The Broken Trilogy Page 15

  "Don't worry," my father says. "Once the coffin goes into the oven, I'll be gone. You won't have to put up with me whispering this maudlin crap in your ear for much longer. I guess I'm just..." He pauses for a moment. "Well, I guess I just wanted you to know the truth. I was no saint. I was a coward, too. If I'd been a braver man, I might have left your mother and moved in with Felicity."

  Suddenly I notice that my mother has taken a folded piece of paper from her handbag, and she's holding it nervously in her shaking hands.

  "Graham's wife Margaret would now like to say a few words," the priest says, stepping back and leaving a space at the lectern. Moments later, my mother stands up and walks slowly over to address the room. She places the piece of paper in front of her and pauses. I had no idea she was planning to speak today, and I can't believe that my quiet, timid mother would have the guts to talk to so many people.

  "First," she says, her voice faltering a little as she stares resolutely at the piece of paper," I want to thank you all for coming today. It would have meant a great deal to my husband if he'd known how many of you wanted to bid him farewell as he passes from this life to the next."

  "Bullshit," my father whispers. "I can't believe my friends were all the kind of losers who'd show up. Didn't they know me at all? They should've just gone to the pub instead."

  "You had an affair?" I whisper, trying hard to hold it together. I always suspected that something was up, but I never had any proof.

  "Do you hate me?" he whispers. "Do you think less of me?"

  "I understand that today's service might seem a little unconventional," my mother continues, "since we are not in a church, but I'm sure you'll understand that it was Graham's express wish that we mark his life in a more secular setting." She clears her throat, and it's patently obvious that she doesn't approve of the arrangement. She almost spat the word 'secular' from her lips, as if it was poison.

  "She can't avoid making a little dig, can she?" my father says. "She has to register her disappointment and make sure that the crowd knows it's not her fault. Just like all the times I embarrassed her while I was alive."

  "Graham lived a happy life," my mother continues, "and we must all be grateful for the -" She pauses and takes a deep breath; after a moment, I realize she's close to tears. My first instinct is to curl up into a little ball and wait for this horribly embarrassing and cringe-worthy moment to be over, but I know I have to just sit here and soak it all up. Seriously, though, I have no idea why my mother put herself forward to read a speech like this. She must have known she wouldn't have been able to get the job done, so why did she set herself up for this nightmare?

  "Come on, Margaret!" my father's voice shouts. "Get on with it, you pathetic old wind-bag!"

  "Graham lived a happy life," my mother says after a moment, "and we must all be grateful for the time we had with him." She pauses yet again, and it's clear that there's no way she's going to be able to finish this speech. There's a long, painful silence and I suddenly realize that everyone is waiting for someone to do something. My mother is just standing there, looking down at her piece of paper but unable to continue speaking, and the room is filled with the loudest silence I've ever heard. I look over at the priest, expecting her to step in, but I realize with horror that she's waiting for me to do something.

  "Look at her suffer," my father whispers. "Doesn't it make your heart feel glad? She should never have tried to speak in the first place."

  Before I even know what I'm doing, I stand up and walk over to join my mother. I feel absolutely terrified but, at the same time, there was no way I could continue to sit on my ass and watch this train-wreck unfold. I quietly take the piece of paper from my mother's hands, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes before turning and hurrying back to her seat. Taking a deep breath, I glance out across the room and see a couple of hundred faces staring back at me, all of them waiting for me to start speaking. It feels as if my legs are made of jelly, and I'm convinced I'm going to faint at any moment. I don't know if I'm doing this for my father, or for my mother, but either way I'm terrified.

  "Good luck," my father whispers. "You'll need it."

  "Uh," I say, before clearing my throat and looking down at the piece of paper. "Graham, my father, lived a happy life," I continue, my voice cracking a little through sheer fear, "and we must all be grateful for the time we had with him. His colleagues from work all say the same thing, which is that he provided a great deal of stability and motivation, and he drove all his projects forward with determination." I take a deep breath. It's so weird, hearing my mother's words coming out of my mouth.

