the front of the house, with bookcases lining two of the walls, with newspapers and magazines spilling out almost everywhere, from cupboards, and drawers, in piles on the floor, and any walls that might be bare were covered in paintings, sketches and prints; mostly scenes from classical literature; what I now recognised as Pre-Raphaelite works.

There was one much smaller than the rest, its frame far less
extravagant and, hidden away at the room’s far end, it was very much in shadow, but its glass caught a shiver of gaslight, drawing my curiosity. I peered at a woman embracing a pot, and that pot embellished with human skulls. I suppose it sounds rather morbid, but I knew what it represented, that image being taken from a tale in
The Decameron
. Papa kept a copy on his shelves, and I often used to pull it down, my fingers flicking through to the page which held such a resonance for me – simply because the heroine’s name was the same as that of my mother. But even if that had not been so, who could have failed to find themselves moved by the tragic tale of a girl who had spurned an elderly suitor, only then to discover her young lover murdered, and concealing his severed head inside a pot of basil, that plant thereafter cherished and mourned as if it was her lover’s shrine.

The image hanging on Freddie’s wall was enhanced by a little inscription on brass –

ISABELLA; OR, THE POT OF BASIL

SHE WEEPS ALONE FOR PLEASURES NOT TO BE. . .

AND THEN,INSTEAD OF LOVE, O MISERY!

Still silently mouthing those sorry lines, I turned to see Freddie observing me and looking not himself at all, his expression too fixed, too serious – his thoughts no doubt on Elijah, though no mention had yet been made of my brother, and the atmosphere was very tense as I walked back towards the marble surround within which a fire burned vigorously, a blast of hot air rising up like a friend to gleam on the fender and mirror above, before which was a marble clock and a bust of Queen Victoria, and two brightly plumed birds in tall glass domes. The velvet green chairs either side of that hearth were very capacious and cluttered with cushions, and into that feathery embrace I was happy to sink when the maid came in, setting down a silver tray, and upon that a silver coffee pot, and two china cups beside a plate
which contained the daintiest little cakes. But Freddie had other refreshment in mind. When she’d gone he opened a chiffonier, drawing out a decanter and two crystal glasses, pouring out two measures of ruby-red wine and offering one to me while insisting, Drink this, my dear . . . it will do you good. We’ll soon have your cockles warmed up again.’

I suppose he was right, for the hot spreading glow of the port in my belly went some small way to thawing my bones, and while shuffling cold feet back and forth on the rug I watched Freddie down his glass in one, before filling it up to the brim again, then taking the chair set opposite mine. He placed both bottle and glass in the grate, and with firelight gleaming over his features I noticed how my uncle had aged. There was that greyness in his hair, and his face was bloated yet deeply lined, the flesh of his cheeks almost porridgy – and something else was different too, something so subtle I couldn’t define it, though you might almost say he looked haunted, gazing at me through swollen lids in which bloodshot eyes stared, too intense, grown moist when my uncle leaned forward again, his voice coming earnest but hesitant. ‘Little Lily. How you have come to resemble . . .’

He broke off with a heavy sigh, reaching down for the glass from which he gulped until nothing remained but the wine’s grainy dregs, and meanwhile I was presuming that, like so many other people of late, Freddie had been about to say that I’d come to resemble Elijah – but had then decided to hold his tongue. Even so, in that mirror placed over his hearth all that I’d seen reflected back was a plain young woman whose face was too drawn, whose eyes were almost too big, too black, the skin around them bruised with exhaustion. If anyone, I resembled Papa, and thinking of him, I said very bluntly, ‘Do you know about Papa? He’s terribly ill . . . and he worries about Elijah so. The doctor thinks it is his nerves. But, Ellen . . . she calls that nonsense. Ellen says . . .’

‘He was like that before . . .’ Freddie made his brisk
intervention, ‘when Gabriel was taken. And now,’ he held a hand to his brow, ‘and now, thanks to me, it must happen again.’

