Chapter Fourteen
Meg: Sorry I am not doing better getting these chapters up. I spent most of today writing this chapter, having written the first page about three weeks ago. Some things caught up with me, including studying for the GREs and my presentation for my research project. But here is the chapter, and I hope it raises more questions about Lydia than it answers.
As soon as Mayhew left the flat the next morning Lydia pulled out the two tarnished medals from the drawer and brought them into the kitchen. Laying them on a cloth on the table, she pulled out a bottle of silver polish and put on a coarse, stained apron over her pink dress. She sat down at the table, where Bob sat chewing on some bread and sipping a cup of tea, the cream having been replaced with a shot of whiskey.
"What're you doing?" he asked in a way that indicated the answer was not of any importance to him.
"Polishing."
"What're you polishing, then?"
"Some tarnished silver of Mr. Mayhew's."
Lydia picked up a rag and dabbed some of the polish onto it. She then rubbed the polish on one edge of the Crimea medal. Brightness gleamed through.
"Bob, where is the Crimea?"
The thug thought for a few moments. "Russia."
"Was there a war fought there?"
"Of course, you dunderhead."
"When?"
"Fifty years ago."
"What war was it?"
Bob glared at her. "The Crimean War, you stupid girl. Now would you shuddup and let me eat in peace?"
She mumbled out an affirmative and continued rubbing on the Crimean medallion, slowly recalling some lesson on the Crimean War in school. She thought some poet had written a poem on the topic that had been very popular at one point.
There was a loud knocking on the front door which sent both Lydia and Bob to their feet. They exchanged uneasy looks for a few moments.
"Perhaps it's the scrap man," Lydia said slowly.
"He comes to the back door!" Bob hissed. "No one, not even the neighbors, come to the front door!"
"Then I guess it's the detective," she whispered.
There was a second series of knocks. "Get the damn door!" Bob barked. He grabbed his teacup and bread and headed into Mayhew's room, his prearranged hiding place.
Lydia rushed to the front door. As soon as Bob had closed the bedroom door behind him she reached for the doorknob, only to realize that she still had the rag of polish and the Crimea medallion in her hands. She quickly wrapped the silver in the rag, making sure the ribbon hung out so polish did not stain it. She looked around the small parlour and, after some deliberation and another knock, she thrust the rag beneath the cushion of the worn couch. Then, wiping her free hand on her apron, she went back to the door and opened it.
She recognized the physical characteristics of the two men in genteel clothing standing before her enough from pictures to identify them as Basil of Baker Street and David Q. Dawson. "Yes?" she said, looking curiously at them. "May I help you?"
"We are looking for a Miss Lydia Brandt," the taller and slimmer of the two said, calmly sizing her up.
She took a step back and narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"
"I am Basil of Baker Street, and this here is my colleague, Dr. Dawson," the tall mouse said. "Are you Lydia?"
She nodded. "Yes, yes I am. And you're… you're that detective who saved the Queen from Professor Ratigan!" She turned away for a moment, feeling silly for that scripted part. She turned back to him. "You wished to speak with… with me?"
"Yes, if you are not busy. I see you have been doing some polishing?" Basil motioned to her hands.
She looked down at her hands, stained by polish. She nodded. "Oh yes. I'm rather busy."
"Can you give us just a few minutes of your time, Miss Brandt?"
"Oh, oh yes! I mean, I was busy, but I can certainly speak with you. Do please come in," she said, opening the door wider to emit them.
The detective and his colleague entered and took the seats she offered them on the couch. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink? Some tea, perhaps?"
The doctor shot his companion a questioning look. Basil nodded. "Yes, that would be lovely," he said
She smiled back and excused herself.
She returned from the kitchen several minutes later, a tray laden with three mismatched tea cups and a tea kettle, a few slices of cheese as an appetizer. "I do apologize," she said, blushing at the poor fare she set on the tea table before them. "We rarely receive visitors, so…" She stopped when she saw the Crimea medallion and rag of polish in Basil's hands.
"I found this under my seat," he said. "It appears to have been misplaced."
Her face burned in embarrassment. "Yes, I… I put it there."
"Seems like an odd place for a medal with polish on it, underneath your good furniture," he said.
She felt a lump form at the back of her throat, her heart racing. She had not prepared herself for this sort of situation. "I was… was startled, sir, at the knocking, and went to the door and… and… and…" She bowed her head, fighting back an urge to unravel at the seams. "I… I didn't want to come to the door with housework. We… we never get visitors, and... I… I panicked."
She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming in small, rapid gasps, her panic growing with the knowledge that she may have blown her reason for being there, and endangered Shaun's life.
