The Collection of Jacqueline Melrose - Revenge

By Michael Gillett

This extraordinary debut novel offers a genre-bending journey through spaces that are both familiar and strange, comforting and horrifying, historical and fantastical...

 

Jeanne Melrose is barely coping with her awkward status of well-to-do Widow in 1920 London. Her twin daughters, while gifted with very odd talents, are incorrigible - Jacqueline obsessed with rooting out their father's killer, Joanne more troubled over her latest pimple.  Enter the eerily magical Edith Stitch, hired as governess by Jeanne but tasked by the immortal Ba of Otherwhere to collect Jacqueline to feed their addiction to young mortal souls. Enter Lord Booth, a slightly insane Ba, accidentally fallen to Earth to quickly become a feared gangster terrorizing the Melrose warehouse district. The twins are oblivious to the havoc Booth wreaks in their mother's world while Booth himself struggles to deal with the stubbornly modern Jeanne Melrose. Edith choses sides and realizes nothing good can come of this.

 

Take a walk on the wild side as the Gatekeeper Beorht consorts amongst immortals, dock working thugs, bankers, shipbrokers and a flower delivery boy – all getting in each other's way to gain favor with the plucky Melrose women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Gillett
• Release date: Aug 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777708511

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

––––––––

Lord Booth pushed the only way he could, through sheer force of energy and will. Beorht pushed back by ignoring him, a thing a Gatekeeper and very few others could do.

Now, Booth was fully aware he couldn’t win this struggle, and knew he could not force passage between the spirit land of OtherWhere and the mortals of Earth. The gate was Beorht’s alone to unlock.

And so he tried begging.

He manifested a grassy field and sat himself against a boulder, noting that Beorht did not follow.

Fine. You’re right then. The council was correct. I’m flawed. But I’m desperate. Please, Gatekeeper. Let me see them. I only want to look.

Desperate is not the correct term, Beorht countered. Your kind are not capable of desperation. Or any true emotion. There’s something wrong with you. Something not right. The council decreed you may not pass, and I must abide.

Booth tried bribery.

Perhaps... yes, I am being childish. But you can see my side. You of all creatures, a Gatekeeper, can appreciate how much I need this. To touch the worlds beyond. I need to feel what the others have felt. I need to understand why I’m here.

Booth raised his voice and implored, You send me to Earth and you’ll be rewarded well for exposing the conspiracy against me.

Lord Booth, Beorht replied. If you don’t mind me saying so, I now concede desperation the correct term to be used in this case. Not a pretty sight on the likes of you. You may think my Gatekeeper’s way maddening, but I obey the forms and refuse your passage.

The grassy field vanished in an implosion of brilliant light leaving the ether void and formless. An immortal’s form of temper, Beorht supposed. He understood that for all this petty drama, the universe paid them no attention. This was a matter of politics, and for the Ba – creatures of OtherWhere – adrift in the midst of infinite chaos, manifest rules played very small roles indeed.

And then Beorht, in the way only Gatekeepers can, felt a peculiar shift in the way-of-things. The issue of locked doors became moot because at that very moment, somewhere between OtherWhere and Earth, a fracture was forming.

●

Surrendering to the inevitable and not wishing to debase himself further to a lesser, Booth’s essence drifted through the higher dimensions of OtherWhere, dodging the window-dressings of his fellow spirits’ conjured realities – suggestions of color in fields of grass and grains, the conflicting scents of livestock and flowers, a river splashing lively over stone and sand. And all around, the inhabitants of OtherWhere enjoying their dreamland homes.

All except Lord Booth.

How dare they, he thought. The council of the Lords of OtherWhere had delivered their verdict and he’d been labeled – what did they call it – unstable?

Not irrational, though. He’d proven he could reason perfectly fine. He’d simply gone a little off.

A touch mad.

And for that he’d been blackballed.

He’d become obsessed – another term they’d used – with the suggestion of mortal emotions, and by the Gods how he burned with the need to explore those concepts. An itch he was not permitted to scratch.

