The Sphere (17 page)

“Let’s go!” William whispers loudly. He’s thrown himself on top of me and I can feel his mouth against my neck. But I don’t care about anything else, I can’t think, all I know is that I’ve got to find this still-living thing. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts. I sniff around like a bloodhound, my nostrils flaring uselessly, trying to track down the source of that living smell. I wrap my arms around the trunk and move my nose over the cracks in the wood as William tries to pull me away.

“Enough!” he cries. It’s a command and a plea all at once.

He literally has to pull me off of the trunk, which I cling to like my life depends on it. I can’t explain it, but we can’t leave. William picks me up and I kick and struggle like a little animal trying to get free. He carries me out and my feet just keep paddling desperately at the air. We leave the monastery as quickly and discreetly as possible, given my resistance. From the street you can hear the monks chanting in Blackfriars chapel.

We walk a little distance away, William still carrying me. My mind is back in the monk’s cell. If William didn’t have his hand over my mouth I would be shouting. When I finally tire myself out and stop kicking, he puts me down on the ground.

“Are you mad?” he says in a voice lit up with anger.

“We have to go back,” I plead, “we could still be in time to save somebody who’s about to die...”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you not smell it?” I ask, my eyes clouding over with sadness.

“Smell what?”

“Blood!”

“Are you saying that because of the stain on the handkerchief?” William stares at me with his empty sockets. He doesn’t understand at all, which only upsets me more.

“I’m saying it because of the smell! For the love of God, William, did you not notice the smell? Let’s go back, please, there might still be time...”

For the first time I can see what William is thinking. His face is no longer a mystery to me. He is clearly disconcerted, and wants to believe me, but can’t understand why I’m so desperate. He can’t follow what I’m telling him. It’s clear as day. He’s letting me see his confusion.

“It’s logical to think that the monk is holding someone prisoner, but there was no one in that cell but you and I. Perhaps you got carried away when you saw the trunk; the magical symbols made too great an impression on you. That might have led you to jump to the conclusion that there was someone inside the trunk—could that be it?” William looks at me, desperate to understand, and I feel myself grow weak. “It’s all right, I don’t blame you. It’s not such a ridiculous conclusion. But there was no one in the trunk. It’s too small... Dissie, look at me.” I look at him, lost. “You can’t get so worked up without an objective reason, without a meaningful clue. It’s excessive. Do you understand?”

“Please, let’s go back. There might still be time,” I beg with my last breath.

“Your determination to solve the case is laudable, but you’re getting ahead of yourself. I won’t deny that the cell did look... well, in short, the atmosphere of the whole monastery may have been a bit much for you.”

“No! It smelled like blood,” I burst out, “and I assure you, it was
fresh
. There was someone there, I know it, and the person was still
alive
. Please, William, I’m begging you. Let’s go back. The life of whoever is in that cell is hanging by a thread. We have to go save it.”

A ray of hope appears in my heart. I can see that William is beginning to have doubts. The trunk was awfully heavy when we moved it. He looks at me, suspecting that I might have a sixth sense for mystery.

“All right, let’s see. Share your method with me. How did you deduce that there was someone in the trunk?”

I look at him, utterly exasperated. I’m swaying back and forth and all my strength is gone, but I know I could make it back to the cell.

“I know, I understand, it’s a question of scent,” William continues. “The detective’s nose. But what exactly were the steps in your reasoning?”

Enraged, I grab him by the lapels of his coat and drag his face down to the rosebushes we’re standing near.

“Smell—can you not
smell
?”

William removes his nose from the flowers with careful dignity. He straightens up and pins his empty sockets on me without saying a word. His expression is closed off again; I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Smell!” I urge him, shouting. “Smell, William, smell”—I tear off a fistful of petals and the thorns prick me, but all I can think of is getting this stick-man to smell something. I hold the bruised petals in front of his face, but he’s unfazed.

“The sun has gone down already; Beatrice will be waiting for us. Let’s return to Mister Gray’s house. It’s not good for us to have left her alone for so long. She’s a fragile woman, vulnerable, she’ll be frightened...”

