The Spider- Chapter 20-21

Getting to know Sarah Jones.

Chapter 1-4| Chapters 5-6| Chapters 7-8|Chapters 9-11| Chapter 12|Chapter 13|Chapter 14-15|Chapter 16-17|Chapter 18-19

We are more than halfway through this story already! The Spider is a gothic horror mystery novel set in late Victorian Liverpool. Thank you for tuning in every week. If you love this story, don’t forget to like, comment or share to spread the word. It’s free!

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Little Elsie Bryant was playing in the nursery when Muldoon knocked gently on the door. Sarah opened it and judging by her face, seemed relieved to see him. “Inspector,” she said, holding a bundle of linens in her arms. “I was just tidying up in here. How can I help you?”

“I thought I’d have a look at the nursery while the doctor is visiting Mrs Bryant.”

“Of course,” she said, walking back into the room. She placed the linens in one of the large dressers and started picking up toys. “Just let me get these things out of the way.” A line of dolls had been assembled across the room from the wardrobe to the bed.

“No!” called Elsie from the far end of the room. “Those are my maids.”

“Elsie, the Inspector needs to look around the room and—”

The child darted over to the dolls and tried to shield them from Sarah with her body. “Mary needs pretty maids all in a row!”

“Elsie!” Sarah commanded, standing up straight. The child dropped to her knees and began to wail.

“Elsie,” Sarah said again, through her teeth this time. “Stop with the foolish behaviour, now. Or there’ll be no supper.”

The child continued to wail, pausing only to release a high pitched scream with a beetroot face. Sarah grabbed an arm and forced her to stand on her feet but she wrestled out of her governess’ grip and fled the room. Muldoon, not wanting to collide with the furious, miniature fugitive, stepped aside and let her pass. “Elsie!” Sarah called, readjusting the hair that had come loose in the struggle. She stopped and let a doll drop to the floor, its emotionless face landing where it could stare at Muldoon. Sarah said nothing for a moment and sat down in a chair, looking drained. “She needs her mother, Inspector. It’s hard when she’s in the house, but she can’t see her.”

“It must be, but I’m sure you are doing a fine job,” was all he could think to say.

“You’re not around little children much, are you?” she said with a smile.

Muldoon smiled back, relaxing his shoulders. “Is it that obvious?”

Sarah laughed, despite herself. “It is. It is.”

“Guilty,” he said, raising his hands. “They’re an anomaly to me.”

“To me too, sometimes.” She looked back at the dolls and, deciding not to bother tidying, raised her hands and rose out of the chair. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the drawing room if you need me. There’s no need to visit the park in such foul weather.”

He politely moved out of her way as she left the nursery, catching her scent as she passed. It immediately brought his attention back to the other smell: potpourri. Sarah smelled like the room—lavender. He approached the dresser at the far end of the room and lifted the small dish of potpourri to his nose. There was so much of it, in every upstairs room. He looked around at the chaos of the toys that lay strewn across the floor—dolls, bears, clowns and horses. He had never seen so many toys. Finding himself faced with the unwelcome surfacing of a childhood memory, he distracted himself by looking over to where Elsie Bryant slept. Beside the little canopied bed, he spied a music box and went over to it. It opened in the middle of a tune. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect as his ears processed the familiar melody.

Last night as I lay on my pillow,

Last night as I lay on my bed,

Last night as I lay on my pillow,

I dreamed that my Bonnie was dead.

He reflected for a moment and closed the lid of the music box. It was just a song, but he took out his notebook and scribbled a few notes anyway. The rain was still drumming on the window sill outside, accompanied by the occasional crack of thunder. Mrs Bryant was not possessed, but he still didn’t have the full story. He closed the book and put it away, sliding the pencil into his breast pocket.

He stood up again and silently walked around the room, opening drawers and trunks. The child, predictably, owned only clothes and toys. The governess had a bible, a stack of books, clothing, shawls and journals. He held back at first, but decided to flick through anyway. He hoped he’d find nothing but musings and entries about long lost lovers, or adventures she hoped to have one day.

“Inspector,” Sarah said, leaning into the doorway of the nursery. The journal he was looking at flew out of his hand with a clatter. She couldn’t see him in her bedroom from where she was standing, but he felt the awkwardness through the wall. He burst back into the nursery and looked over to where she was standing. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that Mrs Mckinnon was going to make some coffee soon and…” she eyed him suspiciously as he brushed an errant tendril of black hair back from his forehead. “We wondered if you would like some when you are finished here?”

