Disclaimer: I do not own Lockwood & Co.
"We need to go to the archives."
These were Lockwood's first words when we left the dreaded house.
"My thoughts exactly." George said, "But first, we have to go home and clean up.
I nodded in agreement. We were all a bit shaken up, save for George, who had only witnessed creeping fear and miasma. We explained to him what happened, and he agreed that going to the archives was a must. George just loves it there.
We arrived at 35 Portland Row, and all three of us dropped our bags the second we got inside. I ran upstairs, and entered the bathroom. I disrobed, and after turning the water on as hot as I could stand, I stepped into the shower.
After showering, I walked up to my room (wrapped in a towel), and changed into a fresh sweater, leggings, skirt, and socks. I brushed my hair, and began to walk downstairs. The bathroom door opened, and Lockwood stepped out. His hair was damp, and he had a towel around his waist. His chest was toned lightly, with scars lightly marking a couple of areas. My cheeks reddened, and I quickly ran downstairs. I could hear Lockwood's laugh reverberating down the stairs as I ran to the kitchen.
George turned around as I entered the room.
"What happened to you? You look like you've seen a raw bones."
I glared at him, and sat down at the table. I began to draw the girl from the night before on the Thinking Cloth, slowly drawing her facial features.
"What happened?"
"Nothing." I said bluntly. George opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Lockwood entering the kitchen. I payed no heed, and waited for him to take his seat. He smiled at both of us.
George set down a plait of cheese and crackers, and a few minutes later, the kettle whistled. We sat in silence for a few minutes, eating and drinking tea.
"So," George said after a long, awkward silence. "The archives. After we finish here, we'll go there, and see what we can find."
Lockwood piped in, megawatt grin painted on his face. "Lucy said she heard something. This could help with finding something."
I set down my teacup; folded my hands in my lap. I nodded, and began. "She mainly said things like 'how could you' and, 'I loved you', and she even said 'betrayal.' once. Just after the sun came up, as she was disappearing, she called me a liar."
George used a pudgy finger to push his slipping glasses into place. "This would suggest a jealous lover. But that also may not be the case. We'll never know until we actually try." Lockwood nodded in agreement, and rose from his chair.
"Well, we'll never actually know until we look. So off we go!"
We caught a cab to the archives, the night's events were finally weighing down on my body, tiring me out. The shock of the cold late november air kept me alert, but only just. The archives were as big, dusty, and old book-smelling as ever. The somber grey shades of Fittes, the mustard colour coats of Grimble, and the rich maroons or Rotwell mixed together in a throng of hues and glimmering rapiers. We began our search small. George immediately went to search the Cartwright name, and I went to search the house history. Lockwood went to search deaths in the area.
I arrived at the house records after a quick exchange of words with a librarian, and began my search.
There was a shelf full of tenants who had previously owned the house. I knelt down, coughing lightly from the cloud of dust that arose from the contents, telling me that these records hadn't been touched for a long time-and that the Cartwrights had lived there for quite a long time. I started with the first tenants.
The record was a manila folder, with dust lining the age crackled papers. I opened the folder, which crackled, and sent another thick cloud of dust flying into my face. I coughed, and blew away the remaining dust on the inside of the folder. I began to read.
"The Johansons lived in 27 Burkes Road since 1835, and was built by Sir Arthur Johanson in the year 1872. He and his family lived there until 1879, and then sold the house.
His family consisted of his wife, Mary, and his two daughters Alison and Eliza. Sir Johanson died in 1895."
I placed the folder back in it's slot carefully, as not to disturb any more dust, and pulled out the next one.
"The Abrahams were sold the house at 27 Burkes Road in 1898, and the house was owned by William Abraham and his wife Maude until 1901. He sold the house for reasons of a job transfer."
The next folder was a bit more interesting.
"The Anthonysons were sold 27 Burkes road in 1901, bought by Colonel Richard Anthonyson and his wife Laura until 1924. In 1922, Colonel Anthonyson's son, Benjamin married Elizabeth Allen. She lived in the house with the Anthonysons until 1923 when she died at age 23. Elizabeth Allen died of unknown causes."
