Silver (2 page)

“
I must apologise again, Mr. Bancroft, but these circumstances are most unusual. As you know, the deceased has been identified by a doctor and one of the staff here but in the circumstances, we would prefer a more formal identification by family. I take it you will be undertaking this duty?” I heard John agree and then I heard my own voice.

“
No. He is my father and I will make the identification.”

       
Both men looked at me disapprovingly but John was the first to air his feelings on the matter.

“
Now look here Imogen, you’re upset and grieving. Naturally you want to see your father, but under the circumstances I think it’s best if I tend to these matters,” his moustache bristled with importance and, having spoken succinctly but forcefully, he clearly thought that should be an end to the matter.

“
No, John,” I said gently. “I must see him. I must make them see what a mistake they have made. There must be no doubt.”

       
And I did believe sitting in my father’s study, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of his things, that perhaps it was just a silly mistake. That I would be called to my father’s bedroom and be able to deny that the person they had found there was my father. Since leaving Hampstead Heath, I had willed into existence some love affair between my father and some woman who had now come to be found dead in his bed, and for some curious reason they believed it to be my father. The more I thought of this woman the more I could believe in the fact that my father, perhaps ashamed by her death, was safe and well. I imagined he had gone to his club and he was at that moment nursing a whiskey and a cigar, bemoaning his situation with some chums. My spirits lifted and I found I was not dreading walking into my father’s bedroom but I was eager to do so, for the sooner I ascended the stairs and showed them the truth of the matter, the sooner I could put an end to all the nonsense. I would send Heston to fetch my father from his club after I undertook the task. With a renewed sense of vigour, I rose from my chair and proceeded directly out of the room. Heston opened the door swiftly and I was away up the stairs, John and the Inspector at my heels.

“Imogen. Really, I must insist.”

        I was in such a rush to get to the first floor that I tripped near the top and had to steady myself against the banister. Heston’s face stared up at me, his expression one of great pity and sadness. Wildly, I took the next few stairs two at a time and came to stand outside my parents’ bedroom. I was at the door, my hand upon the great brass knob, and the sense to knock took me by such surprise that I was compelled to do so. As I raised my hand to knock, I caught sight of John and Inspector Greene alighting the landing beside me. Seeing this action as foolish, I brought my fist instead to my forehead and opened the door. The last time I was in this room was when my mother was alive. On my wedding day, after I was dressed, Mother had invited me to sit at her dressing table as she had put the finishing touches to my hair. As I sat looking at myself in the mirror, my mother behind me, I had begun to weep. Mother was shocked and a little taken aback. I hadn’t been sad but moved and nervous about the future. My life at home in my parents’ loving care was now at an end and, although I had been looking forward to my adulthood, I was all at once nervous of what lay in store.

“
How did you feel on your wedding day?” I had asked my mother. There was a long pause; her hand hovered above my forehead before she continued with her task, carefully combing my auburn hair.

“
Mother?” I prompted, but still she was silent. I watched her reflection in the mirror as words formed on, and then disappeared from, her lips, all the while her hands seemingly busy at my hair but not touching me at all. In the silence, I could hear the clock on the great mantel ticking, dutifully marking the passage of this time. After what seemed an age, she had finally found the words she had struggled for.

“
I was sad I think. Don’t look like that. I was sad for us both that not one of our family could share our future together. As you know, our parents were dead and,” she paused. “your father and I…..we……”

       
Not one to ever be lost or struggling for words, I had frowned at her as I watched her in the mirror. She had blushed and her eyes had flickered as though she were embarrassed. She caught my eye and smiled.

“
And happy too. Excited and nervous and a little scared.”

“
Why scared?” I felt a little relieved to hear her say this and I waited anxiously to hear her reply. Far from having to consider this, she placed her hands on my shoulders and addressed my reflection head on.

“
Just like you and John, mine and your father’s stars have been aligned since the first day we met and it was destiny that we should end our days together; it is the same destiny that will see you and John very happily joined together.” She smiled at me, her eyes misting a little with tears, and hugged me to her. I felt myself well up, all at once feeling the little girl, safe in her mother’s arms. The door opened behind us and I heard my father’s voice.

“
What’s all this?” his tone was hearty, mixed with a hint of concern. I drew myself away from my mother and composed myself, ready to face my father’s close inspection.