"That's perfectly all right, Miss Brandt," an unfamiliar voice said. She glanced up, her eyes meeting the doctor's. She had not heard him speak before. His voice was warm, friendly. "My friend here meant no harm. He simply didn't want any polish to get on your furniture."
She inwardly cursed herself as she accepted the medallion which the doctor extended to her. "I… I do apologize… I was just so embarrassed… I… we… we're not uncivilized here, but... but…"
"This is nothing. Two months ago I approached a young lady's father to ask for her hand in marriage. Now the father is a strict military man- everything has to be just so with him. I had prepared for the day well in advance, and had gone to the barber that morning, making sure nothing was amiss with my appearance. I even purchased a new set of clothing. When I put the clothing on I discovered that I had gained a little weight from when I had been fitted for the clothes, so they were tighter on me. I put the clothes on anyway, as I had to meet the father very soon and no alternative could be found. I went to the lady's house and was admitted to see the father, who offered me a chair. When I sat down I heard a loud rip."
Lydia's hand flew to her mouth to cover up her smile. Basil shot Dawson a mortified look, indicating he had not heard the story before."
"My trousers had split in two!" Dawson said, laughing heartily.
The girl started to giggle. Basil relaxed, and laughed along with them.
"So what did you do?" Lydia asked when the laughter began to subside.
"The lady's father did just what you did—he laughed at my expense. When he finished I just continued with what I had to say, too determined to let a pair of split trousers get in the way of what I wanted."
"What happened?"
"The father admired my courage in asking for her hand despite the embarrassment I had just gone through. He thought it showed that I put my affection for her before anything else, and I received his permission to marry his daughter."
Lydia genuinely smiled, grateful for this man's good humor. She placed the medallion on an end table next to her, then began to pour the two visitors their tea.
"That is a curious medal, Miss Brandt," Basil said, accepting a cup from her. "Whose is it?"
"Mist-, erm, my grandfather. Mr. Brandt."
"How did he come by it?"
"He apparently was awarded it in 1855. He also has a Victoria Cross, but he has not been able to explain to me what the circumstances were under which he received the medals."
"He fought in the Crimea?"
She shrugged as she handed Dawson his cup. "My grandfather is mute. I can communicate with him easily on a daily basis, but asking him anything about his past, or about things of which I have no real knowledge, is much more challenging. I am trying to get the information out of him."
"How did he become mute?" Basil asked.
"I don't know," she said, stirring her cup of tea.
"How long have you lived with him?"
"Five months now." She sensed that now would be a good time to change the subject. "So you wished to speak with me?"
Basil set down his cup. "Yes. We are here to inquire about one Shaun Parker."
She took a sip of her tea, suddenly aware that her hand was perceptibly shaking. "Shaun Parker?"
"Do you know a man of that name?"
She nodded slowly. "Yes, in Nottingham. I grew up there. He lived about two miles away."
"You knew him growing up?"
"Oh no, of course not. Our families never knew each other, and he was in college by the time I had entered primary school."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty, sir."
"And how old is Mr. Parker?"
"Somewhere in his late twenties, I believe."
"How do you know him, then?"
"I met him through a childhood friend, David Calloway. He introduced us about two years ago. Mr. Parker ran a club for young men that David thought I would find intriguing."
"How well do you know him?"
She shrugged. "Not that well. I ran into him several times after our first meeting, but he was quiet around me. I'm shy as well, so the conversations did not get far."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"About eighteen months ago, right before I took up a governess position in Leeds."
"Leeds? What are you doing here in London?"
"My grandfather is getting older, and he needs someone to keep house for him."
Basil sat back in his chair, his tea untouched before him. "Tell me, what was Mr. Parker's profession?"
"Mr. Parker was trained as a lab assistant, but his main source of income is painting toy soldiers for war games."
Dawson raised his eyebrow. "War games?"
"My dear doctor, surely you saw war games in your time in the military," said Basil. "Military commanders will use miniature lead soldiers to demonstrate strategies before battles."
"Oh!" Dawson exclaimed. "Yes, they do. I was not aware it had permeated the civilian sphere."
Lydia shrugged. "I suppose it has. Mr. Parker's club was for young men who wanted to play with his painted armies."
"Why did your friend think you would be interested, Miss Brandt?"
The girl gave a little laugh. "I used to read accounts of ancient battles or naval battles with big, old broadsides. David thought that I would like to attend that particular club session because Mr. Parker had planned to set up a Napoleonic naval battle."
"How was the session?"
"Oh, it was wonderful!" Then she stopped and gave Basil a look of concentrated unease. "Mr. Basil, why are you asking me about Mr. Parker?"