‘Thanks to you?’ A cold band of iron gripped my heart. After all, Gabriel had long been dead. What on earth could Uncle Freddie mean?

‘I invited you to Cremorne where we met with Osborne Black that day, and more recently, seeing the artist again and hearing how he sought an assistant . . . it was I who recommended Elijah. I knew. I knew what might happen. I won’t insult you by lying. I
hoped
that it would, that Elijah would come, allowing me to see him again. Oh, Lily . . . six years!’ He thumped a fist on the arm of his chair and a small bloom of dust went rising up. ‘You can’t know how much I’ve missed you both.’

His response was very dramatic. I wanted to say that we’d missed him too, and we had, it was true – from time to time. But I had more urgent things in mind, seeking to steer Uncle Freddie’s thoughts on to more practical matters again when I asked, ‘What happened, when you went to Thames Mall . . . when you went to enquire about Osborne Black?’

‘I was told he had gone travelling and intended to be away for months. Naturally, I assumed Elijah was with him, but the servant then said he had been dismissed, an event that occurred some weeks before . . . and how furious Osborne had been at the time, though she couldn’t say what it was about. Anyway,’ Freddie paused, pouring out what little was left of the wine, the coffee and cakes still completely ignored, ‘I have placed advertisements in the press appealing for information. And Sam . . .’

‘Samuel Beresford?’

‘The very same. He has agreed to come with us tomorrow when we travel again to the house on Thames Mall.’

‘Oh!’ I had not expected that, my rising excitement to hear his name immediately quelled by the ominous sense of being
thwarted in our search, and before it had even chanced to begin. ‘But is there any point . . . if the Blacks really have gone away?’

‘
If
Osborne Black has gone away then he has left his wife at home. And that is something I very much doubt.’

‘You saw Pearl? Did she say anything?’ My heart was thudding hard and fast. Was it the thought of seeing her . . . or was it Samuel Beresford?

‘We had no opportunity to speak. But when I was leaving, just at the gate, I heard a tapping sound above . . . a window at the side of the house which was fitted with bars and . . .’

‘You’re sure it was her?’

Uncle Freddie frowned and closed his eyes. ‘I met her this summer . . . an art exhibition, when the Blacks first returned from Italy. Once seen, who could forget that face?’

‘I have seen her for myself, you know!’ My retort was sharp. But then I remembered that day in Cremorne when we first saw Pearl in the mermaid’s tent.

Had Freddie forgotten that?

My uncle stared solemnly into the flames as if reliving some vision there, before saying, ‘The poor creature looked terribly ill, no more than a ghost of her former self. It was well past three in the afternoon and yet, as far as I could tell, she was wearing no more than a sleeping shift. She held a finger to her lips, as if begging me not to betray her there. And then she threw something down to the path, after which she simply disappeared . . . as if she’d never been there at all. But I had the proof in what she’d thrown. The sort of stone you might find on a beach, and wrapped around that was some paper upon which she’d written a message.’

‘What did she write?’ My question was barely a whisper: of hope, of fear, of anxiety.

‘I have it here.’ Freddie stood up and went to a desk, opening a drawer from which he extracted a crumpled page, and when he had placed that in my hands it took no more than a second or two to read what Pearl had written down –
He knows. He lies. He is here
.

‘Who knows what? Who is here?’ I mumbled the words as if to myself. ‘Does she mean Osborne Black, or Elijah?’

‘That is what we need to discover. It is very little to go on. Only these scribbled cryptic lines. No proof of a crime, no . . .’

‘No body?’ My voice was too loud as, unconsciously, I scrunched Pearl’s note in my clenched hand before flinging it down into the hearth, where a stray ember caught and the paper blazed up, shrinking and charring before our eyes; our only scrap of evidence lost, at which I then began to sob. ‘Papa thinks Elijah is dead. But my brother is living. I
know
he is. Oh, Uncle Freddie . . . I feel so alone, so lost without Elijah.’

