The Harvest Man (7 page)

“This is the most likely time to find him, really.”

“Who is it?”

“You’d rather not know, I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Day said. “Send a message when you’re up and about and ready to commence the search. Don’t come out here without me. Promise.”

“I won’t.”

“Nevil.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

Day took one last look around the clearing. He ran his palm over his stubbly chin and shook his head. “Boys! We’re leaving now! But we’ll be back to help you!” He listened for a response, but when he heard nothing he turned and limped away after Hammersmith.

T
he Harvest Man found the new couple by accident. They were leaving a house on Garway Road, around the corner from Leinster Square. It was a small house, and old, but it had been kept up. The couple was smiling, happy to be with each other. She was pretty, with long brown hair done up at the back of her head, and he was tall and lanky with a giant Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as he murmured something in her ear. They held hands as they crossed the dark road and walked away. Neither of them even glanced in his direction.

He looked up at the house and clapped his hands together with joy. There was clearly an attic, with a single window that looked out over the front garden.

He waited until the couple was out of sight and then he went to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He looked up and down the road, but it was empty. Nobody was paying attention to him. He walked around the side of the house where a hedge obscured the view from the street and he stopped again. No one had followed him, no one was shouting. He wiped his fingers on a windowpane, clearing the dirt and condensation, and peered inside, saw a small receiving room with nothing but a chair and a round table barely large enough for the lamp that sat on it. Nothing moved. The lamp was not lit and the sun was down, but nobody entered the room to light the flame.

He thought about the couple he had seen. They were doing well enough to afford a house to themselves, but they apparently didn’t employ a housekeeper. Or if they had one, she’d been given the evening off. He didn’t see evidence of children or a nanny. The couple was young, perhaps just starting out, which meant they might be living on an inheritance of some sort.

He used the point of his blade to pry the window open and slid it upward on its runners. He put the blade away and tossed the plague mask into the room ahead of him, then hoisted himself up, balanced for a moment, teetering back and forth on his belly, his head inside the house, his legs brushing against the hedge outside. He heard nothing. The air inside was undisturbed. He smelled something sweet lurking beneath the usual stale quality of an empty house. He put the palms of his hands against the wall under the window and pushed himself the rest of the way in, dropped to the floor, turned, and pulled the sash down. He picked up his mask by the strap, sniffed, and followed his nose to the kitchen, where a tray of fresh chocolate biscuits sat cooling on the sideboard. Moonlight streamed through the windows, lending the room a dim blue hue. The Harvest Man took two biscuits and rearranged the others so that they appeared to fill the tray. He crept about the ground floor, munching on one of the biscuits, getting his bearings. First, of course, he needed to know where the couple slept, and he was excited to find evidence that they occupied separate rooms at night.

He entered the woman’s room first. Her bed was small and neatly made. A nearby table held toiletries and a hand mirror. A brush was tangled with long brown hairs, and a semicircle of the table’s surface was lightly dusted with white powder. He ran a finger through it and smiled. The man’s room was similarly apportioned, but the bedsheets were rumpled and unmade. A table that matched the one in the woman’s room held a jar of shaving soap and a razor. The Harvest Man picked up the razor and tested its blade against his thumb. A dark bead of blood surfaced among the whorls and he tasted it. He folded the razor and slipped it into his pocket, then went looking for the door to the attic.

H
atty Pitt linked her arm in her husband’s as they walked along the street. She had been Mrs John Charles Pitt for exactly two months and three days, and the taste of the name was still new in her mouth. She looked over her shoulder at their house—
her very own house!
—at the other end of the street, where she had left biscuits out on the kitchen table to cool. She thought she saw movement behind a window at the front, but she dismissed it as a trick of the setting sun, casting nomadic shadows where there was nothing.

The home of the Merrilows was only two streets over, and the night was bright and clear with no suggestion of rain. Hatty enjoyed the short walk and she tried not to think too much about their destination. John Charles was excited. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he talked, waving his free hand about in the air to emphasize his points as he made them. She was aware that he and Eugenia Merrilow had indulged in a brief dalliance but, as he had assured her many times, that had ended months before his marriage to Hatty. There was, therefore, no reason for her to feel any jealousy. At least, this is what he had told his seventeen-year-old wife. He had added that he thought jealousy was an old-fashioned emotion anyway.

Hatty supposed she was an old-fashioned sort of girl.