"We need to find him and ask him some questions."
"Questions regarding what, exactly?"
"Questions regarding a case we are currently working on. Any information you have to his whereabouts would be most greatly appreciated."
"I have not seen him for eighteen months."
"How about anyone who knew him in Nottingham. Your friend, David Calloway?"
"David joined the army around the time I last saw Parker. Last I heard David was stationed in Bombay."
"Who were some of the other young men in this club?"
"I don't know their names."
"Anyone? Your parents?"
"No! They knew him even less than I."
"How about your grandfather? When will he be back?"
She shook her head. "He doesn't know Mr. Parker."
"It won't hurt us to ask."
She shook her head more vigorously. "My grandfather has never met him."
"Really?" Basil pulled out a worn envelope from the folds of his cloak. "Tell me, what is the address of this flat?"
Her heart raced at the sight of the envelope. She kept her eyes on it as she said. "Number 3 Perry Row."
"What is your grandfather's full name?"
"Edward Brandt."
"Does the address: "127 Balaclava Street, Esor, London," mean anything to you?" Basil asked.
She bit her lower lip and shook her head again, trying to look nervous.
"Your grandfather picked up a letter three days ago with such an address on it and brought it back here. Why?"
She widened her eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
She stared at the detective, his face cold and expressionless. She shifted her gaze to the doctor, whose eyes moved from his comrade to her and back again, waiting for the next move.
She knew it would be hers. She buried her face in her hands, practicing a rehearsed action. "My parents paid you to find out whether I still had contact with him, didn't they?" she moaned.
An awkward silence of several moments followed. Then Basil said, "What do you mean?"
She motioned to the letter in his hands. "Have you read that letter?"
"Yes."
"Is that from Sha-, I mean, Mr. Parkers?"
"Yes."
"For me?"
He nodded.
She reached for the letter. He handed it to her.
The next part, like the beginning, was not scripted. Lydia had not thought she would open the letter until she was creasing the folds of the flimsy tissue paper on which it had been composed, the envelope tossed carelessly on the floor. A picture from a magazine had been inserted into the folds of the letter, with a picture of a field covered in lilacs, heather, bluebells and buttercups. Within the margins some lines of sloppy penmanship said:
Here is a picture I came across that reminded me of the field I imagined in the fantasy I had about you coming home. It made me think of you.
I love you.
She burst into tears, releasing her emotions, her bad thoughts and feelings, her self-hatred and her insecurities, forgetting the two men before her, the thug hiding behind the wall, the rat who dwelt in the dark places away from the sun, her family, and only of two people: herself and Shaun Parker.
Sometime later she heard the doctor murmur, "Perhaps we should go."
Her head bolted up and she rapidly wiped tears from her eyes. "How much do you know?"
"Know of what?" Basil asked, leaning forward eagerly.
"Why are you here?" she said.
Basil gave Dawson a helpless look. The doctor sighed and then turned toward Lydia. "Miss Brandt, I can assure you your parents have not hired us for any purpose whatsoever. We don't even know their names. We found Mr. Parker's letters on a ship that is believed to belong to a criminal organization."
"What?"
"This could be just coincidence," said Dawson, waving a hand at Basil as he opened his mouth to protest. "We just need to know the truth of your relationship to Mr. Parker."
"Why? To determine whether he is a criminal?"
Basil rose to his feet and pointed to the envelope at her feet. "Why is the address on the envelope nonexistent and addressed to your father, Miss Brandt?"
She took a deep breath in preparation for her rehearsed lines once more. "It was prearranged so the letter would not be sent to this flat. All of those letters that do not have addresses are often left at that shack by the docks. I was to pick up the letters with this false address so no one knew I was receiving them."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Basil. "Why do you need such secrecy?"
She closed her eyes. "That's a long story that will probably seem petty and ridiculous to you, Mr. Basil."
"I have the time," he said, slowly sinking back to the couch.
"And this has nothing to do with my parents?" she asked, directing her question at Dawson.
"I can assure you it does not," he replied.
She folded up the letter in her lap and set it aside. "I have known Shaun Parker for two years now. It started when my parents encouraged my sister's courtship with a man who everyone knew I had been attached to long before she developed any sort of affection towards him. I understood that the young man in question loved my sister better than I, but I did not understand why my mother forced me to give my sister permission to date the fellow. I had peaceably spoken to neither my sister nor my mother for several months due to the pain and rejection I felt by my own family, and had joined the club to get away from them for several hours every week.
