The shadow (with AmyLeeRider)

[patrick1]

Avebury was writing a biography of Benedict Arnold. Yes he was.

Intermittently.

There were also stories he scratched in ink into the lockable leather book that he kept in the lockable lower left drawer of his desk. The sorts of stories which his former wife had once discovered. The stories – and evidence of their enactment with kindly women who had accepted his money - were the reason he was three thousand miles from home, in a place he was trying to learn to call home by the Charles River, preparing himself for the Library Board's annual social and fund-raising evening.

He had run through all the possible excuses to himself for not going, but he was an independent man, not a recluse, and he was vice Chairman of the Library Board.

Mrs Williams, the emancipated slave who came in two hours a day to keep his house in order, had brushed dandruff from his collar and said, as far as he could discern – his English ears found her Southern drawl hard to penetrate – 'The ladies will love you, Sir.'

He doubted they would feel anything very much for a tall middle-aged man with melancholy etched on his face. But he managed a weak smile, and went to the window to watch for the carriage.

*​

In the Congregational Hall there were pies and culinary pleasures a-plenty, and lemonade and apple cordial, and not much talk of books.

Avebury kept plunging into gossip about philanderers, and sure-fire news of foreign wars (some kind of commune had taken over Paris, it was alleged), and the supposed peccadilloes of Ulysses S Grant.

He only settled with a group when he came upon Mrs Hardcastle, the pixie-faced wife of the minister, holding forth to a group of five or six about someone called 'the Shadow': a thief Avebury had previously heard tell of when he took his weekly train ride to Boston, to consult the library at Harvard, through a conversation between two middle-aged women who'd sat opposite him.

Mrs Hardcastle seemed very well informed. 'I believe there are now nine burglaries ascribed to the Shadow.'

'How do they know it's him?' someone asked.

'The Shadow,' said Mrs Hardcastle significantly, 'always leaves a particular trademark, although the authorities are keeping the exact nature of it a secret, to avoid the danger of deliberate duplication. And besides,' she added mischievously, 'who said the Shadow is a man?'

There was a murmur of shock. 'But surely...'

'There are rumours that the Shadow has got through small openings it would take a tiny man to get through. And that the trademark she leaves behind is a woman's silhouette.'

Avebury surprised himself as well as the others by intervening. 'They say, I understand, she seems to seek out very particular jewels. As if she knows what she's looking for.'

If Mrs Hardcastle was put off at no longer being the focus of the show, she wasn't revealing it. 'I have heard that too, Mr Avebury.'

'Perhaps,' he was only usually so daring after a glass or two of malt, but lemonade was firing in him tonight, 'perhaps it's because she passes for a woman of respectable society. Perhaps she's here right now.' A murmur among the group. 'Why, Mrs Hardcastle – it could even be you!'

That brought laughter. But even as he said it, Avebury looked around, feeling an idea at the back of his mind. There were jewels he had whose provenance, and his possession of them, might subtly be insinuated on one occasion or another. And perhaps the Shadow – or at the very least, one of her agents – was indeed here at the Library Board social and fundraiser. He appraised the women about him with a different eye. He felt something in his heart lift.

 

[AmyLeeRider]

There were ladies of all sorts in attendance, those of note, those hoping to gain better standing within society, and even those traveling from afar. More than a few had their ears turned towards their conversation, but rumors and gossip was always a hot topic.

“Come now Mr. Avebury, you shouldn’t tease poor Mrs. Hardcastle so.” A woman in her early thirties joined their conversation, and he would know her as Ms.Leville, a well off but unfortunate widow. “You know that if she was this Shadow she would have whisked away that lovely set of first edition leather bound biographies you keep bragging about.” This of course brought on another round of laughter.

Besides Ms.Leville was a woman Avebury wouldn’t recognize. Her hair was the color of a setting sun and artfully pinned in perfect curls. Her tiered dress complimented fair skin in a soft blue. Her gloved hand idly waived a silken fan, and green eyes scanned the room.

“But perhaps I ought to be the one to be lectured on manners, how rude of me. Please, allow me to introduce my new found friend, Miss Rebecca Myres. She’s traveled all the way from the west, and even got to ride on the transcontinental railroad.”

“An absolute pleasure.” Rebecca’s voice was no southern drawl, nor did it have even the slightest tinge of the eastern coast to it, instead it was distinctly western. “So, you have a notorious thief? And a woman at that.” She grinned, but it said more than her words ever would, “I thought it was only the west that was supposed to be so wild.”

 

[patrick1]

'I thought it was only the west that was supposed to be so wild.'

Something by Haydn was playing.

'Oh I am from England, Miss Myres. I've become accustomed to meeting wildness in the most unexpected places.'

In my heart, for instance.

Beside the object of his gaze, the widow's mouth was opening and closing and he fixed a smile on his face but he couldn't hear her words for the music.

Not that it was playing in the room. But in his head it was remarkably loud.

