"You have to see the photograph!" She says, soft and dark and dead. Her voice is indistinct in the rain and mist, in the other voices. All around, voices, laughing, crying, screaming whispering.
"I did, love. Poor girl, all torn to shreds." It doesn't occur to me to ask who did it. It doesn't occur to me to ask anything at all. I'm not an investigator, here, but a candle among ghosts. My wick is burning down and soon I will be just like them, nothing but smoke.
"No!" She wails, shoving the other voices away with the force of it. "Not that one! Go back! Go back, you must see!" She gets quieter, wistful. "He was so very beautiful..."
I watch her fade, slowly, smiling. I can't see her anymore, in amongst the dimness of the voices. They pressed in on her, consumed her, rushed into the hole her scream left. They gather in layers, gaining in brightness, and the last image I saw as I awoke is that of a rose, gray, almost green, against the red of my eyelids.
I barely remembered to grab my coat before I'm out the door and hurrying down the early, sleepy streets to the Rose Estate. This wasn't the first time I'd dreamt of my cases, nor was it the first that the dreams presented me with new information. I didn't pretend to understand it, but I thanked the Lord that it happened.
She took a picture before she died, I was sure of it. She was a photographer if she was anything. For two pennies one of the urchins down Narrow Street had told me about what a good thief she was, and the new picture-box she'd stole from "some toff".
"Think it's still around, then, now she's been offed? In 'er apartment, mebbe..." The little boys eyes had gleamed with avarice.
I had told him probably not, looters or landlords were sure to have gotten to it by now.
But if they hadn't known where to look...
I sped up, rounding the corner, and stopped dead.
Master Peter Rose was walking towards me, trim and sleek, long-fingered hands clutching hat and cane. I approached. "Good morning, sir. Might I have a moment of your time?" I said, expecting the usual glare and then forgiveness, the slightly mad speech, and then the silence that he normally gave. It was worth a try, however.
He smiled. "And a good morning to you, sir, as well. Yes, it is a lovely morning, isn't it? So nice and quiet...What do you need?"
Surprised, I fell into step beside him. "My name is Williams, James Williams. I'm investigating the death of a girl who was killed near here...in front of your house, even. Your butler reported the murder...said the girl had been asking about you. Were you involved with her?"
Peter's fingers drummed on the brim of his top hat. "Girl?" He laughed, a little too easily. "Surely you know, Mr. Williams, that mine is far more the path of the simple gardener than the social butterfly. I wouldn't know what to do with a girl anymore than I know how to fly."
"You're sure you'd never spoken to her? Apparently she was quite dogged in trying to reach you. "
"What did you say her name was?"
"Emma. Emma Walker-Pryce."
His fingers stilled. A pause (perhaps a beat too long?), and he shook his head. "Sorry, can't recall meeting her." He set the hat on his head. "If that's all, I'm off." He tipped his hat. "Cheers."
"You won't mind if I have a look around the grounds, would you?"
His steps barely slowed, but the little hitch was there. "Not at all. Only, please, don't disturb my plants. It's far too cold for them in this beastly city, you'll let all the warmth out of the greehouse."
I narrowed my eyes at is back, watching him go, and then spun on my heel to investigate the greenhouses.
No comments:
Post a Comment