“All right, he didn’t hire Maeterlinck, but he did the Irishmen—tell me yes, Isaacson, and we’ll pull you up!”
“He didn’t—I swear upon my mother, he didn’t! Please, please!”
I looked at Mr. Faulk. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “My arms are getting tired.”
“Isaacson! One more question. Answer truthfully and we’ll pull you up. Did you frig her?”
“What? What? Oh dear God!”
“Did you screw Lilly Bates?”
I waited for his answer. He was obnoxious, but he wasn’t stupid. If he had been with her and confessed to it, I might not keep my promise. If he denied it, he risked my not believing him, regardless of the veracity of his denial, which, in turn, made my dilemma no less perplexing than his.
He unleashed an unearthly wail, twisting in the wind.
“No! No, that never happened! I swear to God, Will; I swear!”
“You swear to what?”
“To God. To God, to God, to God!”
“It isn’t God who holds you now, Samuel.” Suddenly, I was furious. “Swear to me and I’ll pull you up.”
“I swear to you, to you, I swear to you!”
Beside me Mr. Faulk was laughing softly. “He’s lying, you know.”
“No, Mr. Faulk. Only God knows that.”
“ ’Tisn’t God who matters, Mr. Henry.”
“Quite true, Mr. Faulk.”
In the basement laboratory, when the chrysalis cracked open, I saw myself reflected in the amber eye. I was the humble conduit to the monster’s birth, the imperfect midwife, deliverer and prey.
Forgive, forgive, for you are greater than I.
Canto 4
ONE
Full dark had fallen by the time I stepped back inside 425 Harrington Lane. I found the monstrumologist at the table, gorging himself like a man who hadn’t eaten in a week, which very well might have been the case.
“You’re not hungry,” he observed midway through the gorging.
I pulled a pewter flask from my coat pocket (the kitchen was uncomfortably cold), unscrewed the lid, and forced down a mouthful of whiskey. The monstrumologist frowned and clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“No wonder you look terrible,” he opined, shoving a hunk of cheese into his mouth, the old rat.
“Perhaps I have been drinking too much,” I admitted. “What is your excuse?”
He ignored the question. “You smell like smoke. And your fingernails are encrusted with dirt.”
“Ash,” I said. “Your trash barrels were overflowing.”
His bemused expression did not change. “And the palms of your hands are rubbed raw.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
He smiled humorlessly. “There’re several pairs of work gloves in the shed, but you know that.”
“I do know that.”
“You must have forgotten, then.”
“My memory is not what it used to be. Just now I was trying to remember the name of that girl I hired to keep you fed and bathed and halfway human.”
Warthrop picked up a knife and sliced off a piece of apple. His hand was rock steady. He chewed very deliberately. “Beatrice,” he said. “I’ve already reminded you of that.”
“And you sacked her?”
He shrugged. His eyes darted about the table. “Where are the scones?”
“Or did she quit?”
“I told you I sacked her, didn’t I? Where are my scones?”
“Why did you sack her?”
“I have enough to do without some noisome busybody dogging my every step and stutter.”
“Where did she go?”
“How would I know?” His patience was wearing thin. “She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
“It just strikes me as odd.”
“Odd?”
“Leaving without notifying me. I was her official employer, you know. Why didn’t she tell me you sacked her and demand the balance of her pay?”
“Well, I suppose that’s something you will have to ask her.”
“That might prove difficult, since neither of us knows where she has gone.”
“Why are you so concerned about the whereabouts of some dime-a-dozen scullery maid?” he snapped, his self-control giving way.
I sipped from my flask deliberately. “I am not concerned.”
“Well. Good. You shouldn’t be. What did you think would happen, anyway? I told you I neither wanted nor needed anyone.”
“So it is my fault?”
“What? What is your fault? What do you mean?”
“The fate of Beatrice. I am to blame for forcing her upon you.”
“No. You are to blame for making the forcing of her upon me necessary.” He smiled childishly, as if he’d gotten off a cheap joke. “You’ve been holding out on me long enough, Will Henry. Where are the scones? Give them up or I shall become quite angry with you.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” I fetched the bag from its hiding place. He snatched it out of my hand with a giggle that made me cringe. My eyes were drawn to the basement door behind him.
“Is she the reason you put a lock upon that door?” I asked.
“Who? Beatrice? Why do you keep harping upon her?” He poured himself another cup of tea.
“I wasn’t. I was asking—”
“I live alone now, as you know,” he said pointedly. “And my enemies are many, as you also know. . . .”
“Who, Warthrop? Name them. Name one ‘enemy.’ ”
He flung the remnants of his pastry upon the table, “How dare you! I’ve no obligation to explain myself to you or to anyone! What I do or choose not to do is my business and mine alone. I didn’t ask for her company any more than I asked for yours—either today or twenty-four years ago!”
I slipped the flask into my pocket and folded my hands upon the tabletop. “What is in the basement, Warthrop?”
His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. He arched his eyebrows and looked down his patrician nose at my face, as if by his glare he could strip away the years and return me to the eleven-year-old body I once occupied.
“Nothing,” he finally said.
“A wise man once told me that lying is the worst kind of buffoonery.”