“I’ll see you downstairs,”
my mother whispered to me, planting a kiss on my head, her own face now streaked by tears. As she turned to leave the room, she placed a gentle hand on my father’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, leant his head to one side and kissed it. It was a moment’s tender affection, genuine and heartfelt, but it was that one gesture that alleviated my fears and my anxious feelings, I knew in that instant that I wanted to marry John. I wanted to stand in twenty or thirty years’ time and share exactly a moment such as that with my own husband. As the door closed behind my mother, my father held out his hands for mine and I stood before him.

“
I don’t need to ask you this as it’s been written on your face these past months, but tradition insists I do.” Here, he had fixed me with his most concerned face and gripped my hands more tightly. “Now, do you love John and want to marry him today?”

I matched his serious question with my own solemn face and replied with a most heartfelt and vigorous nod. Smiling broadly, I added,
“Without any question, Father.”

“
I haven’t the words enough to tell you how proud I am of you, Immy. Your mother and I both are. You look…” he had stepped back and surveyed me, “...beautiful.”

       
He had paused and I felt on the verge of sadness again, but now resolved to the excitement, I wanted to stave off any tears. I had stepped forward and stretched a little to place a kiss on his cheek. I stepped back and smiled at him.

“I love you, Father.”

        He had smiled then too; a dazzling beam of satisfaction that radiated his pleasure at my words and his affection for me. I had basked in the warmth of it and felt happy. I remembered the feeling even then as I stood upon the threshold of his death. The room was not as I remembered it from that occasion; the curtains were drawn and my mother was long gone. The fire had not been lit that day and the walls exuded a chill air penetrating from outside. The bed too was smaller than I remembered it and the body lain within it seemed too big for the room. I avoided looking at it. I was stood upon the threshold, at the very edge of lies about to step into truth.

“
Imogen?” John’s voice was gentle and the questioning tone enquired only if I was sure of what I was about to do. His hand was upon my shoulder and I leant my cheek against it, my eyes closed. At once, I was both grateful for him being behind me but I also needed to do this alone, and after a moment, I kissed his hand and stepped forward into the room. The gaslights cast my shadow across the bed and the sheet that had been pulled up over the body was beyond the reach of the gloomy light. My father, usually a forward thinking and modern man, refused to be connected to an electricity supply and so, with a surprisingly steady hand, I took up a lamp from the dresser and lit my father’s bedside oil lamp. The light jumped up the glass chimney and I turned down the wick to settle the flame. I glanced towards John who was still standing in the door frame, his jaw set in defiance at the lie we were about to prove false.

       
I tried to smile at him but my mouth and lips were too dry and they would not form into any cheery expression; instead, I looked grimly down at the white sheet and lay a hand upon its cover. I held my breath and turned back the sheet enough to see the face beneath it. The flesh was drained and ashen, giving the skin a blue glow, as if Jack Frost himself lay upon my father’s bed. There was no doubting though that the face was my father’s and a great choking sob rose from deep within me. The sheet fell from my hand and covered the face again. John stepped forward and was beside me in three great strides but I was like stone. Whilst a great surge of sorrow shook me, I was not yet done; for now, there was no escaping the terrible lies that had been spoken, excepting human error, a farcical mistake, unkind lies. John tried to steer me from the bed and one foot followed under the weight of his guiding hands, but I shook him off.

“
Imogen, really, you don’t need to do this.”

“
On the contrary, John, I absolutely must do this,” I retorted.

       
My tone was glacial, a shield of distance for the grim task ahead. With renewed courage, I gripped the corner of the sheet and gently pulled it back revealing his nightshirt, unbuttoned and pulled back across his shoulders. Familiar and strong, they were diminished little in death from those that had carried me as a tiny child fast down the stairs of this very house, taking my breath away and making me squeal with delight. I inched the sheet towards his chest, feeling vindicated by the contours of the linen.

       
As I raised the sheet, his chest appeared flat beneath his nightshirt and I felt somewhat calmer, as I leant forward to pull aside his nightshirt. As I did so, a fresh band of crêpe bandages were revealed and my first thought was what injury had caused him to be dressed so. The shock to my heart was for his manner of death; perhaps he had not died peacefully but been murdered in his bed and dressed by his killer. Without thinking, I pulled at the loosened bandages to see his wound, ready to call out to the dunderhead of an Inspector who, instead of searching for my father’s killer, was spreading lies about him.

       
As the bandages came away from my father’s chest, it took me a while to focus on what I was seeing. Flat and small, bound under the crêpe bandages, were two lumps on my father’s chest. I drew in breath sharply and peered hard. More than answer any questions, the ambiguity of their slight feminine form only made their positive identification more difficult. Whatever error had been made, it could not be corrected by this evidence. I closed my eyes and threw the sheet to the end of the bed.