But she smiled and delighted in the cool evening air on her face. She was genuinely pleased that John Charles was so worldly about art and culture. She was learning a great deal from him—when she paid attention to what he said, which happened with less frequency during these past two months. She made a moue of irritation at her own fickleness. She would never learn a thing if she didn’t concentrate on what her husband had to teach her.

John Charles misinterpreted her expression and fell silent until they came within sight of the Merrilow house. A sluggish stream of men and women dressed in their finery was flowing up the front walk. The door was open and light spilled out into the dark street, causing the guests’ long shadows to stretch and caper like marionette puppets or
ombres chinoises
, the tops of their heads melting into the gloom. Hatty felt a sudden chill and hugged herself. She was surprised and pleased when John Charles noticed and put his arm around her.

“You needn’t worry about Eugenia,” he said, still misunderstanding her. “She’s moved on every bit as much as I have. I hear she’s involved with that fellow at the museum. What’s his name? Frederick, I think. Met him once. Nice enough chap, though I can’t for the life of me figure out what she sees in him.”

Hatty smiled up at him. “I’ve hardly given Eugenia a single thought.”

“Well, no need to be rude. She is our hostess, you know.”

“I’m sorry, John Charles. I didn’t intend any rudeness.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. You simply don’t understand what’s expected of you. It’s my own fault, really, for marrying someone so young. Don’t worry. You’ll catch on.”

He moved his arm from her shoulders and grabbed her above the elbow, steering her toward the big house. Above the door someone had hung two gold masks, one smiling and one crying. Comedy and tragedy, Thalia and Melpomene, the Muses of the theater. And Eugenia had evidently hired extra staff for the evening. There was a new man on the door. He wore white gloves and his smile had a pasted-on quality that Hatty was afraid mirrored her own expression. He took her wrap and John Charles’s boater and directed them to the drawing room, where most of the guests had already gathered. Hatty smiled at the people John Charles introduced her to and wondered how many she had already met and promptly forgotten. Did they remember her? She supposed she really was as rude as John told her she was. Poor John Charles, stuck with a silly little girl for a wife.

More men with white gloves circulated through the room carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and tiny glasses of some clear sparkling aperitif. Hatty took a glass and wondered whether the biscuits waiting for her at home were cool enough yet to eat.

Fully a third of the drawing room had been rendered off-limits by the addition of a heavy burgundy curtain that ran from one wall to the other. Eugenia Merrilow was nowhere to be seen and Hatty assumed she was somewhere behind the curtain, readying herself for the tableau vivant, the night’s scheduled entertainment.

John Charles leaned in and whispered, “She’s doing the Botticelli tonight.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“Oh, I think you’ll be quite impressed. I’ve seen her do this tableau before, although it was for a private audience. It’s her crowning achievement.”

Hatty nodded and sipped at her drink. It was sweet and burned her throat. At seven o’clock the elder Mrs Merrilow, Eugenia’s mother, stood and sang “Woodman, Spare That Tree,” the dark red curtain framing her ample figure. She was in her fifties, Hatty was sure, and wore her hair in unfashionable ringlets that bobbed around her ears whenever she strained for a high note. When she had finished, the final notes (
Thy axe shall harm it not!
)
lingering, there was an awkward moment of silence before the audience began to applaud. Nevertheless, Mrs Merrilow curtsied and came back for an encore of “The Village Blacksmith” (
Under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands . . .
).

When the clock struck eight, one of the white-gloved men stepped in front of the curtain and cleared his throat. Magically, the room went silent, all at once. Everyone turned toward the man and he nodded at them.
“The Birth of Venus,”
he said, and bowed, walking sideways with the curtain as he drew it open.

A gasp went up from the gathered crowd. A low platform, two feet off the floor, twenty feet long, and ten feet deep, had been built under the windows, which were currently obscured by a flowery blue-and-green backdrop that filled the wall behind Eugenia Merrilow, who stood motionless, facing her audience astride an enormous pink scallop shell, its undulations framing her bare legs. Eugenia was entirely nude, except for a long red wig. She held one hand over her breasts and clutched the free end of the long wig in her other hand, pulling it around in front to cover her fanny. Lucy Hebron stood next to her holding up a salmon-colored cloak as if about to drape it over Eugenia’s shoulders. On Eugenia’s other side, to her right but Hatty’s left as she stood watching, George Merrilow was posed in mid-stride running toward his sister. He, too, was nude, but he had knotted a length of pale blue fabric about his throat and wrapped the other end of it around his midriff. Another woman whom Hatty didn’t recognize clung to George in an unseemly fashion. This woman wore a dark cape over her shoulders, but her left breast was exposed. Both she and George had somehow affixed wings to their backs. All four players in the silent drama stood stock-still, like mannequins, recreating
The Birth of Venus
, a painting which Hatty now recalled seeing in one of John Charles’s books. The entire effect was neither shocking nor artistic as far as Hatty was concerned. It was merely ludicrous.

