A Withered Flower and New Seeds

"WHY?"

A heart-rending plaintive cry echoed through the ladies' dressing room in the Rat Trap. Once again, poor Miss Lizzy was completely distraught, unable to stop weeping. A newspaper, dated two weeks earlier, lay on the floor beside her, a headline stating "Bank clerk found dead at home". She had learned about Mr. Houston's decease from a colleague of hers, another street vendor who had been acquainted with her for some time and also knew a bit about her affection for Mr. Houston. Her colleague had actually intended to express her deepest condolences, which unexpectedly took Lizzy by the most horrific surprise. Indeed, she had noticed that Mr. Houston did not come to see her anymore, but she presumed this was due to her decline of his marriage proposal. In fact, she was initially relieved at his absence, since it had been her decision – albeit a painful one – to dissociate herself from him, at least for awhile. When she heard the dreadful news, she was stricken with immense grief. She refused to believe it was about her beloved clerk, until her colleague showed her the chronicle the day after that, of which the descriptions unmistakably pointed to Mr. Houston.

Lizzy could not eat, could not sleep, could not perform. Her last show had failed miserably, since she was unable to concentrate on anything as thoughts about Mr. Houston raced through her mind. She could not have cared less about the crowd's atypical catcalls, of which, wretched as she already felt, she did not seem to take any notice.

Her employer immediately recognized that something was wrong with her, and privily correctly surmised the reason for her uncharacteristic fiasco. After the pub closed and the visitors had left, he could hear her woeful sobs break the silence of the night.

"Poor, poor Lizzy," the perpetrator quietly said to himself, releasing a mock sigh, before he walked towards the girl's room and knocked at the door.

"Y-Yes? Who's there?" said the shaky, grief-stricken voice upon hearing the knock.

With a creaking sound from the old door pushed open, Ratigan entered. Miss Lizzy had not expected her employer to come in, so she instantly gathered what little strength that was left in her and endeavoured to compose herself. She dried her swollen tear-stained eyes with her sleeve and stood up from the couch she had been lying on. She coloured, forced to present herself at her very worst to her principal, at first unable to look him in the eyes.

"Mr. Wickham, I deeply apologize that you find me in such a disastrous state," she then said quietly, facing the floor. "I truly wish I did not have to feel as I do. I understand if you are here to discuss my disappointing performance. I'm fully aware of how terribly I have failed. But when a girl is heartbroken, she can't do nothin' good no more."

Lizzy sniffled. The rat handed her a tissue which he had taken out of his pocket. The mourner thanked him and blew her nose.

"My dear, I am very sorry... indeed, your performance did leave much to be desired..."

Miss Lizzy hung her head submissively.

"...however, it was, I presume, an unfortunate exception. After all, you do know that you are my most esteemed employee?"

He feigned an amiable smile that seemed to belie his capacity for wickedness. Lizzy appeared to gaze into nothingness and did not respond. She feared coming across as rude, but tainted with sadness as she was, she could not divert her thoughts from anything but Mr. Houston's passing. Was it an accident? It could not have possibly have been...

...Murder?

Lizzy shuddered at the notion.

"Miss Lisbeth!" said Ratigan, his towering form stepping behind the diminutive doe. "If I may inquire, what in the world is it that upsets you so?" He placed a black gloved hand on her thin left shoulder, faking genuine concern as well as he could. Lizzy flinched slightly at the sudden touch, but continued to stare into blank space as fresh warm tears began rolling down her cheeks. After some moments, she swallowed, and finally spoke.

"Oh, I couldn't tell you, Mr. Wickham," she said, quietly and rather tense.

"You could not? But of course you could..." Ratigan released her shoulder and turned to face her. "I should imagine that you have been struck by Cupid's arrow and have been disappointed? 'Tis the most common source of woe, after all... is it not so?"

"You're not entirely mistaken, sir," Lizzy said. "But love did not disappoint me. It was Fate that did."

The rat raised his eyebrows. Upon his curious expression, the girl continued, almost in a whisper, "Death took him."