       
My father’s nightshirt was covering his groin, but his legs had been drawn wide apart at the hips and his knees were bent. He resembled a frog pinned for dissection and the comparison with my own close inspection made me feel suddenly intrusive. Aware at last of my husband stood behind me, the fact that strangers had picked over my father so, had arranged his body thus and had inspected him like a specimen, made me feel sick. Struggling with the urge to run from the room and the desire to know the truth, I lifted my father’s nightshirt and both wished to see and not to see his manhood. The light only made it harder to make out, but what wasn’t there could not be forced into being by better light. There was nothing there. In the thick, dark triangle of my father’s pubic hair there was not one small protruding piece of flesh that could be mistaken for anything else. I stared at the place where my father’s member should have been and I felt my skin drain of all its colour. My eyes prickled with the effort of not blinking, but closing my eyes to do so might break the spell and I didn’t know if I could stand to face the revelation yet.

“
My God! It’s true!” John’s voice was loud behind me and I jumped, my eyes darting around, looking for any truth I could fix on to keep me standing; I did not dare trust the walls in case they weren’t solid or the light, in case it burnt my eyes. My ears were ringing with John’s words. It was true. It was true. I felt light-headed and sick, and I staggered past John, pushing aside his entreating arms. I crashed into the door, struggling to remain upright, and ran to my old bedroom down the corridor. My heart was pounding in my throat and my stomach was knotted in my shoes. I felt upside down as I threw open the door, slammed it and locked it behind me. The door shook with John’s knocking and he tried the handle, calling all the while to me.

“Imogen. Let me in. Imogen.”

        And so he went on; all the while I shut out the sounds of the truth and, instead, turned my head back to the lies. In the gloom of my childhood room, I could see my mother’s face in the mirror on my wedding day, the look in her eyes as she had chewed on the words of how she had felt on the morn of her own wedding. I knew now why she had been so evasive. The lie of it and the truth of it had been that there had been no wedding. The truth of it was that my father was a woman.

Through the crack in the heavy linen curtains, a shard of light edged itself across a fine rug. Like a dusty finger, it pointed accusingly at the bed and its sleeping occupant. The first fronds of pale grey morning stretched themselves, as if from a weary sleep and tried to penetrate Avery’s dreams beneath the crisp linen sheets. His head rested heavily on the plump pillows. His thick, sleep-ruffled hair, a dark contrast to the white of the linen, was the same colour as the mahogany furniture which loomed from the edges of the room. Avery was in the middle of a dream. His eyes, shielded by sleep-weary lids, flickered, seeing yet not seeing his hidden fantasy.

       
It is summer in his dream and the sun is brighter than the gloom of his bedroom. There is a lake which, at first glance, appears deserted. Stirring the stillness of the velvet greens of the surrounding parkland and the cornflower blue sky, there is a couple picnicking. They are shielded from view by the dancing yellow-green skirts of a willow tree. From the path, anyone watching could make out a young lady attired in a plain white dress, lounging against some cushions scattered about the picnic blanket; her hat has been cast aside, and some curls from her hair have come loose and now frame her pale face with auburn. She is Kate Ward and, in truth, she is a young servant girl in the Silvers’ house; far from enjoying a picnic on a day like this, she should be working up a sweat cleaning silver or changing bed linen. The young man leaning over her is Avery Silver. He is Avery Silver as he appears to himself.

       
Avery is smartly dressed, from his polished shoes to his immaculate shirt, his expensive jacket and trousers to the luxury oil taming his thick mahogany locks. A cooling breeze picks up off of the lake, beside which they lay, and carries the scent of the picnic and the sound of their hushed laughter and mumbling. Avery has exaggerated his own body shape; his shoulders aren’t usually that broad, he isn’t normally quite so tall.  Avery’s back obscures the view of Kate and you would have to be almost upon them before her state of undress is revealed. Avery is leaning across her, one hand tugging down an arm of her summer dress to reveal her firm pale breast. Her nipple, despite the warmth of the summer’s day, is pert and erect and it is this nipple that Avery now takes in his mouth. Kate’s head lolls backwards and she bites her lower lip, allowing the small sigh of pleasure rising in her throat to escape her.

