Sound of Butterflies, The (33 page)

‘What’s your problem, mister?’ asks the man.

Thomas continues to stare. His cheeks are flushed and his breath hisses through his nose.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

Robert just manages to put a restraining arm against Thomas’s chest as he lunges towards the man. Then Thomas turns, letting go of Sophie and pushing his weight through the crowd, all elbows. The throng is moving now, thinning out — people have braved the rain and are beginning to leave — but Thomas moves through it at a faster rate. Sophie watches the back of his head disappear.

The rude man laughs.

‘It is not funny,’ she snaps. She bunches her hands into fists and resists the urge to slap him herself. This man will ruin everything. Already people are swivelling their heads to look at her, murmuring to one another, straightening the collars that Thomas has ruffled in his path. They will all think he is quite mad, she thinks.

The man shrugs. ‘Suit yourself, madam.’ He hangs back and is absorbed by the crowd.

She glances down into the foyer, scanning the faces for her husband, whom she is sure has run outside by now. Instead she finds Captain Fale staring at her, and her stomach lurches. She wishes now she had worn something more modest. She feels naked under his gaze.

‘Wait here for me, please,’ Captain Fale says to the cab driver. ‘I won’t be long.’

He leans heavily on his cane as he alights from the carriage in a quiet street leading down to the river. A large oak tree stands in Mr Winterstone’s front yard, and for a moment he is reminded of the tree he climbed as a boy. Well, there will be no tree-climbing now, not with this wretched leg of his.

He thought it polite to write to Mr Winterstone before descending on him, but he did not wait for a reply. The note was simple:
I have some urgent business I would like to discuss with you. I will be in Kingston tomorrow morning and should like to call on you at midday.
Of course, the only reason he is in Kingston is to see the fellow. He will make some excuse about a tailor if he is asked.

An alarmingly fat housekeeper opens the door and scowls at him. She moves quickly for one so large, however, and Fale soon finds himself in the drawing room. He waits by the fireplace, not presuming to take a seat. The room smells heavily of cigar smoke and is furnished with pristine leather armchairs. A photograph of a young woman hangs above the mantel, but it was taken some time ago. The look on her face gives him a fright: the curled lip seems to admonish him for coming. And yet the eyes soften her and he changes his mind about her expression. This, no doubt, is Sophie’s mother, although he can find little resemblance beyond the blonde colouring. Another photograph sits below it, propped in a silver frame. Sophie, as a much younger woman — a girl, really — sitting on a chair while Mr Winterstone stands beside her. Their faces are grim, as is customary, but there is a further emptiness in their stance. Winterstone stands rigid, with hands by his sides, when any photographer would have instructed him to put his hand on the back of the chair.

He turns away from the photographs just as Winterstone comes into the room and approaches with his hand outstretched.

‘Your note was a pleasant surprise,’ says the older man. ‘I enjoyed our chat at the Star and Garter. How can I be of help to you, sir?’ He bids him sit in one of the leather armchairs, which squeaks as Fale lowers himself heavily into it.

‘I am hoping that it is I who can be of help to you, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Winterstone rises and moves to a liquor cabinet. ‘Drink?’ He holds up a brandy decanter and Fale nods.

‘It’s regarding your daughter’s husband.’

Winterstone hands him the drink, his eyes sharp but his expression registering nothing. He sits and crosses his long legs, waving one elegant hand at Fale to continue.

‘Are you aware, sir, that Mr Edgar returned from the Amazon a changed man?’

‘Changed? In what way? I haven’t spoken to him yet, though I am interested to hear of his travels.’

‘He came back somewhat … disturbed.’

Winterstone swallows loudly.

‘That is, he is not speaking.’

‘What do you mean not speaking? Do you mean to my daughter? Have they fallen out?’

‘Not just your daughter. He is not speaking to anyone. He appears to be, well,
mute
.’

‘Mute?’ Winterstone roars. ‘Has he lost his mind?’

‘Well, this is indeed the question, sir, and the reason I am here. I thought after I met you the other day that it was my duty to tell you, as Mrs Edgar had obviously concealed it from you.’

‘I’m sure she had her reasons.’

‘Reasons, yes,’ says Fale. ‘Perhaps she is planning to tell you. After all, the whole town knows about it now.’

‘How do they know?’

‘You know how people gossip, sir. Personally, I haven’t told anyone, even though Mrs Edgar confided in me.’

Winterstone’s eyebrows shoot up.

‘As a good friend of Mr Edgar’s. Thomas.’ He takes a deep breath. He must tread carefully with his lies. ‘Also, they attended the theatre on Saturday night, and an acquaintance of ours, a Mr Chapman, had to restrain him from flying at a chap who had merely jostled him. I’m afraid he has become quite violent, and I worry that Sophie may be in danger.’

‘Good God. Sophie.’ Winterstone is lost in thought for a moment, his brow creased.

‘He went to church with her yesterday and, frankly, he looked as if he would rather not have been there. He didn’t join in on any of the hymns or prayers.’

The man snaps his attention away from his glass and looks at him. ‘That would seem obvious, sir.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Idiot. He thought throwing in Edgar’s apparent lack of faith might help his case, but he handled it badly. ‘He avoided all contact with the parishioners, even though many of them tried to show him some kindness.’

Winterstone has not moved from his position, but his glass is empty and he now drums it rhythmically on his armrest. He stares at the ground. Fale waits for him to speak.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ the older man asks finally.

He’s suspicious of my motives, thinks Fale. It’s now or never.

