The Poisoner's Game

Chapter 5

M.

London

One day prior...

The train stopped at Paddington Station and a porter helped me down from the car as the others piled our luggage on a trolley. On the platform, the station expanded before me. Wrought iron arches in three spans supported the beautiful glazed roof that filtered in grey light. Signs read Dining & Tea Room, Bookstall, General Offices, Telegraph Room, and Cloak Room. Voices mingled, bouncing off the ceiling in a cacophony of rough sounds like the seagulls that pealed loudly at the docks in Bristol. The scent of unwashed bodies, cloying rose perfume, and bustling elbows crashed into to my senses. I twisted my hands uncertainly, wishing for Miriam's presence.

"Margaret, Margaret! We are leaving, hurry up," Aunt Emily's shrill singsong voice cut through the noise. I followed Aunt Emily's slight figure weaving through the sea of black. She led a railway worker pushing our trolley of luggage out of the station's large arch entrance on Praed Street.

The Clarence, a sleek black coupe with four large wheels and pulled by two horses, waited for us with the family footmen. The coachman opened two small doors and handed us into the carriage by way of a small step. As we took off a horrible growling sound followed us like that of a wounded dog or pig. I understood why Londoner's commonly called the Clarence, the Growler. I gawked out the window, everything felt too unfamiliar.

Thunder rumbled in the distance; rain on its way. The gray sky swirled in turmoil playing with the coal-infested clouds as if the heavens had eaten something unpleasant. The townhouse, my home for the next months, sat in a crescent row of Georgian architecture. Each townhouse looked much like the last with white stone facades of symmetrical form with classical touches, much like I imagined debutantes were supposed to look at a ball. Individuality on Grosvenor Square either came with the size of the estate and pocketbook, neither of which my family had in excess.

We had only just settled in when Aunt Emily called me to fetch her the mail. I slumped down the stairs, a grand list of tasks already overcrowding my travel weary mind. On the sideboard in the foyer from a delicate silver tray, I picked up the mail and leafed through it. As I came to the bottom of the stack, I found a letter addressed to me in an unfamiliar hand. I slipped it into the pocket of my apron that covered my serviceable grey frock. Delivering Aunt Emily's letters, I rather forgot all about the letter in my pocket until well past midnight when one shouldn't be reading things best left to machinations of Gothic novelists.

I sat down on my creaky bed, rubbing my temples. A sharp corner dug into my thigh and I pulled out the forgotten letter from my apron pocket to toss it onto the bed. After finishing my nightly rituals, I dipped my frozen feet under the covers and wiggled into the bed picking up the letter. It was as normal as any letter before it, with a neat, straight scrawl that looked rather scientific in its precision. The card had little weight and I opened it with my silver letter opener.

Dear Margaret,

You are in danger.

I re-read the words, my heart ticking in my throat. Danger? From what? I looked around my room, thankful for the light cast by my lamp and for the drapes across my window.

Your parents were murdered by a man called the Poisoner. You either must leave London or find the answers for yourself. Do not trust the Duke.

With fondness,

Your grandfather – Heman Claxton

I didn't even realize my hands had begun to shake until I tried to re-read the letter. The words blurred before me and I set the letter on my lap, clasping my hands together. Murdered. No. I had only been six when my parents passed. First, my mother in a carriage accident and then my father a week later from a heart attack. Until that moment, I had thought that my maternal grandfather had passed around the same time. That thought gave me pause as I considered the letter with a slower heartbeat. It had to be one of Rose's pranks. She didn't want me in London after all and what better way to scare someone than with ghoulish threats of a burgeoning mystery. Yet, I didn't sleep well that night and instead had dreams of the man in the bowler hat who had watched me in Bristol.

I pulled at the sleeves of my worn yellow ball gown if one could classify it as such. Pinching my cheeks failed to create a soft blush. I glared at myself in the mirror, brushing back my dark curly hair that only seemed to mutiny and create flyaways. I scanned my room and noticed the letter crumpled on the floor. I wish I hadn't for, perhaps, I wouldn't have found myself hanging out of a window only several hours later. On the back of the letter, I found something I hadn't noticed before. The words struck me to my bone and to a past I had little wish to remember.

P.S. If you don't believe me, don't forget you witnessed your father's murder.

As though a sharp blade impaled my chest, everything in the room stilled as I tried to remember how to breathe.

#

London

December 24th, 1867

First, just a few delicate snowflakes drifted through the crisp winter air, until slowly the icy works of art dusted the ground. The scent of burning wood clung to the air, as it escaped the chimneys of the shops along the stone road. Their glass-paned windows reflected the glow of candles that gave some warmth to the cold December air. The square darkened with each closed shop, frost coating their gloomy windows.

I stood before a small hearth holding my nanny's hand and watching the fire turn pitiful in its ashes. A large oak desk, laden with papers, quills, and harried in its organization stood in solidarity in the middle of the room. In the front of the room, a massive grandfather clock stood with an owl upon its mantle—its eyes seemed to be staring at me. I shuttered pulling at my nanny's hand, she didn't budge but instead shushed me.

Under his wire-rimmed spectacles, my father's eyes and his long skeletal fingers leafed through some papers. His shoulders were hunched in concentration and his foot beat an anxious tune. Again, I pulled at my nanny's hand.

"I want to go home."

"Soon, lamb, we're waiting for your father. You can have a nice cuppa warm milk with peppermint if you practice your patience. That's a big word, do you remember it?"

I nodded solemnly, and we continued what would be a vigil of my father's death. The dark shadows of my remembrance seemed to dance maniacally around the walls, closing in ever so silently. My father clenched the papers with whitening knuckles as if to wring something out of them. He took out a piece of paper and began writing. The clock chimed, and I jumped squeezing my nanny's hand.

He sucked in ragged breaths that cut off as he gripped his chest, his bleary eyes widening in pain. My father slid from the chair, his weak hands grasped at the desk and sent papers flying into the fire, which flared to life. My nanny rushed forward, leaving me standing alone with the ticking of the clock behind me. His skin turned yellow, his eyes glazed over, and suddenly my father was still. Too still.

"Papa!"

#

I dropped the letter and dashed for the porcelain water basin. I dry-heaved, my temples ablaze with pain. Murdered. Danger. Both repeated in my mind on a loop. Down the hall and what felt like miles away, I could hear Rose complaining to Aunt Emily about her shoes.

"They're much too big. My feet could escape at any moment."

Escape. I needed to escape.