Her face froze.

"Ah, the poor thing! I really am most sorry, my dear," Ratigan said, as if apologizing for his own heinous deed, "Indeed, life can be incredibly cruel to those who least deserve it..." he added, pouting. "Well, I'm convinced you'll get over it, as we all do when we've lost something precious."

"I don't think I ever should," Lizzy sighed, shaking her head. "I don't think I can ever forgive myself..."

"Forgive yourself? For what, pray?"

"It doesn't matter."

After some moments of silence, Miss Lizzy looked up at her employer and said, "Sir, I shall do my best to perform well again tomorrow. After all... this wretched work is all I have to keep me from starving. Any hopes for a better future are shattered now."

Without further comments, but with an inner feeling of accomplishment, Ratigan bid his distressed employee good-night, left the room and lit up a cigar.

"She is mine," he thought to himself, exhaling a puff of smoke. "No one shall ever take her away, until she is withered and incapable! ...well, at least until Padraic Ratigan himself can forsake this filthy den and needs no longer live a double life." His mouth curved into a complacent smile. "It shan't be too long. But until that occasion... more money must come in."

Indeed, life can be incredibly cruel to those who least deserve it.

Ratigan's hideous plan had in fact retained poor Miss Lizzy, who had no other choice, at the Rat Trap. However, as a negative side effect, her dancing and singing were never more to be as vigorous and agile as they once were. Those who had known her before took notice of the change; it seemed as though she found it arduous to smile, and besides that, she had grown even thinner than she had previously been. Nine months after the loss of Mr. Houston, she was still cheerless and depressed. Her once silvery tunes had forfeited much of their former euphony. Yet, in spite of all the dreary circumstances, and to Ratigan's contentment, Miss Lizzy still remained the most popular of the three entertaining ladies. Nevertheless, even he could not deny that she was growing frail.

Three years had passed since he started working at the Rat Trap, and the aspiring scientist had finished his first grand paper and was now Mr. Padraic Ratigan, . His professors would probably not have been easily convinced that he had managed to excel at this extraordinarily advanced academic achievement in spite of toiling full-time during the writing process. However, the overconfident and sedulous student was rewarded for his outstanding accomplishment by graduating summa cum laude. Not surprisingly, Ratigan's supervisor recognized his exceptional talent for analysis, and encouraged him to pursue a doctorate, which he had intended to anyway. His dream of professionally affiliating himself with the circle of academics was no longer a secret – at least some lecturers at the UCL's Department of Chemistry had become familiar with the idea. Shortly after his graduation, Ratigan was offered to work as a university assistant for the supervisor of his dissertation, the acclaimed Professor Howard Clayton. Ratigan's academic rival, Trevor Bloom, a high-achieving mouse who possessed the same aspirations as his opponent, but also rather conservative – or more specifically – racist opinions, was extremely vexed that "an arrogant sewer rat" should be preferred to him. This did not appear to slight Ratigan; but he knew very well the hostile feelings his opponent harboured towards him solely due to his inferior birth. He had become quite accustomed to the sentiment, which, though unjust, seemed to be prevalent among most of his peers. But being a minority also had its advantages; his more unprejudiced teachers, though no rats themselves, saw past the superficial social constructs and some of them were able to detect his singular dedication to the subject as their attention was drawn to him, initially, simply due to his similarly singular appearance. Ratigan stood out, whatever place he found himself in.

On a warm night of July, he happened to find himself at the Rat Trap. It was to be one of his last nights as Stanley Wickham. Now that he would work at the university, assisting his supervisor with research, and would earn a salary, there was no more need for him to manage the seedy tavern; though his influence on it was significant, and the pub had improved its image, which had been even worse before he had gained control over it, he realized that then was the time to abandon his status as its manager, for he no longer would depend on the money this loathsome and inferior work brought him. Though he had not been certain whether he would actually be employed at the Department of Chemistry so soon, he had already, beforehand, devoted much thought to the preparations necessary to make in case it did happen – which it did.