"Shaun's club for young men actually included myself and another young woman, Elizabeth Weigold. It was for young people who had an interest in history as well as war games. He'd tell us, for example, the historic events leading up to the Battle of Thermopylae, what happened during the battle, and its aftermath. Then he'd have the club actually play the battle with his miniature lead soldiers. Most of the boys, and perhaps Liz, came for the games. I came mainly for the history lectures that Shaun held at the beginning of each club meeting. My parents did not like it because they said it made me strange to potential suitors, but they did not fight it much because it got me out of the house so my sister's suitor could feel more welcome in our home.
"Two months after I had joined the club I developed my own affection for Shaun. It's uncanny how it came about; he's very intellectual, but can be shy to those he doesn't know very well. He never had a reason to be shy when the boys were around, but one day I arrived at the club earlier than the others while he was setting up a new game. After exchanging pleasantries we fell into a rather awkward silence. I then asked him a question about whether Poland and Lithuania, when Napoleon liberated them from Russian rule, had wanted to be liberated. His face lit up, and he began to answer the question eagerly. He finished his explanation after the others had entered the room, so we did not have much time to talk after that. But I knew somehow, after that conversation, that I admired him and hoped that one day I would find someone who derived as much pleasure from talking to me as I did from him.
"Shaun was friendlier towards me after that. Over the course of eight months the affection grew as we became good friends. After club meetings when the other would go home, Shaun and I often frequented restaurants or coffee houses to continue talking about aspects of history, or any other topic that came to mind. He found out that I had written a novel, and had begun to help me edit it. We started to exchange letters to continue our conversations on the days on which the club did not meet. And I found myself obsessively talking about him.
"My parents were not pleased with this, as you may imagine. They began to insist that his club was a scam that he had set up with which to seduce young ladies. That, of course, was ridiculous, considering that most girls I know have no interest whatsoever in war or any games relating to war. But I could not reason with them, so I began to lie about times when I would see him outside the club.
"One day Shaun and I were talking about my novel, and he noticed I was sad. I don't know why, but he embraced me and what happened next seems so silly, but… neither of us let go. It was then I realized my affection for him was shared. So we began to talk about the practicality of courtship. We decided it was not practical, but we would continue to see as much of each other as we could until it could become more practical, like when I had been away from my parents for a little time and he had gotten into a university for the study of history, which he had been working on.
"My parents found out about our feelings for each other when my sister intercepted an incriminating letter. They were scandalized, especially since Shaun is twelve years older than I and has no prospects they respect. They threatened to cast me out on the streets if I didn't write him a letter immediately ending our relationship. I sent the letter, but continued to meet with him in secret. I was a governess for awhile in Leeds.
"He was upset while I was in Leeds, however. We rarely saw each other, and the distance was quite a strain. He also wanted to get married, but my unwillingness to leave my family led to many arguments between us. In desperation for enough money to support the two of us he took up as a mercenary with the German army to fight in South Africa. My governess job ended when the family moved away and I came here to London. He left soon after.
"We worked out the plan for exchanging letters, our main form of communication, so my grandfather would not come across them and tell my parents that I am, indeed, still speaking to Shaun Parker against their wishes. I plan to tell them one day, but only when we have enough money to get married and live, if not in riches, then in comfortable poverty."
She fell into silence. Dawson and Basil exchanged uneasy glances.
"So what does that picture refer to?" Basil asked, motioning to the picture of the field of flowers lying on top of the letter.
"It's a reference to a daydream he painted out for me in a previous letter," she said, turning red. "We'd have a beautiful house in the country and I'd come home from the market or wherever to find him sitting outside, reading in this field of flowers. He would not notice I was there until I had greeted him hello with a kiss."
"Oh." The detective looked disappointed. He then perked up almost as quickly. "Why does your grandfather bring home your letters?"
"Have you been watching my grandfather?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Yes."
"Why?" she asked, folding her arms. "What has he done wrong?"
"Miss Brandt, we meant no harm," Dawson interjected. "We just wanted to make sure this letter was real, not fictional."
She sighed. "The first few times I was able to receive the letters from Shaun with no trouble. Unfortunately I had not counted on my grandfather. Most of the people around here rarely check the unofficial post for mail, and I thought my grandfather would do the same. I was not aware he checked it every evening. One day when I was sick he picked up one of my letters."
"Why did he think it was his?" Basil asked. '"It doesn't have this flat's address on it."
"To be honest, I don't know. I think he just glanced at the name and thought it was his without referring to the address. When he read the letter later on he discovered that it was actually addressed to his granddaughter. I had to explain the entire situation to him. He agreed to keep it a secret, mainly because he is upset with my parents. They rarely visit and he takes it as a personal affront. Keeping my secret ensures that I stay here and take care of him."
