I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed, or just read this story so far. It means a lot to me!
I especially want to thank all the members of TWS who supported this story in so many ways.
Still, it wouldn't exist without Desiree and TOWDNWTBN (The-One-Who-Does-Not-Wish-To-Be-Named), emphasis on "wished"- it's not Lord Voldemort!
CHAPTER 2 -Letters and lies
Monsieur Duval:
Words fail to properly express how moved I was when I heard the news you provided.
Your letter was a true revelation!
Your services have been invaluable to me; the debt I owed to my old friend is paid, and it will not be necessary for you to continue to provide further reports regarding the de Chagnys. I believe the sum I gave as a deposit should generously cover the expenses for your services to date. You may keep the rest as a bonus for the great news.
Sincerely,
Erik Rochelle
Monsieur Pineaut:
I am enclosing five letters for you to deliver, as well as a list outlining financial instructions. Madame Giry's financial arrangement will go on as previously instructed. However, along with delivering her letter, I wish for you to raise her monthly income as indicated in the enclosed list. Monsieur Chan's and Monsieur Duval's letters do not need any care from you, other than making sure they are delivered personally into their hands. The other two letters, to Monsieur Alexander Arnaud in Constantinople and Signor Rubelli in Venice, will be sent to your office. In my letters, I inform them that you'll be in charge of their payments. If Signor Rubelli has any questions or requests, I want to be informed about them through your office since I wish my recent address to remain private.
Erik Rochelle
Daroga,
This is the last time you'll hear from me. I have decided to set you free from the worries I've caused you. Do not jump to stupid conclusions. I'm well - better than I have been for a long time. It's time for me to leave everything and everyone behind.
I want you to post the announcement of my death in the paper. Be as brief as possible. No details, no explanation needed. I dare to believe it will be the first time a death announcement will bring so much relief to so many people.
Erik
P.S. Madame Giry has been informed, and will keep her silence.
Walking the fields of his estate, exploring the area he now owned, and mentally marking the damage that years of neglect and abandonment had wrought on the property was Erik's favourite activity. However, walking along the lane towards the village - the rare occasions it was required - was hardly a desirable pastime, and it had nothing to do with the beauty of the landscape.
During the first months of his lonely residence at the Red Door Cottage, he had the chance of appreciating the fresh air, the color of the grass, and the warmth of the occasional bit of sunshine. Although these were benefits his former life had totally denied him, Erik found himself extremely reluctant to adjust to his new environment. He preferred the darkness, and it took him almost two months to open the heavy curtains and let the daylight flow victoriously into the rooms he occupied.
Living in the country was slowly growing on him, even if he had always considered city life his first and ultimate choice. In the crowded streets of Venice, Constantinople, or Paris, he was capable of walking unnoticed, becoming one with the shadows of the alleys. He enjoyed shopping in the market without raising suspicion among the other nameless, faceless customers. In the small streets of the village, the new, nervy owner of the Twin Cottages would make good gossip, even if he weren't a Frenchman and didn't wear a mask.
The long years residing in the Opera house made interacting with people even more difficult than it had been before, and in his few encounters with the villagers, he found them to be ignorant, impolite people. Among the few exceptions was Mr. Hamilton, the owner of an antique shop, who earned a living trading in almost everything. He was a man in his thirties who, for unknown reasons, committed himself to maintaining this antique business among the peasants instead of pursuing a better fortune elsewhere. Even though Mr. Hamilton's motives for staying in the village were hardly Erik's concern, he often found himself wondering why the man had chosen such a lot in life.
One of his redeeming qualities was that Mr. Hamilton seemed to appreciate beauty and quality. Erik noticed that, surprisingly, Mr. Hamilton avoided staring at his mask after the first time he noticed it under the fedora. The man was smart, accurate in his accounting, seemed honest enough, and he never delayed an order beyond reason. He also offered to handle Erik's occasional correspondence, handing all letters to Jamie, Mrs. Oliveer's son, to deliver to Erik.
Mrs. Oliveer was the owner of the closest grocery store in the village, and unlike Mr. Hamilton, she wasn't the honest, well-mannered shopkeeper who cared about her products and her clients. While Mr. Hamilton always remembered what a client bought the last time he was at his store and asked him whether he was satisfied with the quality of the product, Mrs. Oliveer didn't give a damn as long as the customer paid the price she was asking.