That blasted Gatekeeper, what did he call himself again... that Beorht... the bright one... had refused his petition to explore the physical realms, leaving nothing for Booth but to meekly stand aside and observe the flirtations of his peers amongst their sleight-of-hand homesteads built from the touch of mortal feelings the council doled out.

The council of the Ba.

Booth was Ba. But he was not... addicted. He did not play their mortal games. How silly. What was this mortality they sought?

He felt angry. He ought to be angry, if he understood the concept. It was, after all, not his choice to become infected by the mortal souls of Earth’s youth gathered by Narom-Sin. But the affliction of curiosity was his nonetheless. More than an itch, now a fire that smoldered out of control.

He felt restless agitation consuming him.

It wasn’t his fault, he fumed.

After a time of fruitless reflection, Lord Booth of OtherWhere coalesced to form a human presence and sat himself beside a tree in a far-away place, he assumed, for he did not fully comprehend distance.

Booth stared densely at a horizon, acknowledging the pressure of the tree at his back, feeling an unaccustomed boiling in his belly, and he squirmed in irritation at the fiery tingles flowing up his spine.

Strange sensations. More... feelings?

And then, a most serious thing happened.

A shrieking rent – a fracture – engulfed him, and Booth felt an exquisite tear in his chest as thick hot fluids poured into his lungs. With a soundless howl he fell over backwards, and even as he felt himself being consumed he watched with detached astonishment as OtherWhere vanished behind a black curtain, like the shutting of a great winking eye.

●

He landed on his backside, and not without some discomfort.

Pain? Booth exclaimed, for the first time in an impossibly long time feeling something real.

Ahh, he moaned in ecstasy.

And within that blink of an eye, Lord Booth found himself sitting in the dark on a dusty wooden floor, the air stinking of what he somehow knew to be salt and oil and kerosene and manure. He picked himself up and instinctively wiped at his trousers, smelling the rich scent of the dust that fell away. Spotting a glow, he walked gingerly – indeed, he felt somewhat bruised – to a window, and looked out to a great river where ships and boats were tied to black, greasy docks. Under the scant illumination of oil fueled lamps men scurried about their chores.

Real men? Booth murmured, feeling uncertain.

He took a deep breath of cool, moist air.

And air? he asked himself out loud, and before he could appreciate the sound of his own voice, he thought -

Earth?

Booth looked around quickly, felt his head swivel on his neck, felt his eyes move in their sockets. He felt the soles of his feet on the ground.

Am I alive? he asked no one, and then startled as he caught his reflection in the glass of the window. Eyes black as pitch pierced through thick spectacles balanced either side of a sharply angular nose. With a heavily veined but slender hand he stroked his face, running a razor-sharp fingernail deep through his cheek that left a long bloody furrow, and the image in the glass flinched for an uncertain moment, and then smiled.

Mmm, he breathed, tasting the iron and salt of his own blood.

Delicious.

Booth drank in the pain as he gazed though his scarred reflection and out into the chaos of the world and broke into a shrieking laugh.

Earth!

The door behind him opened and a scabby looking sort poked his head in and called, Christ, Barret, nary a thing to pinch in this place worth your life. ‘Aven’t found no contraband ‘ere, none o’ that cocaine being whispered about. Best be getting yerself out o’ here afore one of the lads spots you. They don’t take to no strangers diggin’ about.

So, it’s a thief I’ve landed in then, Booth thought, turning his head a fraction to observe a filthy looking mortal frowning at him and replied, The name is Booth, friend. Don’t recall a Barret. Perhaps you’ve lost your mate then? Maybe best be looking elsewhere.

The man looked puzzled, and Booth turned fully, locking his gaze. A flicker of doubt passed over the grubby fellow’s face but Booth sensed fear and confusion turning to hate. The thief smiled something horrible. Found nary a coin, Barret? he asked with a cunning glint in his eye, as if knowing something Booth did not. Sweeter than picking pockets? Not so easy ‘ere as you figured, I reckon? He looked Booth up and down and grinned. Fine enough... Booth. Old Gus here, and the thug tapped himself in the chest, he knows one more pace to look, and we’ll see thee in hell before we share that booty, and Gus turned and scurried like a rat down the darkened hall.