  "Fucking hell," my father says. "It's not much to show for a life, is it?"

  I clear my throat again, and suddenly I realize something: I can do this. It's just reading from a sheet of paper, and I can damn well get the job done. All I have to do is focus, and forget about all the people who are staring at me.

  "You're gonna fuck this up," my father's voice says.

  "No, I'm not," I mutter under my breath, before continuing to read out loud. The rest of the speech goes remarkably well, and I don't fumble my words once. Finally I get to the end, fold the piece of paper back up, and walk slowly back to my seat. While the priest gets on with her own spiel, I sit down and feel my mother immediately place a hand on my shoulder. Finally, the nerves come back and I start shaking. I can't believe I just managed to give that speech, in front of so many people. I look back across the room and see Mark still sitting at the back. He has an emotionless expression on his face, but I'm pretty sure he must think I did a bad job. I mean, I got all the words out in the right order, and I didn't make any big mistakes, but I didn't exactly knock the ball out of the park. It was nothing special.

  "Hey, kid," my father's voice says. "Chin up. Stiff upper lip, and so on. It's time for me to go."

  I turn to see that the panel at the back of the stage has opened, and the coffin is slowly moving along the belt, heading into the darkness.

  "I guess this is the end," my father continues. "It's been nice chatting to you, Elly. I feel I've really opened up. By the way, you did a good job today. Just don't let it go to your head." The coffin disappears from view, and the panel closes. "See you around," my father whispers, his voice getting more and more faint. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  And then...

  Nothing.

  He's gone. He's really, really gone. I feel my chest tighten, and it's as if my heart has stopped beating for a moment and there's no sound in the whole world. Finally, after a moment, I hear the wind outside, and I realize the world is still turning.

  We all sit in silence for a moment. I keep expecting to hear my father's voice, or to hear him banging from inside the oven, but there's nothing. He's really, really gone this time. I guess his body has already been burnt, and at this moment his ashes are probably being poured into an urn, ready for us to take him home. It's over.

  "Thank you," my mother says as she wipes away her tears.

  "It was nothing," I say.

  She smiles, before resting her head on my shoulder for a moment. I feel like something has changed; the balance of power in our relationship has shifted, and it's as if she sees me a little differently. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing, but I can't help thinking a line has been crossed. I wish my father would pipe up with some kind of sarcastic comment, but I know that isn't going to happen. He's gone, and I won't be hearing his voice in my head anymore. Suddenly, and with a mounting sense of helplessness, I feel lonelier than I've ever felt in my life.

  Inspector Matthews

  1895

  "Lady deHavilland will see you now," says the butler who comes to collect me. I have been sitting in the drawing room for almost half an hour, and I had begun to think that the lady of the house might be planning to leave me here all day. Finally, however, it seems I am to be granted an audience.

  "Thank you," I reply, walking over to the door. When I get into the next room, I find that it is a lar
ge, high-ceilinged drawing room with the most vibrant red walls. Dotted all around, there are items of furniture and trinkets that speak of moneyed taste, while a small tree appears to be growing in a pot over by the window. The place is rather disorientating, and more so when I see that a parrot is hopping from branch to branch, staring down at me with its beady eyes.

  "You must forgive me for keeping you waiting, Inspector Matthews," says a voice from behind, and I turn to see Lady Henrietta deHavilland walking into the room. She is well known across the city, and I can see why: wearing a striking red dress, she possesses the type of smile that instantly lights up a room. It's not hard to see why, according to rumor, she has the ear of half the cabinet.

  "Please don't apologize," I reply, remembering that it would be in my best interests to appear highly deferential. "I am merely grateful that you were able to grant me an audience at all."

  "I've been speaking to Mr. Vincent D'Oyly," she explains. "I don't know if you know him?"

