Resonance (19 page)

Harry ran along the aisle of cages. Dried worms shivered and shook as he forced his way between their closely packed display cabinets. ‘Tina! Wait for me!’ He emerged to
dust-laden
sunlight and a window filled with golden sunset.

Tina stood within this radiance, her face resplendent with discovery. On a trestle before her rested a box, long and narrow like a sword case, its red lacquered wood gleaming in the dying light.

‘Harry!’ she beamed, her hands on the box. ‘It’s Joe!’

Harry didn’t know what to say. He had been expecting Joe’s body. Or a door, a secret passage – a cage, even – but this? ‘Tina,’ he said gently. ‘That’s not …’

Tina bent low and whispered into the box’s ornate silver lock. ‘It’s all right, Joe. It’s all right now. I’m here.’ She caressed the lid and looked up at Harry again, her brown eyes shining. ‘Open it, Harry. Please. Let him out.’

Harry knelt by the box. His hands were shaking as he once again removed his lock-picks from their little canvas roll. It took him several tries to insert them into the lock. The mechanism was nothing, a mere trifle, but it took longer to undo than any he’d ever encountered. All the time Tina crouched by his side, her skirts pooled around her, her eyes fixed gravely on his clumsy fingers.

‘It’s the light,’ she whispered as he once again failed to engage the tumblers. ‘It must be very distracting, the way it keeps wrapping around your hands. Here, let me …’ She swiped at the lock, as if brushing something from his way. ‘I think it likes you,’ she said. ‘That’s why it keeps holding on like that.’

He stared at her and she smiled encouragingly. ‘You can do it,’ she said.

Harry had no doubt he could. He just wasn’t too sure he wanted to. After another moment of fumbling, he took a deep breath and told himself to be a man. He pressed up with the first pin, pushed in with the second, and the heavy silver latch popped.

Tina sprang up, flinging back the lid. Harry got slowly to his feet, watching as her expression changed from joy to sorrow.

‘Oh, Joe,’ she whispered.

Her eyes filled with tears and she placed her hands in the box, laying them gently on the dry and rustling thing that nestled within. Harry eyed it with a mixture of nausea and fascination. It was like a deformed snake: the desiccated body of some strange, appalling rat-king of snakes.
What P.T. Barnum wouldn’t give for that thing
, he thought, taking in the tangled knot of multiple heads, the strange intestinal curl of the maggot-like body.

Tina ran her hands over it, tenderly, lovingly. Small flakes of its skin floated up at her touch and crumbled to pearlescent dust on her fingers. A tear fell from her cheek to darken the papery swell of its belly.

‘Tina,’ whispered Harry. ‘You can’t possibly think that’s Joe.’

She shook her head, her hands still in the box, her face wet with tears.

‘That’s not Joe, Tina. Look at it.’

She stilled, frowning slightly. Harry saw confusion begin to surface through her grief. He gently took her hands from the creature’s body.

The sound of a door banging open made them startle, their hands clenching round each other’s. Out of sight, Cornelius Wolcroft demanded, ‘What in blazes are you doing in Vincent’s laboratory?’

‘Why, looking for our supper, of course,’ Ursula Lyndon laughed. ‘Have you come to deliver it?’

Harry squeezed Tina’s fingers and quietly closed the lid of the box. She looked from him to it and back, her dark eyes troubled as he pressed the latch shut. ‘I promise,’ he whispered, taking her hands again, ‘that’s not Joe.’

Wolcroft stepped into view at the far end of the room, his face sharp with suspicion. ‘What are you doing?’ he snapped. ‘You cannot be here. Get out.’

He scanned the area as they exited, as if looking for evidence of tampering or theft, but he seemed content to follow them soon enough. Closing the door behind them, locking it from his set of keys, he stalked back up the stairs, leading the way to their rooms.

Ursula Lyndon followed close behind, asking questions he didn’t give any sign of hearing.

‘Your dark-skinned friend,’ she said. ‘He is a scientist, sir? Certainly the preponderance of equipment in his room would indicate such? The son of an African king, perhaps? Sent to Europe to be educated. Is that it, sir? Did you meet in college? Or …’

She hurried up the steps until she was by Wolcroft’s side, and Harry saw her glance slyly up into his face.