Booth felt the shiver of chaos flicker and fade as Gus vanished and in the same moment he felt a something settling in his bones. He felt mortal. He felt invincible.

Earth, he smiled.

He straightened up slowly, pausing at the window ledge to drink in the view again. The vastness of outside seemed to stabilize him, and he took a more careful look about. He sucked in a breath, pausing to taste it, savoring something different. Something spicy.

Ahh, he sighed. A man below limped down a gangway with a pack strapped to his head. Booth could feel it, tasting the mortal’s pain. He caught sight of another, whose back burned as he bent to pull a cart – and then a shiver raced through Booth as he felt the rush of a third fellow, this one stooped over in a shadowed ally while pulling a thin blade out of a warm but lifeless heap.

Booth smiled a soulless smile thinking, that one, out there... that would most likely be Death.

He stepped back from the window and looked about his new world, feeling calmly excited. An odd shuffling sound beyond the door triggered something new him – curiosity perhaps. He shook himself with a shiver of acceptance, feeling strangely comfortable with the situation. He thought of the thief of a moment ago, acknowledging he understood the language. He looked down the hall, at the open door where lamplight from within lit the floorboards and realized he understood this place.

He looked back at the twisted wood where he’d fallen, as if the wood were melted, a relic of the fracture that swallowed him, transporting him to the place he needed most.

The shuffling became a sharp scraping sound and as Booth walked towards the light of the office room he felt another thing.

A mortal’s fear.

He heard a man’s voice.

Christ Gus, you’ve done it this time. We’ve warned you a few times, and now this. It’s the boot for you now, and don’t make it worse on yourself with this little show.

Booth walked quietly down the darkened hallway, marveling at the softness of his step barely leaving a mark on the dusty floor. The voices growing louder as he approached. A dim light flickered from the doorway ahead and Booth took the final few steps awkwardly, the feeling of raw excitement making walking difficult. He leaned against the frame to watch the scene between the thief and a well-dressed man seated at a desk upon which papers were strewn haphazardly about. The room swirled in the energy of violence. Booth shivered in horror.

Or was it pleasure?

He’d have to decide.

The man Gus held a knife in his hand, the point brandished close to the suited man’s throat.

Your man, he told me to lay off the drink, Gus whispered. I thank yea for yer kind thoughts, Master Melrose.

The blade lay close enough to draw blood with a twitch, and Booth felt his own breath coming as shallow as the Melrose figure.

Anticipation?

But I finds m’self owing some heavy coin, and word about is there’s white powder to be found ‘ere, and I’d like me a taste of that if yea please.

The man he called Melrose looked tense, the pulse in his neck moving the blade with each beat. But it was Gus feeling the fear.

Put the God damned knife down, you stupid fellow, Melrose said, his voice choking somewhat, but the overtones of command still remarkably apparent. There is no cocaine here. No heroin. You get yourself out of here and I’ll give you time to vanish before the constables come looking for you. I’ll have no gang fighting over my place. Not here.

Gus hesitated, his greedy eyes riveted to the suited man’s vest where his pocket book lay visible.

Booth stepped into the room.

Gang fighting. Drugs. Money. A fracture just down the hallway. He saw a life and a chance to create his own reality, right here and now.

And control of the fracture.

The Melrose man’s eyes flicked to Booth, a confused expression on his face, but he’d not flinched.

Gus turned his head, grunting in confused surprise before pressing the flat of the knife more firmly on the suited man’s neck. Booth held up a finger to caution him.

It’s about money then? Booth asked, nodding to the man’s pocket book. He sniffed the air. Fear, for certain. It stank as only fear could and mixed well with the scent of sweat and anger. He looked to the suited man at his desk.

And white powder. There has to be powder... somewhere, Booth parroted.

The eyes. Like windows, or mirrors. Such restrained anger balanced perfectly with illogical fear. He lifted his gaze reluctantly from the seated Melrose to Gus.

Do it, he whispered.

