Black Valentines Read online

  At the very least I hoped that Laura would not learn of what transpired after she had retired that evening. As much as it appeared unhealthy, perhaps it was good that Balfour made every effort to shelter her from the world. Laura did not know of my despicable behavior, neither my alcohol induced illness nor my relationship, however brief, with Lydia. I wanted nothing more than to go to her and beg forgiveness.

  In the end I resolved that I would need to visit the house on Crescent Walk, to make certain that Laura bore no ill feelings toward me, and to man up and beg Balfour’s forgiveness for conduct unbecoming of a gentleman.

  After a light supper I began to feel somewhat better and I again made the trip on foot all the way to Bloomsbury. The food, the air, and the walk did me a world of good, and though tired and achy, I arrived on the doorstep of the house on Crescent Walk as dusk settled over the neighborhood.

  I rang the bell and waited for the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. While waiting, I turned and gazed across the street at Russell Square, admiring the clean lines of the rows of houses around me. The street lamps had come on and mellow squares of light dotted the residences on either side.

  But no lights were on in the Balfour house.

  I rang again. I knocked. I could hear the bell through the heavy door, so I knew it must be heard inside. I knocked again, pounding louder with my fists.

  The light in the foyer was switched on. At last!

  I was accustomed to seeing Soames when I arrived at the house, but this time the door was opened by a timid servant girl.

  Something was dreadfully wrong.

  I pushed my way inside without invitation, but the poor girl was so accustomed to nothing but taking orders that she made no effort to stop me.

  “Where is Laura?”

  “She isn’t here, sir.”

  “I see that. Where is she?”

  “She’s gone.”

  I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Gone where?”

  “To Balfour Manor, sir.”

  Part Three

  I arrived in Prescott late the following afternoon.

  There had been nothing left for me to do. I made one last trip to the barber, bathed, dressed in my uniform and stuffed what few clothes I owned into a carpetbag along with my needle case and the morphine. I only had enough to last a couple of days, but I when I needed more I would find a way to get it. I left the key with the landlady. You’ll think me mad, but I had no intention of returning to this hell hole, even if I should go back to London. But that, at the moment, was not in my plans.

  I really had no sort of agenda at all. There was no doubt in my mind that I must go to her, and confess my love for her, and ask that she marry me. It was out of the question that she would deny my request. How much more romantic can a man be than to abandon everything he owned, which in my case was pitifully little, and pursue the woman of his dreams?

  It wasn’t until the end of my journey approached and the train pulled into Prescott that I had any sort of doubt, and it was only this: that I might not be made entirely welcome as an uninvited guest at Balfour Manor. And so I booked a night’s lodging at the inn in town. I ate a meager meal, and set about locating someone who would be willing to take me to the house.

  The coming of dusk was accompanied by a misty spray of rain, not enough to make one miserable, but the journey on the bench beside a farmer in an open cart was not entirely pleasant. He left me by the stone columns that marked the entrance to a long drive that led toward the house. The mist was thicker now, the night air damp and chill, the air fresh with saltwater so that I knew the house was very close to the sea.

  The lighted windows of the house cast an eerie glow in the mist but otherwise provided ample light for me to make my way up the rise toward Balfour Manor. I could not see the details, but my immediate impression was that it was large and every bit as ostentatious as I expected the house in which Lionel Balfour lived to be.

  I stepped up on the portico. There was a heavy brass knocker on the door and it thudded dully each time I hit it against the door.

  I waited long. I knew someone was at home, else why would there be so many lights in the house? Of course, my timing meant that Laura and Balfour were at dinner, and perhaps they had guests. I did not expect Balfour to greet me with open arms, but I did not see how Laura would turn me away after I had come all this way.

  I lifted the knocker again, and again, and presently the door opened and a sliver of amber light sliced the darkness.

  The creature within was tiny with untidy tufts of wiry gray hair escaping from beneath her bonnet. The light in the foyer above her head cast her face into deep shadow, but the hand that held the door was withered as a husk, the nails untrimmed.

  “What is it?” The voice was old and not in the least bit pleased to face a stranger at the door.

  “Officer Dahl to see Miss Balfour, if you please.”

  “They have no business with the police.”

  “I’m not with the police. I’m a friend of Laura’s.”

  “Laura!”

  “Yes. I’ve come all the way from London—”

  “You can’t come in.”

  “Please—”

  “No one is at home.”

  “I won’t mind waiting.” I attempted to insinuate myself into the doorway, but the old woman began to press the door against me.

  “I said leave.”

  A figure appeared in the hall behind her, a tall man in shadow so that I could not see his face.

  “What is it, Sneed?”

  “A man, sir. He says he’s not with the police.”

