Through The Mist

Jaunty merriment danced along the crisp night air like autumn leaves of song soaring on the bitter breeze. Across the water in Boston harbour, through the darkened streets and over the roof tops, the sounds of festivity issuing from The Whaler tavern could be heard by all who cared to listen. The ale was cold, the peanuts were fresh and the sport was true. Liam Cleary, Edward Shaw and William Reilly were surprised by the communal roister. Their usual, quiet haunt was overtaken by a throng of locals currently in the throes of celebration. From what the three friends could gather, a fellow Southie had become a first-time grandfather that very evening and could not contain, even in the least modest of ways, his pleasure with his newly acquired circumstance. A bottomless ante had been deposited at the bar and the bounty was available to any who chose to partake in the revelry. “Must be nice, having that sort of money.” Liam surmised to his friends. “William should know.” Ed responded, “He’s swimming in it, aren’t you Will?”

“Not as much as Mr Turnbull over there.” William announced.

“So, you do know this fellow, then?” Liam asked.

“By reputation, mostly. I’ve only spoken to him a few times over the years. Business, not much else.” William revealed.

William worked as a financier. He ran one-third of his own firm from an office building located in Summer Street in Boston’s financial district. Very well-travelled, his vocation regularly took him to places like New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and New Orleans. William was the academic one of the gang. The three of them had been born in South Boston and schooled together when they were children. In their teenage years, Liam and Ed continued their secondary schooling in various parts of Massachusetts but William, his family being of that type, was sent to boarding school and, subsequentially university, in Paris. That was around the time when Liam’s sister, Alice, was murdered. In the past few years, William had taken the decision to return to his homeland and had quickly set down familial roots; he married Candice, a Southie herself, and within two years they gained two beautiful daughters, Amelia and Finella. They had a respectable house in the North End residential district on Beacon Street opposite Boston Common.

Ed, at twenty-four, hadn’t gained a vocation. He had performed in his school career as well as any of the others, but no subject he’d encountered in his younger years caught his admiration as much as the Boston Police Department, of which he’d been a serving officer for the past eleven months. He felt an immense pride whenever he introduced himself as Constable Edward Shaw, and he took every opportunity to take part in introductions where he could respectably broach the subject of his own profession. He and his fiancée, Gaynor, had parted earlier that year in the spring and as such, had since dedicated his life and time to his chosen service. And, of course, to regular drinking sessions with his old friends Will and Liam.

Liam Cleary and his wife, Mary, were expecting their first child to be born in the next four months. The due date the doctor had given was the fourteenth of March, 1873. Liam worked as a clerk at A&N Milklin, a shipping company that received and distributed woollen goods from Europe, primarily England. The firm had raked in a fortune during the Civil War a decade earlier, importing blankets and other goods from manufacturers in Yorkshire and supplying the Union Forces. At times, Liam felt unsettled at how his firm’s prosperity had come about, but, as with Ed, Liam had a faithful devotion to his profession and to his employers. That’s why he tried to not be out at the Whaler with his friends every night. But when he did, he tried to be home at a somewhat reasonable hour.

At around eleven o’clock, Liam decided that it was time to finish. “I’m off!” he announced to Ed and William.

“In more ways than one, I reckon!” Ed quipped.

“I’ve got a busy day tomorrow,” Liam justified, “and I want to be at least a bit fresh for it. I’ll see you after work, yeah?”

“Take it easy, Liam.” Will said. “My love to Mary.”

“Of course. Good night Will. Night Ed.”

Liam stumbled over The Whaler’s threshold and into the night. He’d only had six pints of ale this time so he was convinced his will power was still intact. Mary would be annoyed, no doubt, but she was always annoyed these days. Being five months pregnant, Liam was convinced, has a tendency to do that to a person.

There were only a few gas lamps lit in Boston that night and travelling in almost total darkness Liam found to be ailing. He began to feel a bit of a pulse in his stomach and thought it would be best, at the cost of his travel time, to rest by supporting himself against a conveniently lit, nearby wall. Liam stared at his shoes for about five minutes when the movement across the road caught his eye. He saw a woman, aristocratically dressed, walking along the darkened shop fronts opposite where he stood. Her footsteps were silent. She travelled for a minute or so until she was almost out of his view and then stopped just before she had gone out of sight.

A dark figure in a cloak and top hat approached the woman and the two began to converse. Their manner seemed to be almost friendly, as if they had already known each other. A few minutes of what looked like inconsequential chatting passed when the figure in the cloak, Liam had ascertained as being a man, tipped his top hat to his acquaintance, pulled his cloak across his face and with his other hand, retrieved an edged weapon from somewhere on his person. The woman recoiled in horror but was unable to escape the attacker.

