Sepia and Silver (Tragic Silence Book 3) Page 12

  And they all know I have been ill here, I thought after Christine had left. Everyone in the house will testify that I could not so much have climbed the stairs than have been outside.

  I settled against the pillows as best I could, but relaxing was out of the question, especially when I heard the door opening and the voice of the policeman. I could tell straightaway that I had been correct: it wasn’t James.

  But then I realised something else: I couldn’t hear a single item of traffic on the road outside. That never happened; the place was always full of carriages and motor cars at this time of morning, taking gentlemen to their professions. Now, however, there was only silence.

  Unable to repress my curiosity, I swung my legs out of bed and went to the window, pulling back the curtains to let in the light. It no longer hurt my eyes so terribly, and while I squinted at first, it soon became easy for me to peer through the glass panes. And what I saw chilled me instantly.

  The entire street was completely bare of people, save for a crowd of police officers, some of them standing in a line to barricade the way from any pedestrians. My attention was drawn to a throng of the uniformed men further down, on the opposite side, by the hedgerow.

  There was a faint knock on my door, and I whirled on the spot to see Christine, looking completely aghast.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “What’s going on outside? I saw police everywhere.”

  “Oh, dear God, Miss!” gasped Christine, wringing her hands. “They’ve found him... the Master! He’s been killed! Just over the road! Good God...”

  My heartbeat immediately went through the roof. I snatched out at the window-frame to keep upright, but forced myself to keep my knowledge under control. Now was the critical moment. I could not let anything of the truth seep out.

  “Killed?” I repeated, not even having to compel my voice to wobble. “How? When?”

  “They think it must’ve been when he was walking home after his club,” Christine replied in a tiny voice. “His wallet and pocket watch are missing; there’s a cut on ‘is throat. They think it was a thief, like, with some kind of knife or somthin’. I mean... a lot of people go missin’ from Anfield usually, but not like this, out in the open. God, it’s like Whitechapel all over again!”

  “Whitechapel? What’s that?”

  “Down in London, seven years ago, Miss. There was a bunch of murders there, proper awful, it was.” Christine’s eyes glistened with tears. “Leather Apron, or the Ripper, they called him; never caught. God, I hope he’s not come here now! Oh, dear... poor Mr Calvin!”

  I returned to the bed and sat before I could fall onto the floor. To a great extent, I wasn’t acting.

  I silently ran over what Christine had just said, realising that James must have gone back after bringing me home. He’d taken Norman’s valuables and altered the wound; made the whole ordeal appear as something completely different. Something normal, which neither of us could have any connection with.

  He knew what he was doing. Hadn’t he been practising this, dealing with these kinds of problems, for over a century before he even met me? He was on the inside, aware of exactly what leads the police would follow if they were left obvious.

  My eyes blurred with sorrow and I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, holding Norman’s image firmly in my mind. Christine approached and perched beside me on the mattress, putting one arm around my shoulders. I bent into her, burying my face in my hands, trying to take her comfort in the means it was offered.

  I had lost my grandfather, and it did hurt me. That was all she, or anyone else, needed to know.

  *

  Over the next few days, new black clothes came to the house for Margaret and me: everything made from silk and crepe, with matching jet jewellery shaped into teardrops and cameos. Both of us were required to wear the stifling garments at all times; my somewhat lighter wardrobe practically banished from use.

  I knew as soon as I saw them that they were for our entry into official mourning. The sheer weight of them took my breath away, but I supposed that was part of their power: they symbolised the heaviness of loss which we were expected to carry.

  One week from the announcement of his death, Norman’s funeral was held. It was a lavish and grand service, attended by almost a hundred grieving friends and family members. Margaret and I sat in the front pew; our faces shadowed by dark veils, while behind us were Christine and George. There had been concerns that George would be unable to attend, because he’d been taken into custody by the police when it became apparent that he’d not been with Norman that night. But the suspicion was soon lifted when his mother testified to his presence at her house, and he was set free with a day to spare.

  The coffin was loaded into a hearse, and two coal-black horses pulled it through the streets in an impressive procession. We followed behind, arriving at the cemetery, where final rites were read and the sleek wooden box lowered into a fresh grave. Above it towered a beautifully carved stone angel, holding a plaque engraved with Norman’s name and all his relevant details. I watched the coffin descend, hands shaking around my posy.

  I lowered my gaze in respectful sorrow, glancing up just quickly enough to see Benjamin standing nearby, Henry at his side. Both were dressed in dark suits and gloves, and a black band had been strapped around their left biceps. Henry in particular looked distraught, but kept a stiff upper lip, for which I silently applauded him. There was no doubt in my mind that he was reliving all the trials and tribulations that he’d faced with his friend in the battles of Crimea.

  It was only a few days after this when we received a visit from Norman’s lawyer. I was confused as to why he had come, but Margaret appeared particularly eager, and showed him into the parlour with all haste. He invited both of us to sit before opening his briefcase and removing the last will and testament left by my grandfather.

  I dried my eyes from my latest bout of tears, and began toying with my locket, expecting the document to be addressed to Margaret. But then I was astonished when it was read out. Every single piece of Norman’s property, a sum of twenty thousand pounds, had been bequeathed not to her, but to me.