Her store was a small, quite narrow room, which was ironically appropriate for a narrow-minded woman like Mrs. Oliveer. The floor was sticky, and almost everything on the shelves was covered in dust. For Erik, the covering of dust was a good indication as to the freshness of the products. Although he was out of everything edible, which was the only reason he had decided on a trip to the village in the first place, he wasn't in need of many things. Bread and cheese and perhaps some dried meat would be sufficient to sustain him for weeks. He made his order quickly, and watched as the middle-aged woman disappeared into a room to gather part of it.
Her son, Jamie, was sitting on the floor a few steps away from Erik's feet, playing with something made out of wrapping paper. A second glance revealed that he didn't actually play, but merely threw a ball of paper from one hand to the other, totally concentrated on the task as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He was the filthiest child Erik had ever laid eyes upon, providing one more reason to despise his mother. His hair was of an indescribable color because of the mud that was caked in it. The same mud was all over his face. His clothes were torn in places -mostly around the knees - and were, of course, covered with uncountable layers of dirt. Erik could not guess if the ugly smell was coming from the boy or the equally dirty dog that lay asleep at his feet, but made a mental note not to let the child touch his parcels.
He was starting to feel sick standing in the confined room, watching the boy continue his silent game. For a moment, Erik wondered if the boy was deaf or stupid or had some other sort of incapacity that prevented him from acting like a normal child. His mother's sudden cry from the other room seemed to motivate him to stand up and look around. He looked at Erik, surprised, as if he hadn't noticed him before, and a faint smile appeared on his face. Erik could almost swear he saw a sparkle of intelligence in his eyes and that smile, but the expression instantly changed to a worried one.
"Come here, you useless, lazy blockhead! Where did you put the dried meat? I have been looking for hours down here! Come here, you, before I go up there and show you…"
Her harsh voice was an insult to Erik's ears. Jamie ran to the room downstairs, and seconds later, his mother was standing by the counter with a poor excuse of a smile on her face, showing the equally poor condition of her teeth.
"Is that all, sir? Perhaps you'd like some fruit. I have fine green apples, some apricots, and pears, of course," she said, her prying eyes staring at his mask.
"Just wrap my order, if you please," he growled. His patience with this woman was wearing thin. Erik made a silent vow not to choose her store again except in case of extreme need. He heard the brass bell jingling as someone opened the door behind him. Making sure that his fedora concealed his face fully, he quickly ducked his head and turned to leave. His intentions to make a hasty exit failed as he recognized Mr. Hamilton's voice.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rochelle. I'm so lucky to happen upon you here! Your order is ready. It has arrived just today." His broad smile indicated he was extremely proud of himself for the early delivery he'd managed.
Erik expressed his appreciation with a nod. The young man's face clouded, and he wrung his hands nervously as he continued. "Unfortunately, my cart will be out of use the following couple of days. Do you want some of the stuff immediately? All of the items are too heavy for one person to carry. Otherwise I'd bring them myself today."
Erik started to find Mr. Hamilton's eagerness to help almost annoying, as he usually picked up his orders himself. He wondered about the sincerity of his words and the amount of his curiosity. He knew that nobody from the village dared to enter his estate because of the ghost rumors, and for that reason he had made a sort of mailbox just inside the front gate of the Red Door Cottage. When someone wanted to leave a letter or a parcel, he had to open the gate and leave it at the box. That was the only act of bravery required. Upon the gate's being opened, a bell rang inside the house to inform Erik of visitors. Once, he had been standing by the window when the bell rang, and his eye caught sight of Jamie as he opened the gate and entered with small hesitant steps. The boy was the only one who had visited the house as of yet, and Erik didn't want to change that to satisfy some gentleman's curiosity.
"There's no need to carry anything, Mr. Hamilton. I'll take them myself in three to four days if you allow me the use of your cart. I'll bring it back the same day," Erik said.
His anxiety was rising again, and the need to escape the room was causing his face to flush. Mrs. Oliveer decided it was time to interrupt and offer her help.
"Jamie could give you a lift if you'd like to have your stuff today, for a reasonable price, of course." Her voice was full of anticipation of extra money.