  "I think not," I reply, as a man follows Lady deHavilland into the room. Whereas Lady deHavilland is a bright, vivacious woman, Mr. D'Oyly is a rather sinister and unsettling individual. He is young, but also very thin and pale, with a receding hairline and dark eyes. I step forward to shake his hand, and I can't help noting that his skin is exceedingly cold to the touch.

  "Mr. D'Oyly has just arrived in London from the Lake District," Lady deHavilland explains as she opens her liquor cabinet. "He has come to take up a new position, and I have been helping him get accustomed to our busy London ways. I'm afraid he's been feeling rather blue since he came to the city. Now, Inspector, can I interest you in a drink?"

  "No thank you," I reply. "I'm here on official police business."

  "Oh, what a shame," she says. "I had hoped that perhaps you just popped by to say hello. Still, you don't mind if Mr. D'Oyly and I partake, do you?"

  "Of course not," I reply, feeling a little uneasy about the whole situation. "Lady deHavilland, have you ever had the acquaintance of a gentleman by the name of Edward Lockhart?"

  "Edward Lockhart?" She pours two glasses of brandy. "I do not believe so," she continues, "although as you can imagine, I meet a great many people every week, so it's entirely possible that I have come across him. In fact, if he is at all active in London society, it would be rather surprising if I haven't made his acquaintance at some point." She walks over to D'Oyly, who has taken a seat in the corner. As she hands him his drink, she turns to me and smiles. "Might I ask why this Mr. Lockhart is of interest to you, and why your inquiries have led you to my door?"

  "It's a police matter," I reply, preferring to keep the details to myself. "Mr. Lockhart came to me with certain claims, and it is my duty to investigate the matter."

  "Claims?" Lady deHavilland says, affecting an air of surprise. "About me?"

  "I do not feel it is necessary to get into the details," I say. "Suffice it to say that Mr. Lockhart told a very complex story that took in a great many names, and as a matter of course I am obliged to investigate and ensure that there is no danger to the public." I pause for a moment. "Might I inquire whether you are acquainted with a young lady named Sophia Marchant?"

  "Sophia Marchant?" Again, she pauses. "I do not believe so, although as I have already indicated, it can be quite a struggle to keep up with all the people I meet in my daily activities. As you might be aware, I am involved in numerous political groups, and as such as I'm afraid I receive regular solicitations from all manner of individuals."

  "Indeed," I say, sensing that I am unlikely to get very far with these questions. "Might I also ask about a young lady named Elizabeth Cavendish?"

  She sighs. "Inspector Matthews, if this is to be a litany of names, I am afraid I shall probably not be able to help you. Perhaps my manservant can take a look in my diary. I remember faces very well, but names alas are wont to slip from my mind rather easily. I am not proud of this fact, but nonetheless, it renders me rather unhelpful. You must accept my apologies."

  "I quite understand," I reply. "I merely hoped that perhaps you would know some of these people, but I certainly cannot fault you for being unable to keep track of all those who cross your path. However, there are a few names that I feel are rather more memorable, and that might elicit some glimmer of recognition. Have you by any chance encountered, or heard of, a group of individuals who go by the names Mr. Blue, Mr. White and Lady Red?"

  She stares at me for a moment. "No," she says finally. "I am sure I would remember such curious monikers. Surely those are not real names?"

  "They are not," I say. "At least, this is my assumption. I am merely investigating some of the more outlandish claims made by Mr. Lockhart."

  "And what might those claims involve?" she asks. There is a clear shift in her tone now, and it is almost as if I have said something that has attracted her attention.

  "I hardly think this is the time or the place to delve into such matters," I continue. "Suffice it to say that he made certain statements of a rather indelicate nature."

  "Such as?"

  I smile, feeling rather reluctant to go into details with a woman. "I really couldn't say, M'am."

  "Was it about sex?" asks Vincent D'Oyly, who has so far remained silent in his seat. He has a sly, weaselly voice, which perfectly suits his narrow, vulture-like face.