“Hey!” Liam uttered, rather quietly so in his bilious state. The woman, succumbing to her wounds, slumped to the ground. “Hey you!” Liam shouted this time. “Stop, you!” The killer seemed to ignore Liam’s shouts. He proceeded to stab the prone woman as she lay dying and didn’t react at all to the sound of Liam’s approach. Liam, considerably more sober now than what he was minutes before, hastened towards the unfolding scene. The man wearing the cloak was still focused on his task as Liam came within an arm’s reach. “What do you think you’re doing?!” Liam shouted, hoping to catch the killer unexpecting, and stop him, at least, before being able to flee. The dark figure stood erect and glanced around for any witnesses, completely oblivious to Liam’s presence. Liam reached out to grab the man’s cloak but the killer managed to slip away before Liam could grapple his clothing. He stood watching the brutal man fade in to the night. He was very fast, sprinting as he was. Liam knew that there was no chance of him ever catching a runner like that, even if he had been sober. Liam looked down to the lifeless woman at his feet. He could see from her attire that she was upper class, a woman of breeding. She looked to be in her forties or thereabout. Her features were soft; a rounded nose and smooth chin. Fine make-up and her hair tied up under a delicate lace-trimmed headdress. Her slashed frock was made of brushed wool, quite appropriate for being out on an autumn Boston evening. Her boots were leather, polished to a shine. They only had scuffs on them from the altercation between the wearer and the cloaked murderer. Liam daren’t touch her. First of all, he didn’t want any of her blood to end up on his person and secondly, he wanted to preserve the scene for the police to investigate. “The police!” he grunted to himself. The South Boston police station was only a short distance away. Running, he could be there in under three minutes. And that’s exactly what he did.

When Liam crashed through the station’s door, all four of the officers there nearly jumped through their skins. “Come quickly!” Liam shouted. “There’s been a murder! On Broad Street! A woman has been stabbed! The killer must be stopped!” The officers ran for their long coats and chased after Liam as he led them to the scene. “What did you see?” an officer shouted to Liam between his huffs and puffs. “I saw a man, I think, a man in a cloak!” Liam reported. In less than two minutes they’d arrived at Broad Street, the location of what Liam had said he’d seen. And there was nothing there to be observed. No woman. No blood. And no remnants of anything at all happening as Liam had described. “What is this?” Detective Worthington said as he approached the breathless witness. “A bit of a joke, is it?”

“I meant what I said! There was a woman, here, dead! Murdered!” Liam protested. “This killer must have returned and taken the body with him so there could be no investigation.”

“And scrubbed all of the blood from the street and gutter as well, I suppose. And in how many minutes? … Six?”

Liam knew he wasn’t winning in the Detective’s eyes.

“It was here!” Liam said. “She was here! As was he! I saw her murdered with my own eyes!”

An officer approached Liam with a look of severe disbelief on his face. “How much have you had to drink tonight, Mr…?”

“Cleary.” Liam stated. “Liam Cleary.”

“Now then, Mr Cleary,” Worthington concluded, “you’ve had your fun … and at our expense. Now I suggest you get yourself home and sleep it off. Now there’s a good lad.”

“But I’m telling you that I saw a man kill a woman right here!”

“Now, Mr Cleary,” the Detective calmly continued, “If I wasn’t in such a good mood, I’d take you to the station and lock you up until you came to your senses. Now get yourself home and that’ll be the end of it.”

“But I’m certain I saw it happen.” Liam was beginning to falter. He placed one hand on his hip and raised the other to his brow in an attempt to massage a meaningful memory from his addled recollection. He accepted that there was a possibility that he had fallen asleep and dreamed the entire thing; the woman, the murder, the killer’s flight, and when he awoke from his drunken kip, misinterpreted the happening and thought he was acting accordingly by reporting what he’d seen to the police. A viable chance that everything he saw from the tipping of the man’s top hat to the scuffs on the woman’s boots was an alcohol induced fantasy.

“Good night, Mr Cleary.” Worthington said as he walked off, disdain in his stride. Two of his officers followed the Detective away leaving the final officer to approach Liam with an assumed look of concern in his eye. Liam thought that he had been able to achieve at least some sort of believability by what he said and had reached this lone man, this learned person of understanding to comprehend his dilemma and perhaps muster a feeling of empathy within him to connect with Liam’s certainty of what he’d witnessed. A clip round Liam’s ear from the officer and a short, sharp Get yourself home, ya drunk bastard convinced him otherwise.