Erik decided that such an offer might present a great opportunity for him. He wouldn't need to come again in four days' time and bring back the borrowed cart. He looked out of the window to the setting sun, feeling angry with himself. His apprehension of the visit to the village had forced him to make a late start, and it would be early evening by the time they'd arrive back at the Red House Cottage. He was very comfortable walking in the dark, but he did not imagine that the little boy would feel the same having to return home alone.
"Thank you, Mrs. Oliveer, but isn't it too late for your son to wander about with the cart?"
"If I trust the little devil not to damage my cart, you can trust him, too, sir," she said, sarcasm evident in her voice.
Her cold tone as she talked about her son and her lack of concern for his safety were difficult for Erik to endure.
He instinctively straightened his shoulders, towering over her. It seemed his tall frame alone had a threatening effect on her, and she cowered behind the counter. He continued in what he hoped to be a polite manner.
"If your son has no problem with the arrangement, I'll pay you for the trouble."
Three pairs of eyes stared at the boy who was leaning against the door with a blank expression on his face. His mother looked at him sternly, silently daring him to object.
Trying to read something behind Jamie's expression, Erik quickly concluded that the boy could easily be as stupid as he looked, and sadly shook his head. Given the present situation, he decided that he would like to postpone his next trip to the village for as long as possible, so he added more food supplies to his order, including fruit and some biscuits, and fixed a delivery price with Jamie's mother.
While Mrs. Oliveer prepared the new order, the bell jingled once more, and this time, the village's vicar entered the tiny, already crowded room. The old man greeted each one of them by name, including Erik.
"I don't recall seeing you at church, Mr. Rochelle," said the vicar in a reprimanding tone.
Erik inhaled slowly, trying to contain himself. He was certain he hadn't met the vicar before.
"And you can bet you won't," he hissed and stormed out of the confined space in a fury. Slamming the door behind him, he heard the vicar mumbling something about letting the dead rest in peace while Jamie stared at the old man with fear.
Erik walked as fast as he could, putting more distance between himself and the insolent people behind him. He walked with long, angry strides, his boots making an uncharacteristically loud noise on the street. He didn't care. He just didn't care anymore. What could these miserable people do to him? Disgust him to death? What had he been seeking when he moved to this filthy village? Did he actually expect to ever belong and be a true member of the human race? Did he honestly believe that Christine would think better of him if he became one of them? Talking with them was torment enough!
He stopped walking, feeling his knees trembling, and his eyes clouded. He heard his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and his upper lip. His mask was getting uncomfortably hot upon his flushed skin. He entered a shadowed alleyway and leaned against the wall. This had to stop. He had to think of something. He'd rather to starve to death than repeat this ordeal. Drawing some deep breaths, he tried to shove away the images of the walls closing around him - Mrs. Oliveer's calculating high-pitched voice, her yellowed teeth showing through her fake smile. His face was burning. He removed his gloves and cooled his exposed cheek with his cold palm. Erik felt that if he'd stayed one more minute in that miserable store, he would have passed out, drowned by the moist, filthy air, the appalling voices, the indescribable smell. Some more deep breaths seemed to slowly calm his clouded mind and his uneven breathing. What was happening to him? Was he meant to become a shadow of his former self? He straightened his body, and checked his mask and fedora once more, making sure they were in place. It was neither the time nor the place for self-pity. Measures needed to be taken.
Half an hour later, every parcel and package was securely placed in Mrs. Oliveer's cart. Jamie's dog was lying among them, already asleep. Erik had never actually seen this dog walk, run, or even bark.
Jamie was already sitting, holding the reins of the mare, and Erik climbed onto the seat next to him, concealing his mask from the boy's sight.
His mother's voice had a strange tone when she mumbled some threats towards her son in case anything happened to the horse. It sounded as if she had been drinking - a habit that could easily be the reason for her constant red nose and bloodshot eyes.
The ride to the Red Door Cottage was a silent one, and Erik, for the first time in six months, felt as if he were returning home. The daylight was not gone yet, and the night was going to be quiet and bright, with a full moon and a clear sky above them. At the beginning of the journey, the boy was nervous. He jumped at every noise they heard that was different from the familiar trample of hooves, looking behind him or around him with narrowed eyes, as though expecting something ghostly to appear at any moment.