‘Is he a
relative
?’ she asked softly. ‘An indiscretion, perhaps – taken in and raised as part of the family? I knew an American fellow once. His father had black brothers and a black sister. His grandfather’s children, you know, by one of his slave
women. The family were quite open about it – not like Mr Thomas Jefferson and
his
children. My friend’s family allowed his cousins to live on family land, gave them a little farm. All the little piccaninny-children were educated side by side with the white. Personally I think that was
wonderfully
charitable of them. I admire that kind of thing
greatly
.’

Cornelius Wolcroft slammed to a halt in the bedroom doorway. Without warning, he blocked the way with his arm, causing Ursula to come to a halt. He glared down at her. It was the first time he’d acknowledged her existence by his side, let alone the fact that she was speaking to him. His expression made it clear he wished she would
shut up
, but after a moment he simply lifted his arm from her way and Ursula Lyndon sailed past, a small, triumphant smile on her face.

‘Oh,’ she cried from within. ‘You’ve brought my
dresses
! How wonderful!’

Tina came to a halt as Wolcroft turned to look at her. She had maintained a grip on Harry’s hand that was both possessive and protective, and now this grip tightened as she and Wolcroft locked eyes. The man was breathing deeply, his mouth a hard, determined line.

Within the room, there was the sound of cloth rustling as Ursula Lyndon moved things about. ‘This bed is so dusty!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank you for spreading a sheet down before you laid these out.’ She tinkled another little laugh. ‘What am I saying?’ she said. ‘Of course
you
didn’t lay them out. You had a maid do it, I’m sure.’

The day was dying, all traces of the golden sunset draining from the already gloomy corridor. In the fading light, Wolcroft’s eyes glowed flat and reflective like a dog’s.
Harry felt as if he were caught in a suffocating dream. The only thing that anchored him, the only thing that said,
This is real
, was Tina’s painful grip on his hand; the feel of her warm presence by his side.

‘You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to,’ she whispered.

Wolcroft nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I suspect you know that the same does not apply to everyone.’ His luminous eyes shifted to Harry, then slid sideways to the old lady still chattering out of sight in the bedroom.

Harry felt fear squeeze his heart. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he cried. ‘Don’t you use me as—’

‘Be quiet,’ murmured Wolcroft, and Harry was.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Lyndon. ‘Did you say something?’

Wolcroft gazed at Tina. ‘Did I?’ he asked. ‘Did I perhaps ask her to
do
something?’

Tina shook her head. Wolcroft stepped gracefully to one side, indicating with a small bow that she should enter the room. Tina squeezed Harry’s hand.

‘You won’t hurt him?’ she said.

Wolcroft smiled. ‘Of course not.’ He gestured to Harry. ‘Go to your room and rest. The women and I need privacy.’

Every molecule of Harry’s brain was screaming at him not to leave, but his body, dear God, his body simply walked to the far room, opened the door and went inside. Once there, he couldn’t quite recall what it was he was supposed to be doing, so he sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the last of the light drained from the tumultuous sky.

Something Old, Something
New, Something Borrowed

A
S
C
ORNELIUS ENTERED
the room and locked the door, the old woman removed a ring from a small wooden jewellery box and slipped it onto her finger. The girl stood watching him, her hands clenched, her expression piercing. He went to the bed and laid his hand on the heavy gold brocade of the sequin-covered gown.

‘You shall wear this one,’ he said.

The actress turned in surprise, the jewellery box still in her hands. He saw that her pupils were contracted to pinpoints and realised with disgust that she had been dulling herself with the laudanum.

She laughed at the sight of the dress. ‘Oh, that one is very pretty,’ she agreed. ‘But a touch ornate for a séance, don’t you think? Unless … Am I to entertain, sir? Are you expecting guests?’

Cornelius shut his eyes against a surge of violent impatience. ‘Not
you
.’ He looked again to the girl. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he ordered. ‘Put this on.’

There was a moment of perfect stillness.

‘But,’ whispered Ursula Lyndon, ‘those are
my
dresses.’

