Sound of Butterflies, The (44 page)

As the rain began to ease and soften, Thomas wobbled to his feet and stepped down to the water’s edge. It wasn’t a log either; it was human. A bulky body floated face down, not three feet from where he stood. He launched himself into the water and grabbed at it, pulling it by cold pale arms back onto the mud. Long straggly hair plastered itself to a face with a thick beard. Thomas cried out: one of the cheeks had been eaten away by fish, and beneath the closed eyelids one of the sockets was empty. The skin was as blue as a duck egg. This was more than Thomas could bear. He gathered John in his arms and silently rocked him.

His arms were weak and his back griped with every effort as he pulled the body back towards camp. He wanted to call out for help but could manage barely more than a whisper. His voice seemed to be deserting him.

Pedro was the first to see him, still a hundred yards from the compound. He ran forward and took one arm while Thomas dragged the other.

‘Is he …?’

Thomas nodded. ‘Dead.’ His voice crackled and was swallowed by his breath, which puffed with every exertion. He wouldn’t be able to take much more; his arms were losing their feeling.

Pedro nodded. ‘The bouto, Senhor Edgar.’

Thomas stopped and dropped John’s arm. He squatted on the ground to stretch his aching back and to calm his breathing. ‘The dolphin? What of it?’

‘This is what they do. They take the form of a beautiful woman and come onto land to lure men to the water.’

Thomas remembered the day on the boat, on the way to Manaus. What was it John had said?
Not a bad way to go, drowned by a beautiful spirit
. He pushed the thought away. It was ridiculous.

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘No.’ Pedro looked towards the camp, where Antonio was moving silently through the trees towards them.

‘Senhor Edgar,’ the big man drawled with a nod. ‘What has happened?’

‘As if you don’t know!’ Thomas’s hands were trembling. As Antonio bent over John’s body Thomas took the opportunity to run; once again his legs took him in their own direction, back to the compound and into John’s hut, the two men and the dead body of his friend far behind him. He grabbed the gun that leaned against the wall and checked that it was loaded. It was only shot but it would have to do.

Without stopping to think about what he was about to do, he sprinted through the mud for Santos’s hut, his feet slapping the ground.

‘Get up!’ he shouted at him. Santos was concealed behind a mosquito net and said nothing, so Thomas presumed he was asleep. He stood for a few seconds, tempted to back out, but Santos pulled the net aside.

‘Mr Edgar, what do you think you’re doing?’

‘You killed him!’

‘Who?’

‘John, you blind idiot. Don’t deny it!’

‘But I have been ill in bed, grieving for my wife.’ His tone was smug. Thomas, dripping wet, with water running into his eyes, gripped the gun tighter in his anger and pointed it at him. If he closed his eyes when he squeezed the trigger, he would be spared the sight of more blood.

‘Mr Edgar, put that gun down. You don’t want to have a murder on your hands, now, do you?’

‘Like you, you mean?’

‘You cannot prove that.’

‘But I can prove you killed Clara … you wife. There are witnesses.’

‘But who would believe you, sir? When you all lied about her adultery?’

Thomas wavered for a moment, and the gun drooped in his hands.

‘Yes, I am indebted to you, my accomplice.’

‘No!’ Thomas was crying now, and his hands shook again. His shaking finger moved to the trigger. Then he heard a crack and felt a blow to his head. His vision went black for a moment and he found himself on the ground, on his knees, the gun fallen to the floor. A hand reached out to pick it up.

‘Mr Edgar,’ said Santos. He beckoned him closer. Thomas, realising it was all over, nodded, feeling his throat contract and a sigh escape like a whistle. He crawled along the ground towards the man’s hammock. His wet clothes stuck to him, making his movements sluggish.

‘You and I need to have a little talk. Antonio took the liberty of booking you a passage home before he left Manaus. You leave in two days, which gives you just enough time to go back and gather the possessions you seem to have left behind at my house in your hurry to leave. Please don’t say anything.’ He raised a hand. Thomas had no intention of speaking. He couldn’t have if he tried. ‘Antonio has written to your agent, Mr Ridewell, is it? He should be there to meet you at the other end.’ He paused. His skin was sallow and a sore on his neck looked like a burn from a hot poker. Thomas felt a small satisfaction at this; he hoped it caused the man pain. Santos went on. His voice was low and menacing. ‘I like you, Mr Edgar. You remind me of myself when I was your age. Go home to your pretty wife and have a family. Tell them stories about your wondrous butterfly. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t find it — make it up. I don’t know exactly what it is that you think you have seen here, Edgar, but if I were you I would stay very quiet once you get back to England. After all, your friends have chosen to remain here. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to them.’

Antonio appeared at the door and Santos gave a nod of his head.

‘Here now. It’s time for you to go. I wish you all the best, Mr Edgar.’

