Six Little Lullabies

London Bridge

The next morning was foggy, and chilly. The leafs were crunching under my boots, as I walked towards my car.
I was planning on paying the Cooper family a visit.

Before I could enter my car, I saw someone out of the corner of my eyes.
It was Jack. He seemed to have noticed me too, because he stopped in his tracks, smiled at me and waved.
He really was a sweet, polite little man.
I waved and smiled back in return, not surprised at his lack of words. It was normal for him and I figured, that he must he mute.

As I turned my attention back to my car and opened the door, as I suddenly heard something.
Freezing on the spot, I tried to hear it again.

"London Bridge is falling down, falling down..."

I whipped my head around to see, where the faint singing was coming from. But there were only very few people, walking down the street, besides Jack, who was skipping down the sidewalk, is back towards me. It couldn't be him. The singing was so faint, and very short-lived. Maybe I just overlooked another child nearby.

As suddenly as the singing came, it was already gone. Shaking my head I tried to convince myself, once again, that it was just my imagination.

I got into the car, put on the seatbelt and drove to the Cooper family's estate. It was located in one of the outer skirts of London.
The fog had become less heavy and one could finally tell, that it was indeed daytime.

The house, that the Coopers supposedly lived in, was a simple two story house, made from bricks. The facade of the windows was painted white and the door itself was a dark blue, a mail-slot and a knocker embedded in it.

I locked my car, went to the door and knocked on it a few times.
For a few seconds, it seemed like, no one was home, but soon enough a light got turned on in the hallway and someone opened the door.

It was a middle-aged woman, with chestnut colored hair, honey-brown eyes, which were framed by a pair of oval-shaped glasses. Her face showed a few small wrinkles and a slight frown was plastered on her face.
She was a tad smaller than me, and appeared to be normal-weight.
The woman wore a pale pink turtleneck sweater and a pair of light brown pants.

"Hello, how may I help you?" She asked, confused, since she probably did not expect any visitors.

I put on a polite smile and answered. "Good Morning, ma'am. I am sorry to disturb your morning, but I have to ask; are you perhaps Isable Cooper?"

The woman opened the door a bit further and answered: "That is correct. But I do not seem to know, who you are."

"Oh, how rude of me. My name is Elenore Johnson, a journalist of the local paper. I would have a few questions to ask, concerning Elizabeth Cooper, and I hoped you would proved me answers."

The woman, Mrs. Cooper, seemed to be taken aback, but slowly nodded nonetheless, once I showed her my press card.
She asked me to come in and closed the door behind me once I did.
The atmosphere seemed somewhat tense as she lead me into the living room.

"Please, have a seat." She said and motioned to a couch and a armchair, that were put around a small coffee table. "Would you like some tea? I was about to make some."

I nodded politely. "That would be lovely. Thank you. May I ask; Is your husband present?"

"Oh, ehm, yes. He is. I will go get him, please wait here." She said, still somewhat overwhelmed by the whole situation.

While she shuffled out of the room, and up some stairs, the tea-kettle whistling in the background, I glanced around the room to pass time.
It was nicely decorated; a dark red carpet covered the floor, accompanied by the leather couch and armchair, the small glass coffee table in the middle of it all. In the wall to my right, there was a fireplace, which held a few pictures on its rim. I took a closer look.

One was of the woman, Mrs. Cooper, in a white wedding dress, a bouquet in hand and a man with black hair, that was comped back, and a few light stubbles on his chin, dressed in a black tuxedo. A wedding picture.

Another one was of the same people, and three others. Another man, with light brown, somewhat wild hair. He wore a pair of rectangular glasses, a dark button-up shirt and a simple pair of pants.
The woman, who stood in between him and Mrs. Cooper, was dressed in a nice Sunday-dress, her reddish hair let down, in slight waves.
Mrs. Cooper was holding something, in her arms. It was a little bundle; a baby.

"Here we are. Ms. Johnson, please meet my husband; Alexander Cooper. Honey, this is Ms. Johnson, a journalist, who asked if we could tell her about... Elizabeth."

For some reason, they way she said the name of her daughter, peeked my curiosity. It was sad, but wearily. Maybe even slightly disgusted. I decided to to proceed cautiously.

Mr. Cooper, who still seemed a bit overwhelmed, by my sudden visit, held out his hand, and I shook it. His grip was tight, but not tight enough to be painful.
"My pleasure, Mrs. Johnson." He said.
"The pleasure us all mine." I replied and we all took a seat.

"So, as I said, I was hoping to find answers about the disappearance of your daughter." I started but got interrupted by Mrs. Cooper. "Oh, she is not our daughter... She is our niece."

That caught me off guard.
"Your niece?" Mrs. Cooper nodded.
"Might I ask; if she is your niece, then who are her parents, and why are you two listed as her legal guardians?"