  “Surely there is some mistake!” Margaret exclaimed.

  “No, not at all,” the lawyer replied. “It is written that Mr Calvin has instructed all his money is to be placed in the name of his granddaughter, Miss Eva Calvin.”

  I fell into a state of shock, unable to believe it. The bulk of the conversation flew over my head. That amount of money was incredible. It would be enough to see me through the rest of my life in utmost comfort; it would likely last even into the next generation if I were ever to bear children. To have such sudden wealth given completely to me was a feeling I had never expected to know.

  George saw our guest out, while Margaret and I stayed seated, not speaking a word. I stared into the fire, just visible over the patterned screen on the hearth. My hand crept back to the locket and ran the pendent along its chain.

  “This is simply outrageous!” Margaret suddenly barked, making me jump. Her usual alabaster face was rapidly turning an alarming shade of pink. “That legacy should have been mine! I am the lady of this house!”

  I looked at her, unsure of what to say. I was just as surprised by this outcome as she. But when I didn’t speak, it seemed to irk her even more, and an irate gleam entered into her grey eyes.

  “It simply isn’t done!” she cried. “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I replied steadily. “But... what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Don’t be impertinent!” snapped Margaret.

  “I’m not! I didn’t expect any of this! Do not place blame upon me, Mrs Calvin!”

  “I shall place blame where it is due, ignorant girl! Why else do you think I married into this godforsaken family?”

  I stared, unable to believe what she was saying. “Do you mean that all this time, you were only interested in his fortune? Didn’t you ever love him?”

  “Love is somet
hing we read about in books,” Margaret scoffed. “He never loved me. Even as time went by, I saw that all he could bear to think about was that other woman. It was a disgusting union, do you hear? His mind was full of it, and the bastard child it granted him!”

  My hand tightened around the locket. Fire flared in my blood and I fixed her with a burning glare.

  “How dare you say such things!” I snapped. “That bastard you so claim is my father! And it is his line which is shared with Norman Calvin, and with me! I am the beneficiary here, and for good reason, let it be known! His blood is in me, as is Henrietta’s, and I am not ashamed of it!”

  Silence was absolute between us. We locked eyes, mental claws bared, as I felt the truth and gravity of my proclamation be realised. The rift was open now: clearly torn with no remorse from either party. From this moment, there was hardly a reason for me to conceal my passion.

  Margaret gritted her teeth in disdain. “May I remind you to at least attempt to behave like an English gentlewoman?” she growled harshly. “God knows you will need to withhold at least that small amount of honour for when you are married.”

  “I will decide my own wedding, and to whom,” I replied instantly.

  “My intentions override yours, even if my legacy does not,” she hissed. “All has been arranged prior to Norman’s death, and we will carry through with it. I will see to that much.”

  I breathed heavily. “Why? What is in such an exchange for you, if it appears this is the manner in which you think of others?”

  “There will be some integrity left for this family’s name, if it’s all I can manage after this scandalous event with Norman. Jones and Calvin will unite, mark me.”

  Margaret got to her feet, looking down her nose at me with a tiny smirk of triumph. “You and Benjamin will be married by the summer. I promise you that. Now, this discussion is over.”

  I watched her leave, an incredulous expression on my face; my fists so tight that I felt my fingernails digging into my palms. Then I turned away from the brightness of the window and stormed out of the parlour in the opposite direction, unable to bite back the molten fury that seemed to have replaced every drop of blood in my body.

  CHAPTER XV

  After giving the initial wave of panic and guilt time to settle inside me, I dug out my writing implements and began work on a reply to Zíta. I chose my words carefully, telling of Norman’s death, but firmly denying that James or I had anything to do with it. I decided to stick with the explanation of a mugging, and didn’t hesitate in expressing how distraught I felt.

  I wrote of my surprise inheritance and argument with Margaret; then paused, the nib hovering over the paper. My hand went to the locket, feeling the fine engraved lines of the Calvin crest on the front. Recalling the soil I had placed inside, I apprehended the fact that ever since my cousin had sent it to me, I had actually started to feel a little better about my whole ordeal. To ease her mind, and further solidify the guise that I was innocent, I said how I believed its presence to be working in slowing my transformation.

  It felt terrible to lie like this. Beforehand, I’d never uttered a single false truth in my life, to anybody, but least of all to my family. I could almost feel a part of me becoming dark and corrupted; imagined it working through my veins in the form of that black liquid from long ago.

  Desperate to distract myself, I turned my attentions to the other thought plaguing my mind: that of my angel. Connecting it to my witnessing of James in his true form, I did not hold back my sudden revelation. I knew now, I did not imagine my rescuer; I had not been the sole person who injured the Izcacus. And those wings, and Zíta’s tense response to my description of them, resolved my suspicions into certainty. He was a demon.

  I signed the letter, secured it in an envelope, and addressed it to Hattyúpatak. I had a mind to take some air and forward it myself, but then realised that to do so would involve enduring Miss Lockwood, and subsequently Margaret. I had barely spoken with her since the visitation of the lawyer, and refused to be the one who submitted to apology first. So I gave the letter to Christine, and asked her to convey it to the post office on her way home from the fish shop on Scholar Street.