When Cornelius did not take his attention from the girl, the old woman turned and placed the jewellery box onto the dressing table with a quiet
click
. From the corner of his eye, Cornelius saw her lean on the table’s edge, her arms braced, her back lifting and falling with slow breaths. After a long, silent moment, she raised her head and met her own eye in the mirror. Cornelius saw her map the contours of her aging face; saw bitterness and hatred, then cold determination take their place in her expression.

She straightened and turned to face the room. ‘You’ll want to stay, of course,’ she said, crossing the room to the girl. ‘Gentlemen do so like to watch.’

Without looking her in the eye, she began undoing the buttons on the girl’s coat. Roughly she tugged it free and cast it aside on the dressing-table chair.

‘It’s a good job I’m here to help her find her feet, I can tell you. She wouldn’t have an idea what to do without me.’ She slapped the girl’s side, like a butcher in a market. ‘Never even worn a corset, have you, girl? Well, you won’t fit into one of
my
dresses without one – so prepare yourself.’

One after another, she opened the buttons on the girl’s blouse. With no ceremony at all, she stripped the garment from her and flung it atop the coat. Muttering, she bent to unbuckle the girl’s belt.

All through this, the girl watched Cornelius, her dark eyes intense, warning him against harming the old woman. He bowed in gracious acquiescence, content to allow her the illusion of choice. So long as the girl behaved, he would be happy to leave her more malleable friends alone. As the
actress tugged the girl’s skirt from her, Cornelius turned his attention to the bed and began undoing the many tiny buttons that adorned the glittering dress.

The light was almost gone, and the dress took on a subtle, translucent quality as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The fabric shimmered beneath his fingers, and he smiled bitterly. It was perfect – Vincent would love it. How could he not? Didn’t Cornelius always give Vincent what he wanted, long before he even knew he wanted it? Hadn’t he spent years finding all the things that would make Vincent happy?

He would keep the hair and jewellery simple, perhaps leave the throat bare.
Pretty, but not ostentatious – that is what he likes.

These thoughts absorbed him as he undid the costume’s many fastenings, and he didn’t notice the lack of movement behind him until the silence prickled his neck. He turned to find the women staring at him, the girl a gleaming,
dark-eyed
vision in petticoats and stockinged feet, the crone a pensive shade beside her. Cornelius straightened from his work, unsure of the problem.

‘Might you like to lend a hand, sir?’ suggested the actress. Dropping stiffly to her knees, she gestured him to the girl’s side. ‘Here, sir,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could help me?’

She was indicating the floor by the girl’s heels. Cornelius went and crouched beside her, thinking a buckle needed undoing.

‘Do you think I should remove more petticoats?’ She lifted the hem of the girl’s underskirts. ‘I have left … one, two, three, four,’ she counted, eyeing him as she lifted the hems one at a time until the girl’s slim ankles were exposed.

Cornelius looked at the skirts gathered in her hand, looked
at the old woman, looked back at the skirts. ‘I … well, what do
you
suppose?’ he asked. ‘What is the usual arrangement for a dress like this?’

The woman gazed at him a moment as if perplexed. Then she delicately ran her finger up the girl’s black-stockinged calf. The girl’s leg twitched. ‘Are these stockings acceptable?’ murmured the old woman.

Cornelius huffed in exasperation. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, climbing to his feet. ‘It’s the
dress
that matters – why should I care about the stockings?’ He looked around at the scattered clothes. ‘You said she needed to put something else on, or the dress will not fit her … Where is that thing?’

The old woman sat back on her heels. His reaction to the stockings seemed to have thrown her. ‘Do you mean the corset?’ she said at last.

‘Yes, the corset. Where is it?’

She got to her feet and rummaged in her bags. ‘She’s a big girl when compared to me. I’m not making any promises …’

Cornelius began fussing with the girl’s hair, shaking it out, running his hands through it, spreading it across her shoulders and letting it tumble down her back. She was no more than a doll to him, a mannequin, and so it shocked him when she spoke, and jarred him when he once again looked into those piercing eyes.

‘You’re all lit up,’ she whispered. ‘Do you know that? For the very first time, you’re giving off light.’

He paused, his hands in her hair. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re all alive now. Like that man from the garden.’