Erik tried to find a way to comfort his worried companion, but could think of nothing, so he remained silent. The horse's pace was slow, which was either his driver's choice or a result of its own age. Although irritated at first, Erik gradually calmed down and savored the beautiful night. His young companion seemed to eventually relax, too, even though Erik expected him to become more anxious as they came closer to the Red Door Cottage.
They had just caught a glimpse of the house when Erik heard Jamie's voice for the first time. He realized he hadn't heard it before, and it was a soft, little shaky whisper.
"There's the cottage, sir," he said as he pointed with his hand.
The moon was rising behind it, spreading an unearthly light on the plain building.
Erik nodded.
"Do you want me to take you inside?"
Erik understood the boy's apprehension. Riding to the Red Door Cottage was one thing. Entering the house or being there with his mysterious owner was another.
"It would be easier. For otherwise, I would have to make many trips to carry all this stuff from the gates to the cottage." Easier was an understatement. It would take him half an hour back and forth, carrying all the parcels in. "But if you'd like, you can wait here while I drive the cart inside and unload it. I will bring it back to you as quickly as possible." He used his soothing voice to calm the boy, and seemed to have succeeded - until the boy's expression changed as he suddenly remembered.
"Mother will kill me if I leave the horse…"
"I'm sure she didn't mean that," Erik replied, gritting his teeth.
"Perhaps, but she'll surely beat me." He seemed to be in deep thought about his next move. His fear of his mother and his fear of the ghosts were joined in battle. Suddenly, a cloud crossed the boy's face as he looked up into Erik's face.
"Did Jane and Gillian do that?" he asked as he lifted his hand and pointed at the mask.
"Who did what?" Erik was at a total loss as to what the boy meant. For a moment, his former opinion regarding Jamie's questionable intelligence came back to his mind.
"Did they hurt you? The ghosts, I mean."
"Jane and Gillian are their names?" Erik asked.
"Shhh!" he continued, whispering. "They are the twins who died here! They had a treasure, you know. Did they make you wear this?"
"Look, boy," Erik said, the demanding tone catching James' attention. His whole face was turned, letting the boy get a good look at his mask, which glinted eerily in the moonlight.
"No ghost made me wear this," he said. He touched his mask. "There are no ghosts here!"
The boy was looking at him in disbelief. Erik sighed heavily.
"Believe me! I know what I'm talking about! THERE ARE NO GHOSTS HERE! Just you and me. I have been living in this house for six months now, and no lady - sister, widow, spinster, or spirit - has visited me. Of all people in this world, I'd recognize a ghost if I saw one. TRUST ME on this!"
"Mary said Jane bewitched your face to look like half a man and half a lion."
"Who's Mary? Another ghost?" Erik asked in a mocking tone.
"Mary is the baker's daughter, sir," James replied solemnly. He seemed insulted.
Erik didn't know if he should be upset or entertained by the story the children imagined. Finally, his curiosity got the best of him. "I've seen her once. A nice looking girl. Tell me, James, why a lion? Why not something else? An eagle or a monkey? Is this Jane-ghost a lion lover?"
"No, sir. I don't know her taste. Mary said it was a lion because of the eyes."
"The eyes? What about the eyes? Speak, boy," Erik demanded impatiently.
"Your eyes, sir. They're like the lion's eyes in the painting Mr. Hamilton has above his desk. Yellow, gold-ringed…" his voice faded as he worried he had made his companion angry.
Indeed, Erik's brow furrowed in his usual, almost subconscious attempt to seal his eyes from other people's gaze. Although it was dark, it was second nature to him. At the same time, he was impressed by James' observing eye and his friend's imagination. James was obviously not as stupid a child as it had seemed.
"James, I'm not hiding a lion's head, and this is the end of our discussion about my mask." He paused for a moment to make his point clear. "Jane and Gillian are so quiet and polite - if this is still their abode- that they have never made their presence known to me."
They had just approached the cottage's gates, and the horse, as if understanding his master's hesitation, had stopped.
"What's your decision, James? I won't pressure you, but make it fast. I'm tired and hungry." He remotely remembered the last time he had had a decent meal.
At these words, a different spark appeared in James' eyes. Obviously, the boy was starving. Having this unexpected advantage, Erik played his last card.
"If you help me carry the packages into the house, I'll make some tea and some sandwiches."
"Father John said we should let the dead rest in peace, and don't stir the dark waters of hell," James said. This apparently seemed to be his last reservation.