So he put his plans into practice. He had a long talk with his employee Bernard Glover, whom he convinced to take over the management of the Rat Trap – not telling him the true reasons why he wanted to leave, naturally – and the lucky Glover was, unsurprisingly, eager to supersede him. The truth was that Ratigan could not have cared less about the pub's future, since he did not see himself having anything to do with it anymore; but he pretended to promote Glover because he generously estimated his good work and insisted on a "worthy successor". By that time, Miss Lizzy was suffering from so severe a depression that she was no longer capable of enthralling her audience; this was the major flaw in Ratigan's plan to eliminate Mr. Houston, since he lacked the empathic ability in order to predict that his favourite entertainer would lose her spark if her loved one was gone. In spite of this, at any rate she did continue to bring in the money he was so desperately in want of until the day he left. However, having feared that she would not be of use to him for much longer, Ratigan had already arranged for a new showgirl to replace Miss Lizzy. Miss Katherine Fitzgibbons, more commonly known by the name Kitty, was recommended to the ex-proprietor by one of his employees who had known the girl in America before he had moved to London.

"Does she dance well?" Ratigan had inquired.

"Well enough, I suppose so," replied his employee, Peter Ryatt.

"Oh, but she must be far better than average! I'm not looking for a mediocre entertainer. She must be able to replace our Miss Lizzy, who, in her present situation, no longer attracts visitors as she used to."

"Very well sir, I have to say she dances very well. Quite the tease, she is! Or so she was when I knew her in America. Not too long ago, sir."

"Sings well, too?"

"Oh yes, now I can guarantee that! I was surprised at the big voice that came out o' that sweet little mouth o' hers."

"Convince her to come here. I shall pay the cost of her journey. You knew her well, you say?"

"Mighty well, sir."

"According to your sound judgment, will she be a success here?"

"Aye, I'm sure o' that."

"Excellent."

And so it was that Miss Lizzy was ultimately dismissed by Mr. Glover, only shortly after Ratigan had left, and the notoriously coquettish Miss Kitty, almost equal to her precursor in age – though two years younger – as well as in good looks, was hired. Everything had gone according to his scheme, despite his absence. He never learned that Lisbeth Smith had died from pneumonia few months thereafter. And even if he had, it would not have affected him. Some might have been relieved for the unfortunate girl; for she felt that death alone could liberate her from all her misery and hopelessness. As for Jacob Houston – the cause of his demise, arsenic poisoning, was in fact discovered by some Scotland Yard detectives, but the culprits were never found. The faithful might wish to believe that the disparate, infelicitous pair was now united in heaven, forever free from earthly boundaries.

Ratigan, despite his high education still compelled to dwell in the deprived area of the Soho for the want of more money, had resigned from both his job at the lawyer's as well as given up the management of the Rat Trap, and now was able to devote his time entirely to researching for his doctorate and assisting his supervisor in the laboratory and the office. At least now, he could afford more refined clothes, and made a respectable appearance in his working environment in defiance of his immutable species, though there were still some who eyed him critically. Had they known more about the skeletons hidden in the closet of the object of their scrutiny, it would have truly adversely affected him! But they did not... Nevertheless, Ratigan was well aware that if he desired to thrive in academia, he would inevitably have to face many obstacles that could impede his life's dream from being realized. Prejudice against his kind, especially coming from upper middle class mice, was a potential hindrance that neither his intellectual capacity nor diligent work could eliminate so simply. He felt that his natural confidence and leadership qualities would either, in the best case, assist him in getting his way, or, in the worst, prevent him from it due to possible suspicion his exceptionally charismatic demeanour might cause. But he preferred to rid himself from doubt, and trusted that his manipulative abilities would somehow aid him in reaching his goals. Until then, he had indeed achieved everything he had aimed for, and by receiving the much hoped for position instead of that racialist Trevor Bloom, he proved to himself that he was capable of scoring repeatedly in a row. Losing was alien to him.