Liam continued his journey home without incident. His bafflement carried his thoughts in many different directions all at once. He recalled the way he felt as he watched the aristocratic woman being attacked. He wondered how she must have felt as it happened. If his reaction was driven to dread and terror, he could only imagine how she must have felt as she was experiencing the savagery put upon her by her assailant. This made him think of his sister. His Alice, who had been accosted and strangled by her attacker. On a sunny summer’s day nearly seven years ago. She was sixteen at the time and knew nothing of the world. The fear she must have experienced as she died must have been beyond comprehension. Beyond anything Liam was capable of imagining. They found her body sat slumped on a bench on a pier at the harbour, the bruising not yet showing on her neck and throat her murder had occurred only very shortly before her finding. And her killer was never caught.

Liam entered his house as stealthily as he could, up the stairs and past the doorway that opened to his slumbering wife. He changed into his night clothes in the stairs and eased into bed as quietly as a ghost. He was convinced that Mary hadn’t been stirred by his homecoming and she would be none the wiser as to when he finally came through the door.

Liam kissed his wife before getting out of bed the following morning. He went to the window of their chamber and slid the curtains open. He felt the cold air coming from the slightly open window sting his nostrils. He wished the weak autumn morning sun was warmer on his face but decided that starting a fire in the hearth downstairs near the kitchen would have to suffice. He turned to see Mary propped up on her elbow smiling at him, lit by the day shining through the window behind him.

“You stink of ale.” Mary said at last.

“I only had six- or seven-pints last night.” He said retrieving his clothes from the chest beside him.

“So, what was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it six … or was it seven?”

“I was with Ed and William.” Liam pulled his trousers on and looked for his socks which were right there but he wanted a break in responding to Mary’s question. He thought about the irrelevance of what he’d just said. “I didn’t keep count.” Liam flashed a sheepish smile at Mary before lifting his night shirt over his head.

“A good night, then, was it?”

“Yeah, many songs.”

“You were home well after midnight. Had you been running?”

“You were asleep when I got in, in fact, you were snoring. How could you possibly have known that I’d been running?”

“You’d be surprised at what I know, Mr Cleary. And I don’t snore.” Mary threw a pillow at him as the consequence for his declaring his observation of her sleeping habits.

“My God, wife, even when asleep you’re watching me.”

“And don’t you forget that, husband.”

He bent down and kissed her again before going to wash.

When Liam entered the kitchen, groomed and dressed for work, Mary had already plated up a round of toast for the two them to share.

Liam sat on the chair at the dining table in the hall to tie his shoe laces. When he looked up, Mary was at the other side of the room, near the front door.

“Cat-like.” He assessed.

“Mother is visiting this weekend.” Liam heard his wife say in a dramatic tone as she walked slowly towards him.

He looked at her, expecting further announcement, but Mary said nothing more.

He took a piece of toast from the plate and held it in his teeth as his put on his coat. He tore a chunk from the slice and swallowed it quickly. In the awkward silence that followed Mary’s announcement, Liam feigned a look of distress.

“What was that look for?” she asked.

“I’m only joking.” Liam said.

He stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth and kissed Mary on the forehead. He smiled to her as he left.

As Liam did his morning walk to work, he was certain that Mary knew he welcomed her mother into their house. He was appreciative of his mother-in-law. He was glad they were close, as a family should be. And he was hopeful that she would be more than willing to help with the childcare that the new parents would eventually require.

In that morning’s rush-before-work conversation between husband and wife, Mary never once mentioned her mother. Visiting or otherwise.

When Liam arrived at his office that morning, he was greeted by the sight of his colleagues with their backs turned to him. “Charming.” He said as he de-coated. He saw that they were crowded around a table near the middle of the office closely inspecting the morning paper. “What’s this?” Liam asked.

“There’s been a murder.” A colleague returned.

“Anyone I know?” Liam fired back in a poor attempt at descent humour. Or a descent attempt at poor humour. One or the other.

“Don’t know. Marielle Garnier. Sound familiar?”

“No, not at all. Let’s have a look.” Liam said.

When Liam managed to work his way through to the table and view the article properly, all the blood seemed to drain from his face as he went a ghostly shade of pale.

“Liam, what’s wrong with you?” as his work mates gathered round him and prepared for the shaken man to collapse, he suddenly seemed so very frail.

The article described a murder that had been committed early that morning, the coroner had suggested around six o’clock, shortly before sunrise. The victim was described as having been female, in her mid-forties and wearing a brushed-wool frock and a delicate lace-trimmed headdress. But it wasn’t the words that had affected Liam in the way he had reacted. He hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to read them after seeing what he had seen. What had caused Liam to be cast near faint, to feel as if his soul was trying to escape its mortal bounds, was the accompanying photograph that sat aligned with the worded columns. It was the face, the burned-into-his-memory face, of the aristocratic woman that he’d seen with his own inebriated eyes, murdered as he travelled home the evening before.