  When she left, I walked upstairs and quickly entered my bedchamber to collect Norman’s revolver. Then I took position in the library, returning the gun to its book, as I had intended to do as soon as the commotion had dissipated. The action brought forth a fresh wave of tears, and I paced the room while I cried, handkerchief held over my mouth. Eventually, I regained composure, and settled in the chair I’d claimed when speaking to my grandfather. That afternoon felt so long ago now.

  Desperate for distraction, I let the Le Fanu novel fall open and continued on my way with it.

  Of all the stories I could have chosen, I found it remarkably ironic that it had been this one: a tale of a mysterious female vampire from the east. I was a slow reader, still having to really concentrate to make sense of the longer written words, but that allowed me time to mull over my predicament.

  James had plainly told me that I may not have wished for this, but the hope of containing it was also out of the question. For as much as what I had done appalled me, I knew there was no choice in denying much more of it would come.

  I was suddenly not sure whether I was more disgusted by that, or the fact I realised it so indifferently.

  My memories rung with those of my four year-old self: of the Final Purge, and all that had come with it. One of my earliest recollections was saturated with the sight and sound and smell of murder. It had been imprinted on me; all I had thought about in sleep ever since. Some wicked part of my mind, previously quashed by morality, had been awakened. I had been too young to resist the seeds of carnage which had been forced into me, only brought to light years later, and now spreading like a corrupt weed.

  After all, hadn’t I myself dealt a considerable blow to the Izcacus? I had taken that axe and driven it through his flesh and bone; the tremors of impact had spread up my arm, and I felt no remorse. What did such a notion say about me? That I was acting in self-defence? Or that I was capable of something more?

  Now I was walking in his footsteps; destined to become as he had been. I reasoned I would transform to an Izcacus too, if I didn’t find a way to escape. But with that preconceived idea, I found myself able to understand the raging reasons behind him attacking me; killing Ilona; trying to drain me of blood. I had come to know that feeling in my own way. And despite the trauma he had caused me, I couldn’t bring myself to truly hate my turner for what he’d done.

  And wasn’t I saved by demons as well as assaulted by them? There was my angel, and now James, allied with me. It seemed not all of them were bad... at least not entirely.

  I shut the book and laid it on my lap, closing my eyes with an uncertain sigh. What was happening to me? I could feel a great war raging inside, for who I was supposed to be. I could feel Éva Kálvin struggling against this thing much bigger than herself: a single fragile human against the wrath of a wild beast.

  I couldn’t let it happen, and be defeated by this. My body might be fighting a losing battle, but I would not allow my mind to do the same. I owed myself that much.

  *

  Ten days later, I was awoken by a cold chill on my skin. Seeing the bed curtains swaying in a breeze, I looked towards the window, finding it open. And standing there, arms resting casually on my footboard; was James. He was dressed in plain black clothes, and no hat sat upon his head, so his hair fall in waves over his ears. There was absolutely nothing about him now to suggest any kind of lawful occupation.

  “Good morning,” he remarked.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed, sitting up and clutching the duvet to my chest.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t need anything at the moment!”

  “Don’t you?” James cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? Are you sure enough to deny that I know more about this than you?”

  “Stop
it,” I said, surprised at how easily I made myself sound firm. “I’ve agreed to trust you, but do not attempt to belittle me, Sir.”

  James chuckled; then turned around to shut the window, so nobody in the street could see it and become suspicious. I watched him carefully, only taking a quick look away to check the clock on my dresser. It read half past one.

  “Put some clothes on,” said James, keeping his face to the wall. “Keep them dark.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” I muttered.

  I walked to the armoire and rummaged through the contents, dragging out a simple black day-dress. It was a larger-sized one, so I could get into it without having to bother with the stifling corset. I left my hair in its loose plait, bedraggled from slumber, before pulling some ankle boots on my feet.

  James looked around and smirked when he saw me in mourning colours. “Quite the poor sad dear, you make.”

  “And I’m not ashamed of it,” I replied. “Margaret will need to wear clothes like this for at least two years. I have only six months. But God knows I should be the one who bears them for a lifetime.”

  “Feel free. It would show the depth of your devotion to your lost one,” James said cynically. “Why so defensive tonight? Haven’t you had enough time to consider the situation?”

  “Of course I have,” I said, “and this is the conclusion I have come to. I cannot let myself give in to this.”

  “For heaven’s sakes. I told you, there is nothing you can do about it. You are a juvenile demon. Accept it.”

  James gave a tiny shake of his head, obviously not wanting to bother arguing with me. Instead he came over, swept me off my feet, and unfurled his wings. Then he opened the window just enough for us to dart outside and into the night.

  We flew to the north-west, into a poorer area of the city. I knew that it would have been simpler to stay local; I’d found that the district of Toxteth often displayed the wealthy and destitute living practically side by side with one another. The easy pickings which James preferred were never too far away. But the further we could get from the site of Norman, the better.