She heard herself snort with laughter and she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Several of the guests closest to them glared at Hatty, and she felt herself flush. She dared not look up at John Charles; she feared his reaction to her outburst. An older gentleman ahead of her turned and winked, which made her feel a bit better. Still, her throat felt warm and she thought for a moment that she might faint. When she finally did look up, John Charles was stone-faced, staring straight forward at the stage. He had moved a pace away from her as if to distance himself from his wife, as if perhaps they had arrived separately and she was a stranger to him. For a split second, she wished the same.

At last, Eugenia Merrilow moved and the three other actors broke their stillness. Lucy Hebron stepped forward and finally covered Eugenia with the salmon cloak. The woman Hatty didn’t recognize turned her back to them for a moment and tucked her breast away under her makeshift cape. When the four of them were presentable, they stepped to the edge of the platform together and took a bow. The assembly in the drawing room clapped and Hatty heard approving murmurs among them. One or two of the younger men hooted and the applause went on and on in waves until the palms of Hatty’s hands began to sting. She imagined they would all have given Eugenia a standing ovation if they weren’t already on their feet.

“She and Patience performed Thumann’s
Three Fates
last month,” the kind gentleman said to Hatty when the applause had begun to die down. “Along with the elder Mrs Merrilow. I wish you’d been here. I would’ve liked to see your reaction.” He smiled and Hatty looked away, embarrassed all over again.

At least now she knew the name of the third woman onstage, the one she hadn’t seen before. Patience seemed a perfect name for someone whose idea of entertainment was to stand motionless for five minutes once a week.

John Charles moved quickly away without glancing back at Hatty and she spotted him a moment later embracing Eugenia. He whispered something in her ear that made Eugenia laugh, and Hatty put her head down. She wandered away from the kind gentleman and found a place near the door where she could lean unobtrusively. She wished someone would come around with more drinks.

After more than an hour, John Charles found Hatty again. She had not moved from her spot against the wall and no one had spoken to her since the end of the performance. At some point, all four actors had changed their clothing. Eugenia Merrilow was now wearing a shimmering yellow dress that barely covered her ankles. She giggled and flirted with the young men who had hooted at her earlier, putting her hand flat against their chests and throwing her head back as if they were the wittiest fellows she had ever encountered. Hatty noted with some satisfaction that Eugenia had no hips to speak of. She was as straight up and down as a boy. John Charles took Hatty by the elbow again, being a good deal rougher with her this time, and maneuvered her to the door and out. He glanced back over his shoulder as they exited the drawing room and Hatty could well imagine what he must be looking at. Or, rather,
who
he was looking at.

John Charles did not speak to Hatty all the long way back to their home. It was much farther away than it had seemed on their walk to the Merrilow house and there were wispy clouds skulking about the moon now. When at last they reached their own house, John Charles held the door open for his wife and then disappeared into his study. Hatty hung her wrap on the coatrack in the entry and went straight to the kitchen, where she lit a lamp on the kitchen table and gobbled down two chocolate biscuits without taking a breath between them. At last she swallowed and poured herself a glass of water. She frowned at the tray of biscuits. She had eaten two and yet four seemed to be missing. She glanced, puzzled, in the direction of the closed study door and then shrugged. If John Charles had burnt his tongue on a hot biscuit before they’d even left the house it served him right. She hoped it still hurt.

She left the kitchen and passed an open window in the hallway, which she pulled closed. She made her way up the stairs in the dark, brushing her fingertips against the wall all the way up. She changed into her nightdress and brushed her hair and settled into bed. She didn’t know how long it would take John Charles to get over being angry, but she hoped she would have fallen asleep by the time he came upstairs. She didn’t want him to come to her bedroom and she wasn’t ready for a dressing-down. Perhaps by morning John Charles would forgive her and she would feel contrite and things would go back to the way they usually were between them. She closed her eyes and pulled her coverlet to her throat and listened with trepidation for John Charles’s footsteps on the landing until, at last, she fell sound asleep.