He made himself stop staring from his own grey-green eyes into the eyes of Miss Rebecca Myres.

In his eclectic reading Avebury had often read of confusions of the senses: people who saw music in colours, say, or could smell untruths. For himself, twice before in his life a woman had caused remembered music to play in his head: on meeting his future, now former, wife (Vivaldi, so brittle and bright) and on his first encounter with kind Mary Shaughnessy (Irish jigs, coy and arrogant all at once, lively and in rhythm with him). And now, a third: the very pores of the skin of the woman from the wild wild west were playing...?

Ah yes, that piece known as the 'Surprise'. Soft ripples of strings that occasionally erupted into a crash, like a heartbeat suddenly, frighteningly loud.

By the time the Haydn faded enough for him to hear conversation again, Mrs Hardcastle was holding forth about the differences between East and West and Avebury could find nothing to say. He had travelled no further west than New York City.

He remained close to Miss Myres, saying 'Mm' and 'Ah'. He was appalled to realize that her beauty, and the lively intelligence of her eyes, had already danced into images from the stories he scratched in the lockable book of his lockable drawer.

He must not take dreams of respectable women into those dark places.

Mm-ing and Ah-ing, several possible conversational gambits occurred to him, concerning biography, or notions of the West, or the Shadow, but when he turned towards her to begin, the music unaccountably swelled again.

At last the symphony began to ease. There was a lull in the East-West chit-chat. He would look at each woman equally, he resolved, turning first to the widow Leville. 'I'm afraid I have another engagement, ladies. But I would be delighted,' allowing himself to look at Miss Myres again, thank goodness the music was under control now, 'to discuss biography and the Shadow and whatever you please over a little tea and cake. What do you say? To Thursday perhaps, three o'clock, at the Pioneer tea rooms?'

He felt himself beaming. His heart was bumping in his chest. Sweat trickled down from his armpits. He was holding the gaze of the widow now, awaiting their answer.

 

[AmyLeeRider]

Miss Rebecca Myres watched Avebury through the conversation. No overtly, not blatantly but with an occasional polite glance, and out of the corner of her eye.

She had heard quite a bit about Mr. Avebury. He was from England. He was starting a new life for some untold reason. He had money. More importantly, he had collections of rare and collectable things, and oh how did she love rare and collectable things. And during all of her thinking a small secret little smile played in the corner of her mouth. It was a smile that told of mysteries and secrets and plans.

“Why that would be lovely.” Rebecca answered first, and quickly the widow Leville concurred, as did a hand full of other women. “Though I do hope you’ll be able to find your tongue enough to tell us of all you’ve heard of the Shadow.” The teasing was bold yet gentle, and not unkind, but seemed his lack of presence in their conversation hadn’t gone unnoticed by her.

Rebecca was making mental notes of all the things she ought to find out about the quiet gentleman Mr. Avebury, and of all the questions she would need to ask.

Oh how she loved being somewhere new, it gave her all the excuses she could ever need to ask about the local upper class, and it also gave her a chance to become whoever she wished to be. And this time she was playing someone close to the truth as a traveler from the far off west. But who exactly she would need to be to gain access to all of Avebruy’s secrets she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

 

[patrick1]

There was no other appointment that night. Avebury, still dressed for the outdoors in gloves and hat and muffler and coat, leant back in his downstairs rocking chair.

Miss Rebecca Myres. Her green eyes had watched him surreptitiously, perhaps thinking he was merely the shy Englishman he appeared to be, not the sort who kept his wits about him.

Miss Rebecca Myres. She would grace this secret room of his.

He must not think that way.

It was one of the reasons he'd bought the house – for the cellar. It had perhaps been intended originally as a kitchen, but, although the fire had clearly been used by past owners – he'd had the chimney swept when he'd first moved in – the room had been bare of furniture.

Now it was his secret. Mrs Williams the cleaner believed the key to it was lost. He came down here when the urge for one of his locked-away stories was great. He had installed a mahogany cupboard on the wall opposite the fireplace, to house his small collection of canes and whips. In a mad drunken moment at a market in Boston he had bought two sets of shackles, which lay carelessly about the floor.

Not that he would ever use them on anyone. This was all fantasy: the enhancement of fantasy. He was an English gentlemen, writing the biography of Benedict Arnold, collecting first editions and occasional jewels. Yes he was.

Get upstairs, my good fellow, get upstairs.

+​

Thank goodness. Soon he was rocking in the rocking chair in his study, a glass of twelve-year-old malt beside him, equanimity restored, wondering if the widow Leville was the Shadow, or an emissary of that elusive figure.

What tale might he insinuate around and about, to draw the Shadow to his lair?

So he thought. But when he closed his eyes, and began to doze, the eyes he saw were not the widow Leville's but those of Miss Rebecca Myres...