●

Booth stood alone beside the dead man. He’d watched Gus stuff his pockets with paper money from the man’s billfold, but he’d left the watch and chain... and the rings. Booth had little interest in them, but something in his belly suggested he’d find them more useful than Gus. The photographs of the woman, he presumed the wife, and the identical young ladies, his daughters, these things beguiled him. Something the photographer had captured in the girls’ eyes. Booth lingered over the photograph of the twins.

Special they were, these ones.

More to come from them, he felt certain.

Gus took the cash, and he’d taken a life. Booth felt mystified he’d not savored the man’s death the way he’d fantasized. Perhaps he missed it? He’d need to test death again, more carefully.

Booth let the memory of the last breath of Master Melrose fade.

Death could wait.

Out there, the living remained.

He glanced again through the window to the docks below, at the workers, and smiled as he caught a fleeting glimpse of the rat-like Gus skulking around a corner into an alley-way.

Lord Booth turned and whistled a shanty tune as he walked the dark and silent halls to the stairs leading down to the world.

And now, good friends, he murmured, now, we can finally play.

CHAPTER 2

––––––––

Jacqueline Melrose felt the warm fingers of her sister clinging to one hand and the cold hard grip of her mother – the Widow Jeanne Melrose – in the other. It was not a matter of her mother being cold in nature. Just the opposite, her mother was the warmest person in Jacqueline’s young and mostly sheltered life. But they’d lost their father, her mother’s husband, in the cruelest way conceivable.

Murdered.

Her sister’s hand clenched her own in a tightening of emotion, and she gripped back. She felt no need to look. The twins had always nurtured their secret thing. She knew exactly how Jo felt and never more so than this moment.

Smashing dress, Joanne whispered. Very moth-like.

Jacqueline was well aware of how they looked, having worn the same mourning outfit for well over a month, but had to look again regardless. And of course, she struggled to control the laughter. Anger felt better.

Their mother hissed at them to straighten up and behave, and Jacqueline jabbed at Jo. The two of them had their role here. The grieving daughters. Jacqueline considered this again. Of course they were grieving.

Papa was dead.

Murder most foul.

But the dresses they were obliged to wear – simply not acceptable. They were too heavy, they were uncomfortable and they were black. The shopkeeper they’d attended for the fitting assured them of the finest quality, and she supposed for funereally these very well may be just that. Jacqueline bit back a snarl and a snicker.

How dare they.

They killed Papa, and now they would kill her if she had to wear this creation from hell for another moment, let alone six months.

Three months, Jo whispered. She’d read the emotion in her thought, which meant the twins were more affected by all of this than they might have been otherwise.

You wish, Jacqueline hissed back.

I’ll not ask you twice, their mother quietly growled and smoothed her own dress flatter, then sighed and murmured, A year...

A year, Jacqueline thought. A month was too long. A day was too long. Her chest hurt. The filth that killed her father walked the streets freely and while Constable Strickland was a fine fellow, he’d rarely displayed any ambition beyond rousting the average thug.

Walk yer beat and jerk yer meat, Jo whispered in yet another answer to an unspoken thought.

Jacqueline squeezed her sister’s hand hard as she felt embarrassed heat in her face. Shut your gob, you silly twit, she started, and then felt the sharp stab of her mother’s knuckles between her shoulder blades. She heard her sister’s hiss of pain even as she bit her own lip to keep from yelping, and then bit harder as her mother grabbed her by the ear and pulled her close. She  gave them both a sharp tug before letting go and proceeding to smooth out her skirts once again.

No bloody way they’ll take a year from us, her mother whispered, but if I hear another disrespectful word from either of you, you’ll wish a year was all you had to worry about. Joanne, I see Eve over by the window. Please go fetch her and make inquiries at the kitchen? I think the biscuit tray could use some freshening.

Jacqueline caught her breath to hear her sister reply, What are we paying Ellen for, if I’m to go fetching and clearing?

Father lay less than a month in the ground. The longest month of their lives, for certain. Her sister suffered hand-in-hand alongside her, but with that inane comment regarding Cook, Jacqueline prepared herself for a storm of castigation.

Her mother simply patted her daughter kindly on the head as she smiled at her friends Mr. and Mrs. Farthing as they sat on the sofa with a tea. She turned Joanne’s head toward the Farthings and Eve and applied a not so subtle shove.