“Grand, Miss Jones. That’d be grand. I’m just er…”

His tongue, all of a sudden, seemed too large to facilitate any more words. He looked back into the alcove where Sarah’s bed rested under a window, and then back at her. He wanted to say: I deal with demons, vampires and all the ‘weird shit’ your type are terribly, terribly frightened of, and a murder investigation isn’t usually in my line of work, but I felt sorry for you all and that poor woman downstairs is suffering at the hands of something evil, so here I am rifling through the governess’ knicker drawer and feeling embarrassed about it because you’re looking at me now with those eyes, Miss Jones, but his mouth didn’t move.

She smiled again with a knowing look. “I understand, Inspector. You have to look.” She turned away slowly and went back downstairs.

He returned to the alcove and picked the journal back up. It saddened him that Sarah Jones did not seem to live a wild, secret life where she batted suitors away everywhere she went and wrote about it. He put it back and picked up another, larger one with leather binding. It wasn’t a journal but a sketchbook.

Inside were several drawings of hands, faces, animals, objects and people undertaking everyday tasks. He thought they were wonderful as he studied them. He flicked through a few more and stopped when the page fell open at a portrait of Elsie, picking flowers in what he supposed must have been the park or the garden. She had ribbons in her curled hair and smiled as she held a bundle of posies. The way Sarah had drawn her face was so natural, so life-like. The girl in the drawing was a million miles away from the red-faced berserker he had just witnessed fleeing the scene.

To be privy to an artist’s intimate drawings filled him with awe, but he also felt he shouldn’t enjoy them. Sarah Jones had permitted him to inspect her room, but not her soul. It felt personal—inappropriate, even, too look at her drawings.

This was still an investigation, but he was deeply impressed by the talents of Sarah Jones. Needing one more minute with the book, he turned the page to find a drawing he hadn’t expected. Rather than a pencil or charcoal sketch depicting a picturesque scene or everyday people, the image was a man’s face. He was handsome, but severe in the way his eyes were fixed on the viewer. The entire background was black, filled in by charcoal. He stood before the shadow, staring. Muldoon, deciding that this picture was the strangest of the collection, pulled it out, folded it, and placed it inside his own notebook. He returned all other items to the chest and closed it carefully.

Remembering that he had said yes to coffee, he left the room and gave it one last check from the doorway. The toys were still strewn about the carpet, and the rain hadn’t ceased yet, but the nursery seemed changed. He looked over at the large wardrobe that he hadn’t explored and went to it quickly. Moving some jackets and dresses out of the way, he jumped when he saw a pair of eyes looking back at him from the dark recesses of the wardrobe. Get a grip, Muldoon, he thought as he picked up a little doll that had been left sitting there. “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking at the doll. He turned away from the wardrobe and thought of where he could place it. He settled it down on the child’s bed and finally left the room.

Passing the master bedroom on his way down, he decided to knock. There was no answer, so he stepped back and turned to face the staircase. He was halted in his tracks when he heard it swing open behind him.

Almost filling the width of the doorway was Dr Swinson, the man he had met half an hour before. “Hello, Doctor,” Muldoon said. “I wondered if—”

Swinson shook his head. “You can try, my lad, but I’m afraid she will just babble now.”

Muldoon raised an eyebrow. Swinson continued talking, “Mrs Bryant is—well put it this way—” his red face was sweating slightly, glistening in the dim light, “it is a privilege for her not to have to go to the asylum.”

“I see,” he said, revealing nothing. The doctor stepped out onto the landing and closed the bedroom door.

“I’m afraid there is not much that can be done for her, now,” he said gravely.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Doctor.”

“Aye. It is a shame.” Swinson bowed his head and gestured toward the stairs. “I’ll follow you down.” Muldoon turned and descended the stairs, waiting for the doctor to join him in the hallway. “So, you’re a private investigator?”

“I’m a Detective Inspector, Doctor.”

Swinson looked him up and down, taking into account the wool suit that the Irishman wore. “If you don’t mind me asking… Who do you work for?” he asked after a few heavy breaths through his mouth.

Muldoon reached into his jacket pocket and presented his badge to the doctor, who acknowledged it with a grunt. “I was hoping to catch you today, actually,” Muldoon said, studying the older man’s face. Swinson seemed preoccupied, looking to the front door and back.

“I do have to get back,” Swinson said, looking at his watch. He caught Muldoon’s stare and shrugged, “but I suppose I could spare you five minutes.”

“Thank you, Doctor. When were you first called to visit Mrs Bryant?”

“Oh,” Swinson said, scratching his head. “It was a while ago. Some time during the summer when Mr Bryant was still around. She’d been having hallucinations, he said.”

“What kind of hallucinations, Doctor?”