The picture below showed a faded black and white photo of woman with long hair, tied back with a ribbon. Her hair was done back in a bun. She was wearing a dress that reached her ankles, with a high neckline, and beaded top. Tiny black pumps were upon her feet. An embroidered shawl was held loosely around her shoulders by an intricate pin. As well as all of this, she was wearing a pair of gloves that reached her elbows. A tall, thin man stood beside her, wearing a 20's era suit. Unlike her, he was grinning. He had dark hair, and a single lock curled down onto his brow. His arm was loosely around the woman's waist.
It was her. There was no mistaking it. Minus the pupil-less eyes, the facial features were the same. The curve of the nose, the curve of the eyebrows, and the thin, unsmiling lips. She was dressed differently than her apparition, but there was defiantly no mistaking it. Written in tiny text below the faded photo read:
"Elizabeth and Benjamin Anthonyson, honeymoon, 1922"
I gripped the folder tightly, shoving the article into it, and walked away to find Lockwood and George.
"So, Elizabeth Allen died of 'unknown causes?" Lockwood asked, resting his chin in his hand. His dark eyes glittered with curiosity.
George removed his glasses; wiping them on his sweater. "Sound's fishy to me." He said, replacing his glasses on his pudgy face. I picked up the article again, and examined the picture. Even in the picture, all I could see was love and admiration in Benjamin Anthonyson's eyes as he looked at his bride. I sighed, and set it down, leaning forward and resting my head on the heel of my hand.
"Lockwood, George, did you guys find anything?"
George shook his head, and adjusted his glasses again. I turned my gaze to Lockwood.
"I did, actually." Lockwood said proudly, producing a manila folder much like the one I had found. "27 Burkes Road" wasemblazoned across the front.
He opened the folder. It was considerably newer than the one I had found, and the article inside was cleaner, and free of dust. It was either Lockwood had cleaned it, or it had been updated recently. He reached deep into the recesses, and after flipping around a bit, pulled out a couple sheets of paper.
"Just as you said, Lucy. The Anthonysons. There was a death in the house, just as your article said, and it says the same thing here. Except, it doesn't say 'unknown causes.'" Lockwood's eyes were gleaming. "It said she was found."
"Found dead?" I asked, suddenly sitting up strait. George had taken the article from Lockwood, and had begun to read the text. Lockwood passed me a piece of paper as well. It was an obituary.
I blinked a couple of times before beginning to read.
"23 year old Elizabeth Allen Anthonyson was found dead in the upstairs parlor of the home she shared with her husband and his family at 27 Burkes Road on the 14 of April, 1923. Her abdomen had been cut open. When police questioned the family, they claimed they had no idea what had happened to Elizabeth. Her ceremony was a grand one, according to papers, and her husband Benjamin was seen somber when her body was lowered into the ground."
I furrowed my brow, partly in pity, and partly in confusion. I had so many questions. I looked up at Lockwood, who was staring off into space. I handed him back the obituary. He glanced down at it, and then looked back at me.
"Pretty cheerful stuff, huh?"
I smiled lightly, and George handed me the other article. It pretty much said the same thing that the obituary had. Except that one thing caught my eye.
"During the interview, Colonel Anthonyson showed little to no signs of sadness."
I pointed the sentence out to Lockwood, who nodded. "I saw that too. I wonder if he was the one who did the murder."
"But her ghost said 'I loved you.'"
Lockwood scratched his head, dark eyes glimmering as he looked at me. "Yes, that is perplexing." He sat back in his seat, placing his slender hands behind his head.
All of a sudden, I caught myself holding back a yawn. We had been up all night. And it was now around noon. Lockwood noticed this, and we packed up, George copying our finds for further reference.
I was warmly welcomed by my bed when we returned at 35 Portland row.
Ok, I wasn't as satisfied with this chapter as I was with the others...But oh well. Hopefully the characters aren't too OOC. Well, anyway, leave a review if you liked the chapter, and stay tuned!
~Starry