Antonio, a bag slung over his shoulder, walked behind Thomas as they left the camp and moved towards the river. The rain had stopped again. He could feel the stares of the other men — Ernie, with Lillie, who must have returned with Antonio, by his side, his hand on the waist of her bright white dress as she spun a parasol; George and Pedro. Thomas stared at the ground as he walked, not quite believing that he was still alive, that he was escaping with his body intact, with only a bit of blood crusting in his hair. Antonio held his elbow when his step faltered. A yellow and black swallow-tail flitted in front of them and he gave a cry and lunged for it, only to find it was nothing more than a female
torquatas
, black with yellow spots, a mistake he had made before. His heart collapsed. His butterfly. His
Papilio sophia
. How he had betrayed it. It had all been for nothing, and so many were dead because of him. His silence had killed Clara, and it had killed John. Now, it would save his friends.

Richmond, June 1904

Sophie awakes with her feet throbbing. She pulls back the sheets to look at them in the weak morning light. Her nightgown and legs are filthy with dirt and soot, her sheets smeared black and gritty. Blisters bubble on her soles, the skin tight and red, but they could have been much worse, considering she was trying to put out a fire with them. She curls herself into a ball and closes her eyes again, remembering the dark shape of her husband at the window, his yell that echoed around the garden. This day, everything has changed. When she gets up, nothing will be as it was, and for now she’s not sure if this is a fact to be celebrated or dreaded. The longer she stays in bed, perhaps, the longer she can put off finding out.

His first words, after that first yell, were
He killed her
. They had lain crying in each other’s arms after that, then he had carried her upstairs and put her to bed. Had he spoken again after that? She does have a vague memory of him murmuring to her. Afterwards he went downstairs and she heard him outside, dragging his crates back inside.

He killed her. Who was
he
? The woman he referred to could only have been
that
woman — Mr Santos’s wife. But who had killed her? And why? For having relations with Thomas? This might be true. Was this why Thomas had been struck mute? She supposes he could be feeling terribly guilty about it; that his actions led to her death.

There is a soft knock at the door.

‘Thomas?’ She sits up.

‘Only me ma’am,’ says Mary, coming in with tea on a tray. She sets it down on the bedside table. Her face is bright. ‘You’ll never guess … or maybe you will. But the master —’

‘He spoke to you?’

‘Yes! I got such a fright. He came and asked me to bring you tea in bed. Said you weren’t well.’ A look of concern fell over her. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

Sophie sighed. ‘Yes. Oh, I’ve only done something silly to myself. I’ve just burned my feet.’

Mary is clearly shocked but too polite to ask her why. ‘Should I send for Dr Dixon?’

‘No … actually, yes. I’d like him to see Mr Edgar as well.’

Mary looks at her sideways. ‘And isn’t it good news? That he’s speaking?’

‘Yes, Mary. It’s wonderful.’ She manages a wan smile. If only she could enjoy it. But she senses that they have a long way to go before they have a cause to celebrate.

After Dr Dixon has left, Sophie finds she can still walk, if a little painfully, on newly bandaged feet, but he has told her to stay off them for a few days, so she returns to bed. Thomas had his wounds examined in the privacy of his own room and when the doctor came in to see Sophie, he smiled warmly at her.

‘You must be very pleased, Mrs Edgar. His wounds have healed nicely and we had a conversation. He seems much more alert and present. I wouldn’t say he was verbose, but he answered the questions I had for him.’

‘And how did he seem otherwise?’

‘Fine, fine. It’s a wonderful start. He still seems very nervous, and I wouldn’t call him completely healthy just yet, but I do believe he is recovering, and I’m sure you have yourself to thank for that. You must have cared for him well.’

Sophie nodded, but didn’t say what she was really thinking — that it was her own act of madness and rage that brought him back, not her kindness.

Now she lies in bed and waits for Thomas to come to her. Mary has changed her linen, trying to hide astonished noises at the state of her sheets, and it is cool against her skin. The day is muggy and a starling’s song drifts through the open window. A motor purrs past and horses’ hooves ring out on the road.

Eventually there is a tap at her door.

‘I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,’ she says.

Thomas shuffles forward. ‘I nearly didn’t.’ His voice is husky and he clasps his hand to his neck as if these first words hurt him, like beetles scratching inside his throat.

‘Come closer,’ she says, and pats the bed. He sits down. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Dreadful,’ he says. ‘What you’ve endured becuase of me. I’m so sorry.’

She doesn’t know what to say, and they sit in silence for a moment. She wants to ask him about the woman, about what can have happened to him to make him this way. But she hasn’t had an answer from him before now — what makes her think she’ll get one just because he is speaking?

‘Your butterflies,’ she says at last. ‘The fire …’

‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘There’s no harm done. God. I
drove
you to that. I’m sorry.’

She nods without meaning to, and chews on her top lip. ‘Thomas … darling. What on earth was going through your head when you wouldn’t talk to me … to anyone?’

‘I don’t know. It’s so hard to explain. I wanted to, so many times. Even to write things down … you won’t believe how many times I started to, when I was alone in my study. But I simply couldn’t. There’s no other way to describe it. It was as if my tongue didn’t work, or my hands, when it came to writing. Something in my head told me that if I opened my mouth, I would say terrible things, that people would get hurt, that I would confess to a crime I hadn’t committed. I was so scared of what I would say once I started —’

‘Like what? What happened to you?’