  "As a matter of fact," I say, turning to him, "it was. At least in part." There is something about D'Oyly's countenance that sets me on edge, although I cannot pinpoint precisely what troubles me. I think, if pushed, that I would say I dislike his sharp, edgy nature and his curious, feminine face. All in all, he is the kind of man who seems to be extremely intelligent and civilized but also, if pushed, perhaps a little dangerous.

  "It's always about sex," he says, glancing over at Lady deHavilland. "Sex is the engine of the world, you know. These days, more than ever."

  "So they say," Lady deHavilland replies, clearly a little perturbed by the conversation. "Inspector Matthews, while I am always anxious to help Her Majesty's Constabulary with any matters that arise, I feel that this continued discussion must surely be distracting you from the rest of your work. Besides, as a lady, I do not feel that it is appropriate for me to be party to such a lurid discussion. I simply cannot help you, and I would hope that you do not feel you have to stay purely out of some sense of deference. I would certainly feel much safer if I knew that you were out on the streets, seeking to catch those who would threaten our peace and security."

  "I shall detain you no longer," I reply. "I hope very much that my visit has not unsettled you too much, and I can assure you that I shall not be returning on this matter."

  "I wish you all the best," she says. "My man will show you out."

  A few minutes later, once I'm out on the street once again, I find myself troubled by my encounter with Lady deHavilland. For all her claims of grandeur and respectability, she seemed unusually edgy when I mentioned certain details of Edward Lockhart's story. Furthermore, I found Vincent D'Oyly to be rather unpalatable, and I cannot for the life of me understand why he would be entertained in any decent household. Although the pieces of this puzzle remain very much separate, I am becoming increasingly convinced that there is a puzzle here, and the most obvious step is to locate Edward Lockhart. I am quite certain that all this talk of his having gone abroad is merely a smokescreen, designed to throw me off the scent. I must find the man as soon as possible, since his life might very well be in danger and he is surely the only man who'll able to throw some light on these strange occurrences.

  Elly

  Today

  "You were marvelous," says an old lady, cornering me at the reception. "The speech you gave was just perfect. Your father would have been so proud."

  "Thank you," I reply, taking a deep breath and glancing across the room at Mark. He's standing alone, sipping from a glass of water and looking totally incongruous. We're all in a room at the back of the crematorium, where everyone has gathered to talk about my father and eat cucumbe
r sandwiches. All I can think about, of course, is that I want to talk to Mark, but every time I try to get over to him, I end up being waylaid by yet another well-wisher who wants to tell me how much they liked my speech, or tell me how much my father meant to them. He's still here, though. It's almost as if he's waiting for me to reach him.

  "You remind me of him, you know," the old lady continues. "Just in little ways. Your eyes, I think. Yes, it's your eyes!"

  "That's nice to know," I reply. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go and check on some things." I slip away from her, but I've barely made it another meter before another old lady stops me.

  "What a marvelous speech!" she says. "I just know that your father would be so proud of you. So very proud."

  "Thank you," I reply, smiling politely as I see that Mark appears to be checking his watch.

  "You know," the old lady continues, "the first time I met your father -"

  "Excuse me," I say, "but I have to go and check on the sandwiches." Turning away from her before she has a chance to keep talking, I make my way quickly across the room, carefully plotting a trajectory that takes me away from any potential interruptions until, finally, I reach Mark. I wait for him to say something, but he remains silent, barely even acknowledging me. I have no idea what to say, so we stand silently together for a couple of minutes.

  "Nice speech," he says eventually, taking another sip from his glass of water.

  "Thanks," I reply. "So how are you doing?"

  "Oh, I'm having a great time," he says. "You know how fun funerals can be, especially if you don't know anyone else."

  "You know me," I say.

  He smiles. "I was just going to leave, anyway."

  "I want to talk to you," I blurt out, immediately realizing how desperate I must sound. "I mean, I'd like to talk to you," I correct myself, "if you have time."