‘I only thought, sir, that by telling you this, we may be able to help the unfortunate couple. I know that Mrs Edgar is most reluctant to have her husband committed to any kind of hospital or institution. Perhaps with your influence, you could make it a matter of legality. After all, it can do your daughter no good to stay married to a man who resembles a vegetable.’ He laughs, but it comes out high and girlish and he stifles it immediately. ‘One prone to violent outbursts, as well. How can the man be expected to support your daughter when he is clearly such a burden on her, and a danger?’

‘Captain Fale,’ says Mr Winterstone. ‘You hinted at something when I saw you last. I asked you directly what it was you were meaning. You said something about how terrible it was about him. Why did you not tell me then, instead of inventing some story about how he had a few hives and scratches?’

‘I … I didn’t want to alarm you, sir. And I hardly knew you.’

‘You hardly know me now.’

‘I know. I know. But now I am acting in what I believe to be your daughter’s best interests.’

Winterstone’s eyes bore into him. Things are not going as Fale had planned. They got on so well together over a drink at the Star and Garter. But now, admittedly, he has just delivered some bad news, and no doubt the man is in shock.

Suddenly Winterstone’s face softens, and he smiles a sad smile.

‘You’re right, sir. This is a most unpleasant situation for my daughter to be in. I will see what I can do about it. Leave me your details, and I will be in touch.’

This is Fale’s cue to go — he must leave Mr Winterstone to deal with his new knowledge. As he stands he says, ‘I must ask you a favour, sir. Please do not tell Mrs Edgar that it was I who informed you. It is a delicate matter, and they are both my friends. I would not like them to think I have been conspiring against them. Even though,’ he adds quickly, ‘I truly believe I am acting in their best interests.’

‘Of course. I’ll say nothing about it. Good day.’

‘But how do you know ghosts are real?’ Agatha’s little brother is tucked up in bed, his eyes as round as shillings.

‘Because I’ve spoken to them,’ says Agatha. ‘Nona said I have a great talent.’

‘Are there ghosts in this house?’ whispers Edwin.

‘They’re
everywhere
,’ she says, and tickles his chest. ‘But no, we’ve never seen any here. There are plenty around Richmond, though.’

‘Like where?’

‘Like … at Ham House. You’ve been there. They say there is a cavalier who appears to people. Just when they think it’s odd what quaint old-fashioned dress he is wearing, he …’

‘He what?’ Edwin is scrunched down under his covers.

Agatha drops her voice to a whisper, all the better to scare him with. ‘He
disappears
,’ she hisses.

Edwin giggles nervously and puts his face under the covers. ‘More,’ comes his muffled voice.

‘Let’s see,’ says Agatha. ‘Have you heard about Archway Annie?’

His head pops out from under the sheet, and he shakes his head, even though he’s heard the story many times before.

‘In the window of the archway to the Old Palace a woman appears to people as they walk below. She’s very sad, and people hear her crying as they walk by. But nobody has ever seen her, except through the window.’

Edwin squeals. ‘Why is she crying?’

‘Her family has been killed — her mother, her father and … her little brother!’ Here she tickles him mercilessly until he screams for her to stop.

‘What’s going on in here?’ Agatha’s mother puts her head around the door. ‘Aggie, are you filling that boy’s head with nonsense again? Honestly, you give him nightmares, you have no idea!’

Agatha laughs and whispers in her brother’s ear, ‘You’re big and strong enough to scare away the ghosts, aren’t you, my sweet?’

Edwin nods a determined nod, with his eyebrows clamped down and his jaw jutting out. Agatha kisses him on the cheek and turns out the lamp, leaving them in darkness.

‘Goodnight, darling,’ she says.

In her own room, she decides to have an early night. She sits at her dressing table and starts taking down her hair. The loose curls fall in ropes down her back and she takes her brush to start the task of taming them.

She hasn’t seen Sophie today, but she still worries about her. Her spirits didn’t seem at all lifted by the night at the theatre, not after the commotion on the stairs. They found Thomas waiting for them outside and they went home in silence; Sophie was very tense. When Agatha tried to squeeze her hand, she took it firmly away, as if she were mad with both of them, not just Thomas.

At least she didn’t just give up, but brought Thomas to church the next day. Agatha knew that the congregation was sympathetic, but blast them! They were all so stiff, and nobody would come forward to speak to them, not even to convey sympathies or to talk about the weather. Instead they cast them pitying looks, which were doing Sophie no good, and certainly not Thomas. Agatha suspects that all he really needs is to be treated normally for a time, for people to bombard him with questions so he is forced to speak up. She didn’t tell Sophie, but she had been secretly longing for someone, anyone, to march up to him and say, ‘What’s the matter, Mr Edgar? Cat got your tongue?’ Well, her wish had come true the other night, and it had certainly provoked a reaction from him, which must be a good thing, mustn’t it?

She laughs softly to herself, but it turns to a grimace when she catches a knot in her hair and it jerks at her scalp.

Sophie said that Thomas’s journals had disappeared, but she gave up on them too quickly. Agatha is sure those journals hold the key. Something has happened to him that he must surely have written about, otherwise why would he have hidden them? Sophie may even find something in there to give her hope.

She stares at herself in the mirror, mesmerised by the light from the lamp behind her. Her mind scrambles over possible explanations for Thomas’s behaviour. He still has his tongue: she’s seen it licking his lips. He smokes cigarettes now, and he has the worn look of someone who has been to one too many parties. Just the effects of jungle living, no doubt. But something must have happened to him. Did he see a ghost? Those Indian cultures are famous for their spirits and whatnot. A wild animal? Maybe he … she hugged herself at the thought. Maybe he did something unspeakable. Maybe he killed a man by accident while out hunting. Or better yet, maybe he did it
on purpose
?