“Smell,” I whisper, almost whimpering. I let the petals fall onto the sidewalk and follow him, defeated, dragging my feet. A few petals are still stuck to the palm of my hand. I put them in my pocket. I clench my teeth with fury and walk more quickly to catch up to Holmes.

The walk to Castle Street seems to last an eternity. Why won’t William believe me? I thought he was the best investigator in the Sphere, but if that were true, we would have turned right around and gone back to the monastery. Besides, it’s not just about an investigation: someone is in desperate need of our help. I feel a sense of urgency in my stomach. I know that someone’s life is hanging in the balance, and in a matter of hours something definitive could happen—something as definitive as death. A change that can’t be undone.

William walks with a straight back, his head held high, puzzling it over. Suddenly he’s letting me see his thoughts again, even though I’m not trying to. I don’t understand why he’s stopped being so secretive if he isn’t going to trust me. I can’t get the scent of blood out of my nose, and mixed up with that I have all these feelings, questions... what the hell just happened in the monastery? I mean what happened between the two of us. I can tell that he has no confidence in me as an investigator. It seemed like he did. He wanted me to think he did when he praised my supposed special sense, but then later... I look at his feet walking next to mine, his hands swinging rhythmically. He looks more and more real, less wooden, more... more hateful. That’s it, that’s the word. He’s just as hateful as any other human I’ve ever met. Instinctively I draw my hands up to my chest and brush off my clothing, as if I could somehow go back and erase the times when he held me tightly. Which was totally unnecessary, every time. William Holmes. He’s in love with Beatrice. He goes on and on insufferably about his “lovely lady” all the time. He looks at me and then away again. I should be more discreet. I don’t need to look at him; I already know what he’s like. My gaze passes quickly over his profile. He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who wants to play the field. I’d swear he’s the type to fall in love with a single woman forever and ever. I would even bet that he’ll end up getting married his dearest Beatrice. Getting married, my God! There’s something I’ll never do. He isn’t the type to have a wandering eye, so he can’t like me... does he think I’m attractive? Attractive, me! I feel something piercing the palms of my hands. I’ve been walking with my fists clenched so tightly that my nails are cutting into my hands. I rub my hands and the pain goes away. They’re fine. The thorns from the rose must not have pricked me after all.

Now we’re in Castle Street, back in front of the roof with the clay animals. Holmes knocks on the door with a metal knocker shaped like a hand. We hear soft, uncertain steps approach and then stop on the other side of the door. A long time passes.

“Why doesn’t she open it?” I ask, feeling surly.

“Beautiful lady!” William calls a little louder. “She must be frightened.”

Finally the door opens.

“I could not be sure it was you,” whispers Beatrice, her face tight with fear.

William and I glance quickly at each other, eyebrows raised in disbelief. I’m surprised—I would have expected him to find Beatrice’s obviously pointless caution charming. This woman is killing me. If it had been the kidnappers listening to the gentle pitter-pat of her footsteps it’s not like they would have changed their minds just because there was a door in the way.

We go into Mister Gray’s house, and what we see there takes William’s breath away. 

––––––––

“B
ut—but—what have you done?” Holmes is on the verge of collapse. The way his hands are shaking makes me fear for Beatrice.

“I’ve been praying to our Creator to enlighten us, and, if possible, to pardon us, and grant us his perfection again.”

“Praying? You’ve tidied the whole room!” William’s voice is a howl of rage.

“Oh, that,” Beatrice waves her hand dismissively. She doesn’t appear to be at all alarmed by his fury. “That was nothing. I simply can’t stand seeing a mess. I cleaned it up after I was done praying.”

“But...”

William twists his hands into his hair and walks back and forth, looking at everything. The hollows of his eyes are open so wide that they take up half of his face. He stops next to the fireplace and rubs his forehead. “Where are the ripped paintings?”

The fire is burning brightly. I hesitate—it’s probably better not to make things even more tense—but then, unable to stop myself, I point at the flames.

“What? They were... they were
evidence
, my lovely lady.”