       
In the bedroom in which the sleeping Avery lay dreaming, the sounds of morning began to fill the air as, one by one, the birds in the square outside shook themselves awake. Avery’s leg moved beneath the sheets and created a ripple of white light in the beam of dawn, like a river cresting over a rock. The sound of broken glass punctuates the silence in the room and Avery’s head reared up briefly. His eyes, heavy with sleep, look about, confused as he noted only the intrusion of the dawn. His thick chestnut sleep-tussled hair was thrown up in surprise and he promptly collapsed back into the pillows. The curtains seemed to draw open of their own volition as the morning outside them stained the shaft of light from grey to blue, then from blue to violet, pregnant with the impending sun, to the warming yellow and the promise of a glorious summer’s day. Avery shifted again. His dream was becoming more distant, more polluted by the stirring noises from the house below. A distant door closed; the creak of the floorboard above him; the far-off mumble of voices. Avery groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. 3, Cornwall Gardens was coming alive and he wanted nothing to do with it.

       
Soon the chorus of birdsong outside began to play second fiddle to the industrious sounds of the city. The distant clatter was of horse’s hooves as the Omnibus collected and deposited its early commuters. The faint masculine cries were that of early morning tradesmen passing up the Cromwell Road. Some way off, the hazy shriek of a seagull can be heard as it wheels across land, the Thames beneath disappearing from view as barges clogged the snaking black highway.

       
Avery began to protest beneath the sheets. His dream had been coming to its conclusion; the same impotent ending as was common of all his dreams. Kate would be breathless with longing and her chest rising and falling with a great weight of passion; her collarbone glistening in the heat of the summer sun, reflecting across the surface of the lake. Avery too would be alert with arousal, blood surging to his head and he would hear only his own breathing, long and deeply drawn through his open mouth.  His eyes flickered in his head as he tried to stay inside his dream.

       
He is inhaling Kate’s words as she whispers to him, urges him on. He is drawing himself up above her and gazing down at his lover, and sees his own desire mirrored in her eyes. He traces his fingers down between her breasts, across her stomach and embraces her thighs and hips. He is arrested by Kate’s sharp intake of breath and he watches as she bites her lip and her eyes flicker backwards with a moment’s indecision; Kate’s own hands grip tighter around Avery’s neck and she presses herself upwards into his embrace, nudging her hip into his groin. Avery pushes his hand up under her petticoat, his knuckles raking the inside of her thighs. Her breath is hot about his ears as she whispers to him. The same phrase Avery has heard in his dreams every night for the last two months. ‘Be gentle, Avery.’

       
A pulse in his head throbbed and all at once he is filled with both an insatiable hunger and an impotent rage. Before either of these emotions can be explored, the image of the lake vanished like a grey mist and he woke with a start in his bed. His breathing, as in his dream, was heavy and he struggled to bring himself back to the waking reality. The sounds from the window were more insistent now and Avery glanced at the mantel clock. It was before eight and presently the real Kate would be arriving to rouse him. Avery groaned and rubbed his eyes, wiping the sleep away and trying to banish the fast fading images of Kate from his mind. He wished he could wipe away his feeling of shame and guilt so easily.

       
There was a gentle tapping at the door, barely discernible to Avery, who was anticipating such an intrusion. He ignored it, yet the door opened without his command, as he knew it would, and the soft rustling of Kate’s skirts entered the room before her. A young, slight figure, she made her way around the room. As he watched her through his sleep veiled eyes, he could discern a hint of amusement as she picked up the first of Avery’s clothes from the floor. She set down a porcelain bowl and jug on the dresser and collected the chamber pot beneath the bed, before padding her way back out of the room. As the door opened, allowing cooler air to briefly permeate the dusty room, Avery could smell the familiar scent of her on the brief breeze and then she was gone.

       
Avery had been holding his breath and he allowed himself a long sigh before rolling back under the sheets, thankful for a few more minutes before Kate would return. His dreams were becoming awkward and he was worried she would see something of them still playing across his mind. He closed his eyes again and tried to call to mind how he should see Kate; the obedient and dutiful face swimming before him. He pictured her in her maid’s attire; the black dress, the starched white collar and apron, but even as he imagined her, he was drawn by her petite frame and her sweet face. The familiar milk-white skin at her neck, he imagined his own lips pressed against it.

“
Oh, give me peace!” he called out, screwing up his eyes and pulling the sheets up over his head. After only a few minutes and before, it seemed, Avery had even closed his eyes, the door opened and closed again.

“
Are you awake, Miss Silver?” Kate whispered the words only just audible. Her Yorkshire accent was soft but unmistakable. She walked to the nightstand and on it carefully placed a glass of something milky.

“
Miss Alice?” she ventured softly, leaning across the great bed. “Truly, you stretch my sympathy.”

       
Avery finally rolled to face the maid and pulled a face before sitting up. He reached for the glass and, making another face, threw the contents down the back of his throat.