He hangs his head and shakes it. ‘I still can’t,’ he says. Then he stands and apologises yet again, before making for the door.

‘Thomas, don’t walk away!’ She can’t believe they have come this far, only to have him run away from her yet again. But this time he stops. He stands by the door, fidgeting with his fingers on the door handle.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Come back.’ She tries to keep the desperation from her voice, but can hear the whine. ‘You don’t need to tell me everything at once. Just what you’re comfortable with.’

He looks at her like a child through his fringe, which has flopped over his eyes, contemplating her offer, before nodding and taking small steps back towards her.

And so it is that Sophie learns about Clara Santos; the drug Mr Santos tricked Thomas into smoking and the effect it had on him; his last desperate attempt to find the butterfly before he gave up in despair. The loss of his friend John, and the danger his other two companions could now be in. He also tells her about the murders — of the newspaper man, Captain Arturo and the poor Indians — but he spares her the details.

Part of her wants to reach out and pull him close, tell him that nothing is his fault, comfort him. But the thought of him with that woman stops her. For now.

He sits in a chair, looking away and speaking in a low, cracked voice. Sometimes he has to stop talking as he bends his head and sobs.

‘And then?’ she keeps saying. She wants to keep him talking, for fear that if he stops, he will stop forever. On one level she is triumphant that he is on the mend. Her patience and perseverance have paid off. She also knew all along that whatever caused his muteness might be something she didn’t want to know about. And she was right. It hurts, this knowledge he has been carrying around with him. It hurts both of them.

After he finishes speaking, it is duty that moves her towards him, makes her take his hand.

‘Why didn’t you write to me of any of these things?’

‘I couldn’t. I didn’t want to frighten you — and besides, I couldn’t voice my suspicions of Santos. It would have been too dangerous. And …’ He looks at the floor and his voice drops to a whisper. ‘… I was ashamed of my behaviour.’

Sophie just nods at this, surprisingly devoid of emotion. And so you should be, she thinks. She is hard now; these things bounce off her like hailstones on the road. She should have known when his letters stopped that something was amiss. The last one she had from him was so thin, as if all his self-censoring left him with nothing to say.

But what can she do? She can’t leave him — what a scandal that would create! People would start speculating, prying … But she has vowed not to worry about what others think, to act only in the interests of herself and her husband. So much of what hurts comes not from the fact that he has betrayed her, but that he is a man
capable
of betraying her. In other words, he’s not the man she thought she married. She knows what men are, women too, but she somehow believed that she and Thomas were different: that they truly loved each other and could never hurt each other. This is what she will now have to grieve for — the Thomas who never really existed. She will have to learn to love this new Thomas, who looks like the old one but more aged, more hollow. Even his hands feel colder when he takes hers, his eyes set further back into his skull. A different man indeed.

Two days later, Charles Winterstone pauses outside his daughter’s front door. He has not warned Sophie he is coming, and he wonders if she will even be at home. The maid answers the door, eyes wide with fright at seeing him. As he crosses the threshold, broken tiles in the entrance hall crunch under his feet. They should get somebody to repair those, he thinks, before the others become scratched and ruined.

Mary shows him into the drawing room, but when she disappears to fetch Sophie he walks to the parlour. Through the window, he sees his daughter outside in the garden, holding a basket of cut roses. She wears a gardening hat with a veil concealing half her face. He sees a hand, encased in thick gloves, go to her mouth as the maid approaches and speaks. Sophie’s head darts about, looking for what he can’t imagine. A small groan escapes his throat. There is something in the gesture that reminds him of Martha, who had a habit of looking everywhere when she was upset, as if the answers to all her problems lay in the flower bed, or under the table. He can’t help it: every time he thinks of his wife, even twenty years after her death, he feels a gaping hole in his stomach like hunger. He had always been too close to her. She was taken away from him so early in their marriage, before they had had a chance to become bored with each other, before age thickened her waist and pinched her face, before she had a tribe of children to tend to and before she became a hostess so seasoned that she lost all joy for entertaining. Before they ran out of things to discuss at breakfast.

When she died, the house had descended into iciness. The nanny and the housekeeper tiptoed around him, barely raising their voices above a whisper, and he became used to the quiet. He even fancied he could hear his wife in the silences between the soft closing of a door or the shuffle of Nanny’s feet on the stairs. He would stand in Martha’s beloved garden and listen for her in the wind that rustled the overgrown roses.

He sees a picture in his mind of Martha in her garden, dressed in exactly the same manner as his daughter is now, while the young Sophie squats in the dirt, getting herself far too dirty for a good little girl. Martha laughs at her, turns her back to her and waves a red rose at her husband.

He knows that he left Sophie alone to deal with the loss of her mother; he should have been there for her. But she needed to learn independence. He would far rather he had never been close to Martha than have his heart buried with her. He wouldn’t wish that on anybody, least of all his own flesh and blood. Nobody should love so hard and have that love taken away.