Jo had a mind of her own, this fact could not be debated, but her sister regretted her words even as she’d spoke them. This Jacqueline knew. They’d never seen their mother so helpless those first weeks and it frightened them. Jo took her mother’s hint and wended her way to Eve while nodding and smiling to the neighbors and acquaintances who gave way with sad smiles and sadder eyes.

My heartfelt condolences to you and your girls, came the soft-spoken voice of a man Jacqueline recognized as someone from the office whom her father worked with. She’d seem them together on occasion in her father’s den, or being shown to the door after their work sessions by her father with warm smiles and hearty handshakes.

I know it doesn’t matter to hear this, but them docks is a hard place, and many men have met their maker on the job. Master Melrose – he didn’t deserve that.

The man wore a decent suit with the obligatory, and somehow disturbing, dark arm band of mourning, and he was softly crying. Her mother stood and offered a gentle hug which he received gracefully for a moment, then straightened himself as if remembering where he was and all the more foolish for it.

I could have been there, he mumbled. That night. He worked as he always did while I sat at home and made myself a bowl of soup.

The fellow’s show of emotion fascinated Jacqueline. Of course, there had been a general outpouring of grief at the funeral, as expected. To witness this man, here and now, express himself publicly – this was a far more interesting thing.

Jacqueline glanced over to where Jo and Eve were talking. Her sister had already set aside the instructions from their mother and was instead gossiping with their neighbors. Her sister’s grief seemed to have mellowed, Jacqueline felt, feeling shards of her sister’s emotions resonating in her mind. The two of them shared an emotional link and Jessica seemed more curious with her lack of tears than grieving the loss of her father.

But grieving was yesterday.

Today, their mother decided, daring the wrath of society, would be the end of official grieving. The doors to their home were open and invitations accepted and my God she wanted this over with. It felt so pointless to be locked away from her friends and schooling and the world. And while she recognized Jo’s proclivity with the inane, she also recognized the fire in herself.

She itched under her formal wear and craved to simply sit and be herself again.

To wear what she pleased, say what she pleased.

She reached through her buttoned blouse and felt the chain she’d worn almost as long as she could remember. A thing as much a part of her as the fingers on her hand. Grandmother had given one to each of them, told them in the most kindly but stern fashion to never lose it because one day they must give it to their own granddaughter. As if the old woman knew for certain there would be a granddaughter one day.

No matter, of course – that day was a long one coming, if ever. The chain and the charm attached would remain hidden beneath the horrid layers of society they were forced to exhibit.

Thank you so much Mr. Glascott, her mother said, holding the arms of the man as he held hers. A sort of hand shake in a way. A social acknowledgment of caring and trust without the commitment, perhaps.

Harold was taken from us, indeed. But he was a man of actions. I’m certain he is looking down now and proud of us all. He always trusted you and I know he’d have been quite aghast to hear an iota of blame placed on you.

Thank you, Mr. Glascott replied, holding tight for another moment then letting go. But it is I who should be offering comfort. Not the reverse.

Your presence with us today is comfort enough. My daughters and I thank you for coming, her mother said.

Jacqueline looked to Mr. Glascott, who turned to acknowledge her, and she nodded once and smiled and returned her eyes to the gathering, her attention covertly on her mother.

Mr. Glascott was honest, and earnest enough, of that she felt certain. She may only a daughter, and only seventeen in years, but she and Jo were different. Beyond being twins, they had from infancy an awareness of the spirit of their surroundings. They spoke with the birds and the rabbits of the parklands, and had been comforted by the wisdom and strength of the trees.

Especially the giant tree overshadowing the endless acres of parkland. Older than anyone could remember, Constable Strickland had made it a crusade to protect it from the modern crush of society.

What stories that tree told. Not even their father knew of the depths that she and Jo could read in each other and the creatures around them. In a sad fashion, he’d found their childlike distractions exasperating.

Their mother, on the other hand, always knew something was different with them. Jacqueline knew that without their father, mother’s patience was stretched to the breaking point – and it was about to be tested again.