‘Luke?’

‘And those little children. You’re giving off light, just like them. For the first time since I’ve seen you. You’re feeding it.’

The actress approached again. She seemed pleased to find Cornelius with his hands buried in the girl’s hair. Smirking, she came up behind the girl and put her arms around her waist, wrapping her in some stiff bodice of boning and canvas. Still reaching from behind she did up a long series of clasps on the front of the bodice, and gradually the girl’s breasts were raised, her waist pinched.

Across the girl’s shoulder, the old woman lifted her eyes to Cornelius. ‘You need to hold on here,’ she murmured. Taking his hands from the girl’s hair, she placed one on each of the girl’s warm hips. ‘There will be some tugging.’ She began fiddling about out of sight. ‘Like I said, she’s a big girl when compared to—’

Abruptly, she heaved at the back of the bodice. The girl was almost ripped from Cornelius’ grip, and he tightened his hold. The old woman heaved again. Cornelius met the girl’s eyes. They were glittering and pained as the constricting garment tightened around her. She raised her hands to steady herself against his chest. The process seemed to go on forever, and Cornelius found himself holding tightly, looking down into the girl’s face as her body was hauled at and jerked against him.

‘Do you even know my name?’ she whispered.

Shocked, he stepped back, releasing her, but the job was done, and the old woman came to stand by his side, admiring the strange shape into which they had forced the girl’s body.

‘Doesn’t it do wonders for her?’ asked the woman. ‘Don’t you like what it does for her … um …’ She gestured to the top of the garment, where the creamy swell of the girl’s breasts now strained against the pale fabric of her chemise. ‘Oh,
do
try not to look so tragic, girl. Smile, for goodness sake. Learn some art. No gentleman wants to look at a scowl!’

Cornelius pulled away. The girl looked awful, imprisoned and mutilated, as if she had been squeezed in two. Disconcerted, he skirted the bed and backed all the way to the window.

The actress squinted at him in renewed uncertainty. ‘Sir?’ she asked.

‘It … it has grown quite gloomy,’ he said. ‘I will fetch some candles. Raquel has always enjoyed candlelight – she will be certain to have some to hand.’

He left them in the gathering dark and almost ran into the adjoining room. He came to a halt just inside the door, his heart hammering. He could hear the actress whispering as he stood motionless in the shadows, and her words gradually replaced his crawling shame with anger.

‘You can’t do this without me, girl. Don’t think you can. This is obviously a sophisticated man – you’ll have to do more than drop your bloomers and close your eyes to keep your hooks in
him
. Oh, spare me that look! I’ve heard you, with your “Joe, Joe, Joe”. And I’ve seen you, too, as soon as you think my back is turned, holding hands with that American boy. You think I don’t know how a girl gets by? You can drop the act with me.

‘But you must be careful with that man – he’s no
grab-handed
street boy. He’ll buy all the innocent eyes and fluttering virginal heart you have to offer, but when it comes down to it you’ll need to know what you’re doing with him. I know his type. You need to have
technique
. I can help you with that. You follow my advice, keep me close, and we could be well set up here – we could be here for years.

‘Are you clean? When was the last time you washed? Here, I have perfume …’

Cornelius listened to all of this with his jaw set and his fists clenched. The filthy old
pander
. The dirty, shameless, appalling old
whoremonger
. How could she?

Then he lifted his eyes and caught his reflection in the sheen of the dusty window.
You hypocrite
, he thought.
Holding on to what you’ve got the only way you know how. What difference is there between you and that desperate old harridan?

His eyes flicked away from his reflection. There was plenty of difference,
plenty
. That creature in the room next door was nothing like him. Barely sixty years old and already used up, she was, like the girl, like the rest of humanity, a flicker, a hiccup, a dust mote on the face of time. Here and gone in the blink of an angel’s eye, they were nothing. They meant nothing.

Cornelius fetched a box of candles and matches from Raquel’s spare wardrobe. The old woman stopped whispering when he returned to the room, and, all business, he went about setting the candles into their holders and lighting them.

‘Let us put her in the dress,’ he said. ‘I should like to test it out in the candlelight. Then we can head down to the séance.’