  “I’m an officer in His Royal Majesty’s Army.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” The voice was cool, calm, a clipped upper crust accent far different from the old woman’s. “It is damp tonight. Invite him in, Sneed.”

  A disagreeable grunt escaped the old woman, but she did as she was told. I stepped into the warm glow of the foyer and removed my hat. I extended my hand to the tall man before me.

  “Officer Clive Dahl, at your service, sir.”

  He lifted his hand. Long skeletal fingers barely gripped mine and then they slipped quickly away. “Edwin Rathcliffe,” he said.

  The tiny woman cocked her head and eyed me with a mixture of contempt and suspicion.

  Rathcliffe said, “Leave us, Sneed. I will show Officer Dahl into the drawing room.”

  The door was shut behind me. Rathcliffe turned down the hall ahead of us, then gestured and stepped aside bidding me enter the room.

  The furnishings in the room were old, of dark and muted colors. The house had not yet been equipped with electricity and there were several lamps burning in the room, their lights turned low so that shadows lurked in every corner and crevice. Rathcliffe gestured again, this time for me to sit, and offered tea, which I declined. Above the fireplace was the obligatory painting of Laura and Lionel. Still there was no sign of Lydia.

  “Did I hear correctly that you have come to visit Laura?”

  “Yes. We had recently become acquainted in London, Laura and her brother and I, and they were called away so suddenly that I was unable to complete a certain matter with the family.”

  “Oh? And what certain matter was that?”

  Rathcliffe was thin, his skin so pale that even the amber light from the lamps did little to put life into those sallow cheeks. He remained standing as we spoke which had an uncomfortable effect on me, as I assume was his intention.

  “It is of a private nature.”

  “I see. Unfortunately, Officer, you have come at an inopportune moment. Laura is not here at present, and Lionel is out for the evening, and is not expected to return until quite late.”

  “I will wait.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Rathcliffe—”

  “It’s ‘doctor’. Dr. Rathcliffe.”

  “Dr. Rathcliffe, I would not have come all this way if it wasn’t a matter of urgent and utmost im
portance.”

  “As you wish, Officer. But if you are not willing to disclose the nature of your call to me, I am afraid I will not be able to invite you to stay.”

  We were on the verge of stalemate, and I had to seize the upper hand.

  “I have information concerning Lydia.”

  “Lydia?” This seemed to have piqued his curiosity and the slight rise in his tone assured me this had taken him by surprise. “What do you know about Lydia?”

  “As I said, it is a private matter.”

  “Officer, I am certain you fail to understand the nature of my relationship with the family. In fact there is much you clearly do not understand. I am a private physician. Balfour Manor is my home. I have lived here for many years, and I am as much a part of this family as Lionel and his sister.”

  “Are you aware she may have killed a man?”

  “Laura or Lydia?”

  “Lydia, of course. Laura isn’t capable of killing anyone.”

  “I am aware of the unfortunate demise of a man associated with Lydia. But what makes you certain it was Lydia who killed him?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “Yet you come all the way from London with this specious ‘information’ regarding Lydia when you and I both know it is not the true reason you are here. What is the nature of your visit, Officer Dahl?”

  I had had enough of the pretense. “Please, just call me Mr. Dahl, or Dahl, I don’t care which. I have come for Laura because I am in love with her.”

  “Of course you are, poor man. Men always fall in love with Laura, or Lydia, or whichever one it is they meet.”

  It seemed the room grew suddenly darker, the air thick until it became difficult for me to breathe.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were a fool to come here. You know nothing, absolutely nothing about any of them.”

  My mind clouded over. I tried desperately to grasp his meaning, but my brain refused to follow his implication.

  Rathcliffe clasped his hands before him as if in prayer. “You’re a persistent fellow, I’ll give you that. I suppose since you have come this far I should allow you to make the rest of the journey.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said again, and now anger began to well inside me. My face grew warm and a film glazed over my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  Rathcliffe moved to the door of the room and pulled the bell rope. He turned his gaze on me, a watchful eye as if he expected me to make a run for it. The minutes ticked by. This man was accustomed to waiting.

  At length the old housekeeper toddled into the room.

  “Sneed, go to Miss Balfour’s room and ask her to join me in the drawing room.”

  Sneed shook her head but did as she was told.

  “I thought you said she wasn’t here.”

  “I said that Laura isn’t here.”

  If I could only have pulled the blinders off and listened to the man’s words. If only I had listened all along. But I was as blind as Laura, perhaps more so.

  The discomforting silence continued. The man stood rigid as a corpse. I realized I had begun to squirm beneath his watchful eyes.

  And then she walked into the room.

  “Doctor,” she said, and I knew at once by the sound of her voice it was not Laura. “You wished to see me?” It was not Laura, it was not her inflection, it was not her pitch…it was not her!