My condolences, madam, boomed the voice of Eve’s father, Mr. Farthing. He extended his hand to shake that of Mr. Glascott, dismissing him. Jacqueline could see Mr. Glascott feeling relieved at the opportunity to sit back again and sip his coffee, the social snub falling away like rain off his back.

Eve’s father was a banker. While Mrs. Farthing and Jacqueline’s mother were neighbors and confidants, Mr. Melrose was all prim and proper business.

Station and appearance.

Duty and protocol dictated certain moments in their lives, and so he was here. Men like Mr. Glascott paid scant dues to social forms and those that lived by them, yet Mr. Farthing’s bank managed the funds that paid his wages.

Mr. Farthing, her mother acknowledged. Thank you again for stopping by. Winifred is always concerned for your schedule and how busy you are. I hope you know how much the girls and I appreciate your attention today.

Jacqueline did not dislike Eve’s father. She barely knew him. Like Mr. Glascott, Mr. Farthing paid only the rare visit to their home to conduct some banking business or other.

Unlike Mr. Glascott, Mr. Farthing did not radiate a warm glow at all. Mr. Farthing was something of a cool cucumber, if she understood the term. But he was not an unkind man, nor a mean nor vindictive man. Jacqueline felt certain of that. The Melrose and Farthing families shared the neighborhood, and Eve and James were good friends. Nevertheless – Jacqueline was certain Mr. Farthing’s main concern today was a continued and uncomplicated business relationship with her mother. Father’s death did not sit well with Mr. Farthing, unpleasantly obvious even to Jacqueline.

The banker shook her mother’s hands warmly and gave her what amounted to a pitying look, though she felt sure it was not what he intended. Mr. Farthing was what he was and would not be changed.

I have asked my secretary to block some time for you and I in the next few weeks. I hope to be able to discuss with you your intentions.

Jacqueline struggled to hold back a snicker at the stricken look of restrained anger on her mother’s face – a look she’d tried and failed to completely control.

With the estate, of course, Mr. Farthing continued, more or less oblivious to her mother’s amusing shock. At some point the Melrose estates will need to be sorted out properly and Harold’s will addressed.

Her mother’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline with astonishment, but for a moment only.

Why, yes, indeed, Jeanne replied with a bit of a hard smile. Of course. Thank you for your concerns, but these matters, of course, were brought to the attention of Harold’s barrister. We remain safely reassured in his strong hands.

Of course, Mr. Farthing repeated, and reached into his vest for his pocket watch which he flipped open and snapped shut with the quickest of gestures.

The Farthing grieving period was over, of that Jacqueline was certain.

Mrs. Farthing stood tiptoe behind her husband, waiting for her turn to visit. Mr. Farthing gave his wife a stern glance as he brushed by to resume his chair by the fire and the biscuits.

Biscuits! Jacqueline felt her stomach twitch. Jo had managed to get something useful done and Jacqueline distractedly plotted a tea break as soon as a pause in conversations afforded the opportunity.

Their sitting area was not large for a home in this neighborhood. And thankfully, there were not a lot of people here to greet their mother out of grieving. Most that might have dropped in were likely put off by the decision to go a month instead of the year that Victorian mores seemed to insist on. Thank God, most people in their acquaintance were not overly concerned with the, in her judgement, morbid forms of society.

But she was just a girl, and today they still wore the black.

Jo and Eve rounded the kitchen corner with James in tow, Eve’s younger brother wiping the sticky crumbs of a sandwich off his chin. Jo discreetly waved a hand and nodded to her, obviously wanting her to join them.

A seventeen year old social butterfly, Jacqueline thought, and felt it somewhat ironic to judge her sister’s behavior irritating only now. At a coming out, or even a wake, one might be expected to look socially comfortable and fluid. But this? Of course, Jacqueline understood.

Jo had discovered boys.

Alex, to be specific.

Alex the flower delivery boy. And while Alex and Jo might have entertained serious intentions towards each other, father had not shown any notice. And if mother had, she’d not known what to do about it. All these things were, of course, the natural way of things.