Freddie was standing behind my chair, his hand gently patting my shoulder and the quiet defiance in his voice belying the tears that gleamed in his eyes when he said, ‘Lily . . . dearest, you are not alone. Have no fears, we shall find your brother, I swear. But for now, I have something that you should see. I wanted to show you, that visit before, but the opportunity never arose . . . not after those sordid events in Cremorne. God knows, Augustus had every right to be angry with me and take you home. I’ve always been too liberal. I’ve . . .’

Breaking off, going back to his desk again, after opening up another drawer, Freddie withdrew a small brass frame, and when he had placed that in my hands, I gasped – to see my mother’s face. I knew it was her, you see. There was not a moment of doubt in my mind, and without even thinking I said the words, ‘She weeps alone for pleasures not to be . . .’

‘What?’ Freddie looked bewildered.

‘It’s from the engraving . . .’ I pointed towards the end of the room. ‘From “Isabella . . . The Pot of Basil”.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. The poem by Keats.’ He wiped a hand across his brow and then returned to his fireside chair, sitting down while repeating, ‘Six years, six years! And now you are grown as lovely as she.’

The face in the frame was beautiful, my mother’s eyes as brown as mine, her hair very much like Elijah’s, waving, dark and lustrous. Once, I would have smiled at such praise. Once,
when I was very small, I might have crawled on to Freddie’s lap and pressed my ear against his chest, closing my eyes while drifting off to the reassuring slow beat of his heart. But such things were no longer appropriate. And whether from the strain of emotions, or exhaustion from all the day’s travelling, I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, and then, after swiftly standing, I said, ‘Freddie, I really must go to bed.’

‘Why, of course.’ He reached out for the bell by the hearth. ‘We are both overwrought and the hour is late. The maid will show you to your room . . . the same room that you had before. Nothing has been changed.’

I thought,
But it has. Far too much has changed
. I glanced down at my mother’s likeness again, the picture frame still in my hands, and found myself wondering aloud, How do you come to have this? Is she alive? Do you happen to know where my mother is?’

‘I have not seen her since Gabriel’s death. That miniature is a self-portrait. Among other talents, she was a fine artist . . . perhaps the source of your brother’s skills. She intended it as a gift for your father, to celebrate their wedding day . . . an event that was never to occur. She left it behind when she disappeared. I suppose I should not have kept it. I should have shown it to you before, but . . .’

What was this, when Freddie also stood, reaching forward and touching a hand to my cheek, then drawing me closer in his arms. Could there be something more than affection in those shuddering breaths, that thudding heart? Whereas once I would have responded now I felt myself to be compromised – though I did feel guilty to have such thoughts, because this was Freddie, and surely my uncle would never think to betray my trust. Still, I confess it was a relief to hear the gentle knock of the maid, when he lowered his arms and I stumbled back, and still avoiding my uncle’s eyes looked down at the painting and plaintively asked, ‘May I keep her picture? Would you mind?’

I turned the key in the door that night, locking myself inside the room, where gold flocking swirled over red chintzy walls, still as garish when glistening with light from the flames that blazed high in the marble hearth, that flickered and flashed across the glass of the miniature propped upon the stand, and behind that the face of the mother who I had never known – except for one time when she’d visited me – an occasion I’d always kept locked in my heart, not even telling Elijah so much. And that was something strange in itself, for I told my brother everything.

We were very young, about six years old and by then quite at home in Kingsland House, though, not long having moved to a separate room, I still grieved to spend my nights alone, longing for the warmth of my brother’s flesh, and my brother’s breaths upon my face. But that dawn, when the strange event occurred, when he lay oblivious next door, I thought I heard someone calling my name, and it seemed to come from the gardens outside. So, bleary and yawning, I climbed from the mattress and, pulling back the window drapes, I noticed a moth on the other side, its battered brown wings all dusty dull with the faintest of powdery residues; their feeble beating a whispered percussion, and that whispering only enhanced my fear, until –