The way William just said it,
lovely
is the worst insult in the world. He’s gone totally out of his mind.

“Which books were on the floor?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Beatrice answers with total innocence. “I put them all back in the bookcase. I truly couldn’t tell you now which ones were out of place.”

William is panting, breathing hard, barely keeping himself under control. Just when I think he’s about to pounce on Beatrice there’s a knock at the garden window. I hurry over to open the curtains and come face to face with a bulky, furry shape. I shout and jump back. The shape is dripping something like spurting blood, and the memory of the odor of blood in the monk’s cell comes back to me in a rush. What I see dribbling down in front of me doesn’t smell, but my thoughts whirl like a hurricane. Rattled, I look over at William. I’m convinced they’ve hanged someone in the garden. He goes over solemnly, Beatrice following behind with light steps. 

“Hello, Morgan,” says Beatrice, opening the garden door. “Come in.”

Morgan appears from behind the hanging object.

“Disgusting!” she exclaims. “What is it?”

“The bearskin rug from next to the piano. It was a lot of trouble to get the wine out, but I managed in the end.”

Morgan shakes out the sleeves of her dress and smooths down her hair.

“I loathe Heathcliff with all my heart...” her empty sockets sweep the room quickly and then land on Holmes. “And the evidence?”

“Don’t ask,” I say.

Morgan spins and points at Beatrice like an arrow.

“It was you, wasn’t it? How can you be so dense? We could have gotten all kinds of information from what was left! There was so much to analyze. The way they cut the canvases, the prints left on the books, we could even have seen which titles they took off the shelf... All of that could have helped us learn
something
about whoever is behind the disappearances.” Morgan stares angrily at the floor. “And I guess we might as well forget about footprints on the rugs, too, from what I can see. See, Holmes,” she screeches, “now do you see why I didn’t want your
foolish lady
involved in this investigation?”

“Enough, Morgan. Enough. There’s nothing to be done now,” William stops her.

Beatrice remains impassive, unable to understand what her cleaning has cost us.

“What do we do now?” asks Morgan.

“Take Mister Gray to the hospital,” William answers calmly, after a moment.

“Take Gray to the hospital?” I ask, surprised. “But what about the monastery?”

Morgan is chewing on her lower lip and staring at Beatrice.

“Did you clean the attic, too?”

“The whole house,” answers Beatrice mechanically.

“There’s nothing for us to do but take Dorian to the hospital and go on investigating blindly,” William says.

“The hospital can wait!” I yell, loudly enough to attract their attention.

I explain what happened. I beg them, first with reasons and then with emotion, to understand the urgency of the situation.

“There’s no time,” I murmur. It’s only then that I realize I’m not quite sure whether the life hanging by a thread belongs to the person in the cell, or to me. I have the strangest feeling that I’m the one running out of time. The warm smell of blood still throbs in my nose.

“But why is it so urgent?” asks Beatrice innocently, which pushes me over the edge.

“Someone could die!”

“Let’s see if we can do things properly for once,” says Morgan, turning her back on me and addressing Holmes. “You and I should be the ones to take Dorian to the hospital. The last thing we need is for someone to discover us because we let Beatrice take care of it.”

Why are they ignoring me? I look at William with desperation in my face; I know my eyes are begging him. But he’s closed off again. His face is impenetrable.

“I had thought that Beatrice and you would take charge of Gray,” he answers.

“Unbelievable!” snorts Morgan.

“I’m afraid he’s too heavy,” protests Beatrice.

“Holmes, you know that you and I should go,” Morgan insists fiercely, but he’s lost in his thoughts again.

I watch him with all my concentration. I would like to know if his thoughts include anything about going back to the  monastery as soon as possible.

“We need some kind of vehicle to transport Gray,” William says. “If I remember correctly, my lovely lady, you have a cart in your garden.”

“That’s right,” answers Beatrice.

“Then say no more. Morgan and Beatrice shall go fetch the cart.”

“And Eurydice?” asks Morgan, like a child complaining about her punishment. “Is she going to stay here with
you
? You two will be alone together
again
? What are you going to do?”