Alex, of course, was not here. He’d not been invited, and never could have been. But the spirit of Alex infused the room. James was not Alex. Eve would most likely have her own Alex. Father had been mother’s Alex. Jo’s world was all about Alex.

It made Jacqueline sick.

One ought not to think about lovers during times such as these. There were lost loves that needed attention now. Their lost father, a man who’d loved the three of them unconditionally.

Another neighbor joined her mother, and the three of them sat in a circle, talking in whispered tones about life.

Life was unquestionably cruel. Jacqueline’s rock had been stripped away. Her father, who had shown only kindness and loyalty to the people of his circle (so said everyone) had been stabbed to death with a knife in the very office he used to manage the well-being of all those under his care.

Murdered.

For what? Why?

What’s got you looking so dog faced? Jo hissed in her ear.

Jacqueline glanced up with a start to see Jacqueline, Eve and James standing around her with faces expressing both concern and amusement, the latter in an evil sort of way. Jacqueline snatched her sister’s hand and pulled it towards her and growled, Let’s get out of here.

The four retreated to the kitchen, then out the back pantry to the garden where Jacqueline took in a lung-full of sweet and refreshing air.

It was getting to you? Jo asked.

Hypocrites, Jacqueline muttered, then looked startled to her friends and apologized.

You know what I mean, surely, she offered, but James had a confused frown on his faces and Eve looked on the verge of outright anger.

They’re here for you, you know, Eve said, her voice conveying both a challenge and accusation.

I know that, of course I know that, Jacqueline replied. But look at us, dressed like performers for the amusement of the textile industry.

Tomorrow is a new day, Jo interrupted her, and I for one will wear something more festive and attractive.

That is not my point. Jacqueline looked from her sister to Eve and James. You put on a grand show of concern, but in a short while you go home and carry on with your lives. And you expect for Jo and mother and I the opposite. We lock our doors and remain nothing more than fodder for gossip.

Come on then, it’s not like that, Eve answered, her anger turning defensive.

And that’s still not my point, Jacqueline lorded over them. You all go home, and whoever did this goes home as well.

Excuse me? Eve’s brother said, and he looked angry. Are you suggesting one of us... someone here knows something about how your father was killed?

Jacqueline paused a moment, wanting to say, ‘why not?’ but immediately thought better of it. She was, truly, only a girl. But one with a free spirit and well aware of the truth, most times, and she was certain none of her friends or acquaintances had an evil bone in their bodies.

Jacqueline moved swiftly to Eve and wrapped her arms around her friend in an awkward hug.

Never believe I think poorly of you, Eve, she whispered, feeling the emotion of loss flit through her for a fraction of a moment before the world settled beneath her feet. She reached for James who offered his hand and she squeezed it.

We are friends, yes? she asked.

Friends, they replied together, with Jo joining the pact.

Jacqueline looked to the back-porch door, feeling something amiss inside.

I think we’d best get back. I fear mother may be having a fit over missing the four of us.

Eve laughed, and added, So nice to have a concerned mother, then paused with a sour look on her face as if she knew she’d said something wrong.

What I’m sure she meant, James added, is your mom will not want you out of her sight for a while, and ours has Mary now to take care of waiting over us.

Ah, yes, Jo replied. Your nanny? and burst into laughter.

She may as well be, Eve answered. She’s supposed to be our tutor, but she certainly has got the house in some sort of order, and James and I have our hands full with her. She’s quite... and she paused.

What? asked Jacqueline.

I really don’t know, Eve replied.

Really, Jo added. When you figure her out, be sure to let us know.

The four of them shared another quiet laugh as they filed back into the house, the warmth and smell of people and sound of quiet conversation almost overwhelming them. It didn’t seem natural.

Something was not right. Jacqueline felt it, and Jo stared straight through her and she knew she’d felt the same.

Eve and James went to stand by their parents, and Jacqueline looked about the room trying to spot her mother. She could feel her heart pounding just a little too hard, and she quickly stepped around a sofa chair, ignoring the outstretched hand of their next-door neighbor, and stopped at the front landing then ducked back into the living room.

Her mother was at the door, greeting