“I seem to remember the husband saying something about blood…” Swinson looked around the hallway and continued, “blood coming from the walls. The ceiling, that sort of thing.” Muldoon nodded, listening encouragingly. “Nasty stuff, but that’s hysteria for you.”

Muldoon nodded again and asked, “had Mrs Bryant had any history of hallucinations?”

He shook his head firmly, his face wobbling like a presentation of jelly that Muldoon had seen at a party once. “I’m afraid I don’t really know the Bryant’s too well, Inspector…” he looked around again and lowered his voice, “but between you and me, the woman is mad. Driven to it or born that way—she’s as mad as a box of frogs if you’ll excuse the expression. We caught her hiding a razor. She hasn’t harmed anyone, but if you ask me, that woman belongs in the asylum.”

Muldoon thought for a moment. “Why is she not there, if that’s your diagnosis, Doctor?”

He turned his bulbous nose upward. “The family have the money to keep her at home. It’s as simple as that.” He walked over to the coat stand and reached for his hat, cane and jacket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me Inspector…”

“Muldoon, Doctor.”

“Inspector Muldoon. I have appointments all afternoon.”

The doctor struggled to get his coat back on; Muldoon judged that it had recently become a size too small and the old man was still in the frustrating period of denial. He placed his hands in his pockets and said, “of course, Doctor. Thank you for your time.” Muldoon thought about the ghost’s bloodied neck and raised a hand. “Just one more thing, Doctor. Where can I find this razor?”

Swinson frowned. “What would you want that for?”

“The investigation, Doctor. It may help with—”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Inspector,” Swinson said haughtily. “Ask the mother. Goodbye.”

Swinson saw himself out, casting another look back at the inspector before tipping his hat and leaving. Muldoon stood still for a moment, thinking about the words that had just been exchanged. The woman he had spoken to didn’t seem mad, but he was no doctor. Something about Swinson made him question the doctor’s statement. He turned on his heel to go and see Frances for himself but just as he did, Mrs Mckinnon came marching out of the passage leading to the kitchen. “Ah! Inspector,” she said. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you would like some?”

“Thank you, Mrs Mckinnon. I’ll be there in a moment.”

He silently raced up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. When he reached the door of Frances’ room, he hesitated for a moment, thinking of what he wanted to know. Finally, he opened the door after gently knocking and stepped in.

Frances didn’t seem to have moved from the position she was in when he last saw her. His heart sank. She was staring at the ceiling, but the life in her face had depleted further. Her ghastly visage reminded him of a waxwork, devoid of natural life and hardly blinking. The woman in the photograph was no more, at least, not at that moment. “Frances,” Muldoon said quietly. She didn’t seem to register his voice. “Frances, I wondered if we could finish that conversation?” She didn’t answer. He looked around the bed and noticed that the tray of bottles was gone; only a glass of water stood on the bedside table.

He leaned over and looked into her eyes. The pupils were constricted. Stepping back, he brought his hand to his chin and thought about his next move. The room was well-lit, but only by candles and gas lamps. He blew out a couple of candles and dimmed the lamps, returning to Frances. Her pupils remained narrow. He crossed the room and forcibly threw the heavy curtains open. A groan came from deep within the throat of the catatonic Frances, but he saw that she couldn’t turn her head away from the grey light outside as it bounced off the mirrors and into her face. The sun wasn’t shining as much as he’d have liked, but he had to be sure. He gently felt the muscles in her face; they were as set as a plaster mask.

Muldoon returned to the kitchen and crossed paths with Sarah once more. She cast her eyes downward as she left the room, “Inspector,” she said with the tiniest bow.

Mrs Mckinnon had been clearing away some cups, and put them in the sink so she could make space and pour out some coffee for the inspector. He sat down in the small wooden chair at the head of the table and watched the steaming brown liquid fall into his cup like a silk ribbon.

“Thank you. I am sorry that I was later than planned.”

Mrs Mckinnon issued him with her charming , worldly-wise smile. “Say no more of it, Inspector. We’re glad to have you here.”

There was an authenticity to the housekeeper’s tone, and she didn’t hide her feelings like other women liked to do. “I’ve a lot to go on, Mrs Mckinnon,” he said, “but this is going to take some time, I think.” He thought of the elusive Margaret Ross and her letters, the blubbering Mrs Larkin, the shifty doctor Swinson, the tear that Mrs Bryant had shed when they parted, and the way Sarah had looked at him when she returned to the nursery. Were they all hiding something from him, or was there only one of them hiding in the crowd? He sipped his coffee while he pondered. “I shall have to report back to my superiors and return to you some time later this week.”

“Very well,” Mrs Mckinnon said. “I’ll let Mrs Larkin know.” She left him to drink his coffee in silence.

Continued below….

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