 

[AmyLeeRider]

There had been something about Mr.Avebury, something Rebecca couldn’t quite place. It was as if he was hiding something, and it was driving her curiosity mad as she returned home. Was it riches? Was some type of rare artifact? Was it something that could only be found in England? Perhaps it was a secret that she could sell. It was quite ironic that his saying nothing had been a more perfect trap then spreading rumors could have ever been, for it was the curiosity of the unknown that led her to his home that evening.

She had a routine. The first trip was for scouting. It was to slip quickly inside and take inventory. She would memorize the layout of the house, find what items of worth he had, determined which exit points she could use for the removal said items, identify if she needed any special equipment and then go home to plan.

She was expecting it to be an easy trip. Mr. Avebury had excused himself for another engagement, and he was to be out of the house.

She found her first way in by scaling a terrace against one side of his home, climbing up the tiered roof that was the style of the time and into a window in the attic that had an old loose latch that she easily tripped with a piece of wire. Working from the top down she slowly began to make her rounds.

Perhaps it was fate or maybe it was just bad luck, but her timing led her astray that evening. For Mr. Avebury would find himself in need to relieve himself, putting him out of the study as she came slinking into it, thinking herself alone. The lights burned low as if having been simply forgotten when he left for the evenings events.

Rebecca, no, tonight she was the Shadow, eyed the book shelves and ran her hands along the spines of them, taking note of which volumes and collections might sell well. She gently tilted and looked behind picture frames for hidden wall safes, then finally her eyes fell on the desk.

She went to it, looking for ledgers, a journal, any kind of records she might quickly read in the low light of the room and there she found a locked drawer, and she smiled. Only secrets or important things were bothered to be locked away. But locks could never keep her out, and soon she had it open. And then her smile widened, for only the best of secrets were hidden in locked books.

But secrets made her careless. She thought herself alone. She thought herself safe. She thought herself clever. And so secure in her skills she was that she missed the sighing of a floor board, and the soft shuffling of tired footsteps down a hallway. So Mr. Avebury would return to his study to find the door slightly ajar and inside at his desk was a figure dressed in black, hair tucked up in a snug fitting cap, a strip of a mask across their eyes in sharp contrast to the pale skin of their face in the dim fading lantern light. He would see a shadow flipping through the pages of the dark corners of his mind.

 

[patrick1]

Green eyes.

Surely not?

Pale skin, green eyes aglow in the dim light of the lantern.

Not the widow Leville then. But instead...

Avebury felt strangely calm. Fate had delivered the woman who played music to him by her very presence into his home. The Haydn was only faintly in the air by dint of a great effort of will. Hush, he said to the music, hush.

Just the sound of her turning the pages of his most terrible secrets.

Even he could not hear his own shallow breathing as he watched the woman – the shape of her was unmistakeable in spite of the mannish clothes – and pondered what he should say, when he broke the silence.

'I do not have a firearm my dear.' He had, yes, he had her attention. She was as if frozen in time. 'I see you are reading my profoundest darkest secrets. And I have discovered yours. Feel free to shoot me – I am somewhat tired of life – or to run. But if you would care to remain where you are, yet simply slip forward to your knees, I should be happy to sit beside you, and share a little strong liquor with you.'

 

[AmyLeeRider]

She froze when she heard his voice, the book still in her hands. She turned slowly when he had finished speaking, looking at him. Yes, her eyes were most certainly a brilliant shade of green, even in the low light of the room.

What were her options? The windows were currently locked, it would take a few moments to get them open. She wasn’t sure she would have a few moments once she got to them. That left the door, which he was standing in. Perhaps she could slip past him, but it would be risky. He was bigger than her, and no matter how unassuming he seemed his secrets hidden away in a locked drawer in a locked book told of a much, much darker side.

This left stalling for a better position to get away.

“I’m a thief, not a murderer. And you are not my,” She glanced to the book and flipped it a page back, her eyes scanning the page for a moment before they went back to his. “master. I will not be kneeling for you this evening. But you can still get me that drink.”

She closed the book and kept it gripped in her hands. She didn’t like being caught, she didn’t like that she had been caught off guard. And she most certainly didn’t like that he seemed to have a clear and distinct understanding of who she was.

 

[patrick1]

He stood big in the doorway. He smiled, not seeing her so clearly when she dipped her head, unsure whether she could descry the features of his face in the dim light.

'But I might be...the master of your fate. Please, though. If you want to run, do. I could hold you down, detain you, but that isn't my way. You're not a murderer and I'm not a rapist. I'm only violent by...consent.'

This was the moment to step away from the doorway, towards the drinks cupboard. He turned his back on her, turning the little key always left in the lock, taking out the whisky decanter and two glasses.

'But I do...' How softly might she tiptoe out? He made himself not turn round, simply poured two glasses in his own good time. 'I do have a proposition for you, that we might discuss over a glass. It's ten year-old.'

Only now did he turn, his affable smile fixed in place, to see if she was still there...