“
Yeugh!” he exclaimed, his eyes closed and his mouth wide. “Foul concoction. I don’t know why my father insists on such measures. Am I not the very picture of health?”

“
Indeed, Miss!” Kate retorted, raising an eyebrow. Kate smiled and took the glass from Avery, her fingers brushing his. An innocent gesture, which sent a shot of nervous pleasure straight to Avery’s stomach. He recoiled and looked away before adding, “Thank you, Kate.”

       
His tone was perfunctory and Kate straightened up, a hint of concern on her small face. The gesture did not go unnoticed and Avery added in conciliation, “I expect I shall live.” Kate nodded and stepped back from the bed busying herself, instead, at the wardrobe.

“
Your father has risen early this morning and has already gone to visit Mrs. Fearncott. He will be gone much of the day. Shall I?” she added, gesturing at the curtains. Avery nodded reluctantly, and watched as Kate drew the heavy curtains. She was immediately thrown into silhouette by the bright sunshine and Avery had to squint to measure up the day outside. The window revealed a promising blue sky peppered with puffy cloud and he found himself cheered by the prospect of such a day.

          
“I don’t know where he finds the strength to be up so early; he is at least three times my age.”

       
He tried to keep his tone level and betray none of the thoughts so vivid in his mind as he watched the young girl potter around, tidying the disarray of the room. There was little about Kate that differed from his dream, so well has he studied her. The face was as alluring as he has imagined it and her slight frame just as appealing. As Avery watched, Kate seemed to become aware of his eyes upon her and eventually she turned to face him, a ready smile on her lips.

“
If you want to help, Miss, you only have to ask.”

       
With that she tossed a blouse across to Avery, still sitting in bed. Avery laughed. Kate was singularly the cheekiest maid he had ever known of. Though she was good at her job, he felt sure she would not keep a position very long with her ready wit and easy cheek. He was glad of it for, had she secured a permanent position in Yorkshire, she would never have found herself in London and into his household a few months ago. Without knowing it, that simple gesture had diffused the tension that Avery had felt since he woke and he began to feel more relaxed in her company. Kate busied herself once more and Avery began to think how he would spend the day, unexpectedly without his father’s prying eyes. Kate pulled out a dress from the wardrobe and glanced at Avery who shuddered and shook his head.

“
No, the grey one I think,” he ventured, rising from the bed, his nightshirt falling across his muscled legs. He blushed as he saw Kate watching him.

“I need some new clothes,”
he said quietly.

       
At this comment Kate looked surprised. Her mistress’s wardrobe was full of dresses, from the drab greys and blacks of mourning to delicate creams and lilacs. Had she herself but a quarter of its contents she would never want for anything more. Most of the prettier dresses were hardly worn but she said nothing. Instead, she hurriedly put the dress back into the wardrobe, extracting instead a pale grey silk outfit. She hung it on the wardrobe and began to straighten out the bodice and brush the skirt with a clothes brush.

“
Your father’s taken the carriage. Shall I send for a cab?”

              
“No. I shall walk and perhaps catch the Omnibus. It’s a beautiful day and I fancy I would enjoy the exercise. You don’t approve, Kate?” he asked, seeing her frown.

“
Miss Silver…” Kate didn’t need to glance up to know that Avery was frowning at her, his mouth open, ready to argue. She changed tack. “What you do is your own business and I’m all for walking, Miss, but it’s your father. He’s the one what pays me wages,” she grumbled, picking up a book from where it had fallen from the bed. “I don’t intend losing this position ‘cos your fancy takes you up town. You know ‘ow he worries about you.”

       
Aware she had probably spoken out of turn, she faced Avery, chewing her lower lip, waiting. Avery nodded and walked across to the dresser where a plainly decorated ceramic bowl was filled with warm water. He leant over it, scooped up a handful of water and splashed it across his face.

“
Well, you mustn’t worry so, Kate. We will simply take in the morning at Kensington Gardens and then I have an errand to run.”

“What errand, Miss?”

        Shaking his head, he drew himself up to face his reflection across the dresser top. The mirror showed a handsome young face. The brown eyes, although red and weary looking, were filled with sparkle. Thick brown hair, tousled from his restless sleep, clung about his face where it lay damp. The lips were full and the mouth was upturned slightly into what always seemed a look of amusement. He considered himself for a moment and he was both pleased and angry by what he saw. His eyes flashed over the contours of his chest beneath the nightshirt and he flinched, his jaw set in angry contempt. Over his right shoulder, he saw Kate’s face, small with perspective, her eyes narrowed with curiosity as she watched him appraise his reflection in such a way.