  “We have an unexpected visitor tonight. Do you recognize this man, my dear?”

  The woman with the yellow ringlets, with Laura’s face and Lydia’s face and their body was someone else altogether. She put a finger in her mouth and tucked her head. She was coy. Laura was not coy. Lydia most certainly wasn’t either.

  It was the gesture of a little girl.

  “Lucy, I would like you to meet Mr. Dahl.”

  “Hello,” said Lucy and bobbed a little curtsy. “Did you bring me a doll?”

  “No, my dear; his name is Dahl. He is an officer in the army. Do you like his uniform?”

  “Yes, I do.” A foot lifted behind her and balanced on its point. The head dipped coyly again. She smiled.

  And I thought I understood.

  “Lionel always brings me a doll, but he forgot this time.”

  Dear God, I understood. I couldn’t believe it. I did not want to believe it. Surely I had stepped into some nightmare. My leg twitched involuntarily.

  “I’m sure he’s very sorry. Perhaps he was in a hurry and merely forgot. You love Lionel anyway, don’t you, Lucy?”

  “I love Lionel,” the little girl said. “I will always love Lionel, no matter what.”

  “Why don’t you run along now Lucy? There’s the good girl. Lionel will be home soon and will come upstairs and hear your prayers.”

  “Good night, doctor. Good night, Mr. Dahl.” She giggled. The sound of this child’s voice coming out of this grown woman made a bilious taste rise in my throat.

  After she had left the room, Rathcliffe came and stood with his back to the fire so that the light was behind him. I could not see his face. I would not have looked at him regardless. I could not face the truth in his eyes. I felt struck dumb. I shut my eyes, wishing it all to be an illusion, wishing that it all would go away.

  But it was an illusion, wasn’t it? Every last bit from the moment I had set eyes on her portrait.

  Only portraits of one woman, one girl, yet each in its own beguiling light had seemed so different than the others; only portraits of Lionel with his one and only sister, whoever she may be. She was Laura; she was Lydia, and she was Lucy. How many more were there hidden inside that beautiful, bewitching woman?

  “At last you begin to understand.”

  “But how? How is such a thing possible?”

  “Mr. Dahl, I commend you for your diligence. Men have come and men have gone. Most never make it this far. Eventually they give up the struggle. They go away, confused, perhaps disappointed. Sometimes they discover something that is better left unknown, and that is never to their benefit. Do you think it is to your benefit to see what you have seen?”

  “You’ve done this to her, haven’t you. It’s some trick, some sorcerer’s illusion. What is it? Mesmerism?”

  He didn’t laugh, he didn’t have to. He knew he had lured me right into this web of unspeakable secrets. I was a fool. I had been deceived all along.

  “You have seen with your own eyes, but you still refuse to believe. Very well, Mr. Dahl. I shall tell you everything, and when I have finished you will go back to London or wherever it is you came from, and forget you came here. You will forget that you ever met Lionel Balfour and his sister. Do you understand?”

  I opened my mouth, but no words would come, no sound.

  The doctor drew a heavy chair close to mine and sat perched rigid on the edge, and this is the tale he told.

  “Lionel was born the only son of Julian Balfour and his wife Grace. For ten years he was their only child. Grace took no interest in the boy. In fact, she despised him. She despised all men – no matter that she loved her husband, for husbands, as she had been taught, were a necessary evil – and everything about men. To her a boy child was nothing but an undeveloped, untamed version of what he would grow to be. After conception, she shunned the marital bed. Grace was fortunate that Julian was often away for long periods of time. He spent his hours in the studio, or traveling to parts of Europe. Lionel was raised by a series of nannies, and not very capable ones at that. Grace refused to have anything to do with the staff, and so the governesses came and went, hired by Sneed who had no notion of the kind of woman who was required to raise a child such as Lionel.

  “He was a willful boy from the beginning and stopped at nothing to get his way. He was exceedingly clever and had no qualms about tormenting the women, young or old, who came to look after him.

  “Lionel was ten when his sister was born, and Grace suddenly sprang to life. It seemed that all she had ever wanted was a daughter, and her apathy toward her son was
not so much because she loathed children in general, but because she could not live with the fact that her first born was a male.

  “When the girl was born, Grace doted on her. At first, Lionel was jealous, as only a ten year old boy who had enjoyed the privileges of being an only child for so long could be. He longed for his mother’s affections, and when they were not forthcoming, it seemed to him that the best way to win his mother’s favor was to share in Grace’s joy for her daughter. He began to dote on the little girl just as their mother did, and insisted on helping in ways that only a nursemaid properly should. Grace at last, it seemed, was happy with Lionel.