Dawson stared at Basil. His face showed no expression, but his eyes looked shell-shocked, staring straight ahead at the end table on which the letter and medal had been placed. The doctor then turned his attention to the girl. "Miss Brandt, are you all right?"
She jumped and turned towards him. "Why… why do you ask?"
"You look sad."
"Shaun's not in any trouble, is he?"
"None, now that you have explained the situation," Dawson said with a reassuring smile.
"And you weren't sent by my parents?"
"No."
She sighed in relief. "You scared me when you began to ask about Shaun. I was afraid that this secret love affair had been found out by the wrong people."
"Your secret is secure with us," Dawson said, rising to his feet. "Well, we won't take up any more of your time."
Basil automatically followed suit, as if walking underwater.
Lydia walked them to the door. "Please, if you see my grandfather, don't tell him you were here. It'll just give him reason to doubt all the good I have told him about Shaun."
"Of course not, Miss Brandt," Dawson said, taking her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Parker is a lucky man indeed."
She gave the doctor a weak smile.
"Thank you Miss Brandt," said Basil, more out of politeness than sincerity.
Lydia closed the door behind them. Then she leaned against it and slowly slid to the floor, feeling exhausted.
A minute later she heard a slight knock from the next room. Lydia dragged herself to her feet and crossed the parlour. She opened Mayhew's bedroom door.
"Why didn't you let me out earlier?" Bob snapped.
"I wanted to make sure the detective was gone," she said. "Now how did I do?"
"Good enough, I guess. Boss'll be pleased if the detective doesn't come back." The thug threw himself onto the couch that Basil and Dawson had just vacated.
Lydia took her letter and the medallion and went into the kitchen. She sat back down at the table and raised the letter. But instead of reading the letter she found her eyes on the partially polished medallion. She set the letter down and, taking up the rag, began to rub the medal clean.
"What is the plan now?" Dawson asked cautiously as the duo walked down the street.
Basil shook his head. "I should have asked for her parents' names, contacted them to check the veracity of her story."
"Basil! We promised not to tell her parents!"
"No, we did not. You just assured her we weren't sent by her parents."
Dawson sighed. "Please, old friend, give it a rest! The poor girl doesn't need any more strain. Didn't you notice her condition?"
"How could I not? She nearly fell apart when I pointed out that Crimea medal in the couch."
"She appears to be suffering from hysteria."
"Is that all?"
"Her tendency to get easily upset, her low self-esteem, probably brought on by her family's rejection, and her fiancé as a mercenary in a foreign land? I wouldn't be surprised if it was hysteria that had unhinged her so."
Basil shook his head. "But who puts a medal that she's polishing underneath a good cushion?"
"The cushions were faded and torn, they weren't good furniture."
"They're probably the best her grandfather owns."
"She could have been too panicked to think straight when she put the medal there. It's not uncommon in hysterical women."
"Perhaps," Basil said. "No matter. We're going back to Baker Street."
"Is the case of the letters de l'amour closed, then?" Dawson asked.
"Not unless I go back and do some more questioning."
"Why? You saw the original letter we had left for her within that book in the parlour, meaning that it hasn't left the house and gone to Ratigan for some devious purpose. She explained that the picture was a memento of her and Shaun's ideal future life together, not the setting for some place where a crime is supposed to take place. The letters are harmless."
"Something just doesn't seem right here," said Basil, shaking his head. "My hunches are usually on the mark."
"Everyone can be wrong about something," said Dawson quietly.
They walked on for several minutes. Finally Basil said, "You're right, there's not enough evidence to encourage further search. Close the case, doctor."
In his mind, however, the detective was determined to figure out why a Crimea medal had been hidden underneath a couch cushion.
Meg: You know how I said that I was informally engaged and I would not explain why right then? Lydia and Shaun's story is essentially that explanation. I met my boyfriend shortly before I finished "Every Rose Has a Thorn." Within ten months my parents threatened to not pay for my college education if I pursued a relationship with him because he's twelve years older than me and does not make a lot of money. I have had to keep the relationship from all but two of my family members and many of my friends to ensure it remains a secret. We've discussed marriage extensively, and although we both would like to get married we both know it isn't practical right now. We're keeping everything under wraps until I graduate, and become formally engaged sometime after that.
As romantic as this may sound to some people, it is actually a stressful and sometimes miserable situation. My parents constantly harp on me because they think I can't get a date and am not a personable girl, while the distance between my boyfriend and I ensures that we hardly see each other. I have to lie to a lot of people and make up stories in order to conceal this secret life from my family, which sometimes backfires on me.
Lydia's explanation is not a complete chronicle of her life since she met Shaun, however. Stay tuned for the entire story in subsequent chapters.