No doubt the priest held an important role in the village. The boy obviously seemed to be afraid of him. It didn't surprise Erik a bit. It was a common situation for priests to draw attention to their "merciful" work by enslaving their believers with images of hell, devils, and fallen angels. Their faith was more based on fear than love, as fear was proven to be a more powerful, long-lasting emotion.
"It would be wise of 'Father John,'" Erik replied in a mocking tone, "to let the living live in peace, and not meddle with my life. Come, boy, there's no ghost here. And if there were, I'd scare it away."
With that, he hopped down from the cart and opened the gates.
"What will it be, James? Are you coming with me or not?"
"Will you be by my side, sir?" James inquired with uncertainty evident in his tone.
"All the way, James," Erik replied softly.
Convinced of Erik's promise, James grabbed hold of the reins fallen in his lap.
"Then come up, sir. YOU are coming with me!"
James was the first person who had ever set foot in Erik's house since he'd moved in six months ago. He was a spirited boy, but Erik knew he was still worried by the prospect of ghosts in the house, so he hastily lit some candles and a glorious fire in the kitchen's hearth. In a short while, every corner of the room was illuminated. He brought the candles into the parlor and urged the boy to come inside.
Curiosity was vivid in James' eyes as he tried to look at everything at once as if he were in a dream and could awaken at any moment. He looked at the parlor, at the kitchen, even at the dark library through the door left ajar.
When he saw the master of the house going to the cart, he followed him rapidly. Erik wasn't sure if he was eager to help or still afraid to be left alone. The possibility of being a source of security, even for a child afraid of ghosts, stirred strange emotions in him. Whatever the true reason was, James proved to be a hard worker.
They finished their task in fewer than ten minutes, and afterwards, silently enjoyed a hot tea and some quickly made sandwiches on the kitchen table. James, despite his small frame, had a gargantuan appetite. His table manners were far from the best, but either out of fear or from an inner sense of politeness, he always asked before a new piece of sandwich or a biscuit found its way to his mouth. Finally, without a word, he stood up to leave. He was heading to the door when he remembered something and turned back to face Erik, who was standing by the kitchen doorframe.
"Thank you, sir. Good evening!" he said with his soft voice. Obviously, this was the best way he knew to appear a gentleman.
"You're welcome, James. Thank you for your help".
Erik realized that, for the first time in his life, he had actually thanked someone for services rendered. For so many years, people had followed his orders and obeyed his commands, and it had never occurred to him to thank someone. Not even Madame Giry, he was ashamed to admit.
"Wait! Take this for your work." A coin appeared out of nowhere on Erik's palm.
"No, sir, I can't," James replied, still looking amazed by the trick.
"Of course you can! Don't give it to your mother. Keep it for yourself." He waved him off to the door with a gesture indicating the case was closed.
"I really can't, sir," James insisted. "If I take the money and buy something, Mother will think I stole it from her."
"Then hide it in your room, boy."
"I have no room. I sleep in the store. If she finds it there, she'll think I'm hiding more. Even if I give it to her, she'll think you gave me more and I kept some for myself."
Obviously, James had learned this lesson well, and Erik ventured to guess that it had been taught the hard way. Erik was silent for a moment trying to find a way to resolve the predicament. He couldn't stand to be ruled by Mrs. Oliveer's greedy nature.
"It seems we have a real Scrooge here," Erik noticed aloud, but James didn't respond. It occurred to Erik that James probably hadn't read Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
"You could give me one more of those almond biscuits for the road." James' hesitant voice was heard again.
"I'll be damned!" Erik exclaimed, wondering why he hadn't thought of that solution before. Undoubtedly, the child had a sweet tooth. He wrapped the remaining few biscuits in brown paper, and gave the parcel to James.
"Eat them all before you reach the store," Erik commanded, though he doubted he needed to even say it.
"I don't want one crumb of MY biscuits to fall on your mother's floor." His eyes glittered with distaste for the woman. "Come back in three weeks' time. I may have an order to give you. Tell your mother you'll be paid for your work."
With these words, he let him go. James descended the staircase to the lane that led to the gates, and looked back toward Erik apprehensively. He clutched the pack of biscuits firmly in his hand. Erik's deep, melodic voice filled the night. "Remember, James, there are no ghosts here, but this is only for you to know!"
