gothickers

A LONG NIGHT.

After a light meal, the two separated but did not sleep.

Ogdred retreated to the uppermost of his lofts and spread out maps of lower London, attempting to chart the most likely route that the mysterious black carriage Peacham had described the night before might have taken from the Gothickers’ doorstep to the wharves where Peacham had spent her evening. He used timetables, likely traveling speeds and factors of weather but it was a sketchy, precipitous business and soon he’d exhausted even his own healthy reserves of the anxiety that he’d built up in his inactivity. His head lowered heavily to the drawing table, resentful in its defeat.

Peacham thought she would rest again, but rest did not come, even buried in bedsheets and afghans in her darkened room. The wallpaper patterns seemed to crawl through the shadows, and Barnabas paced restlessly across the sheets, his footprints disappearing immediately in the soft mattresses.

She listened to the clock strike twelve-thirty and then waited for it to strike one, but it did not. The nighttime slowed until it felt that no real time passed at all — just the monotonous click-clicking of the second-hand, with the occasional subtle impact of the minute-hand beneath it.

Peacham listened until she could not stand it — until it seemed she had been lost her entire lifetime in that cobwebbed world. So she rose, and threw on her heaviest skirts, and opened a back door to her room that only she knew was there. It led down a thin stairwell to the street, which lay silent now in a covering of snow.

Baranabas screeched, and she fed him dry bread and honey meant to calm him. But he recognized the ruse, and threw the offering across the room in a rage.

No matter his protests, this time he would not go with her. Peacham swiftly closed the door behind her and clattered down the stairs in her boots, even as her constant companion beat his tiny fists against the wood paneling above her. His mewling cries served to punctuate the obvious — it was a poor thing to be abandoned in such dark and uncertain times.

But there is no accounting for the whims of unbeholden women, and there was no woman less beholden than Peacham Gothicker.

AN EVENING BEGINS.

When Peacham at last rose, the room was suffused with a crepuscular glow, the window affording her a shimmering view of the sunset as it inched its way below the horizon line.

Barnabas was curled up in a faded damask wing chair, quietly tucking into a crumpet and a jar of cream pilfered from the pantry. He knew better than to wake his mistress with anything so trivial as hunger. Peacham permitted the simian a small smile of gratitude, and commenced her ritual set of respiratory calisthenics, an arcane practice she’d picked up in the Indies.

She was seated at the mahogany dressing table, running an ivory-handled comb through her curls and contemplating her own reflection when there came a faint knock at the door.

Peacham put down the comb, but did not speak. She had been expecting this.

“Darling,” came Ogdred’s voice, gingerly. “I must insist that you do not pass the whole of the day in slumbers. You’ll never re-adjust to our present clime.”

“Come in, my dear,” Peacham replied. “Barnabas shall let you in.” The monkey, wiping his lip, scurried to take the door key from Peacham’s dressing gown pocket and slide it under the door.

There was a faint sound of shuffling and something like silver. At last Ogdred entered, cautiously grasping a tray laden with toast, tea, and a buttered egg. Peacham was not unmoved to see her cousin bearing her breakfast himself.

“I thought it best not to trouble Arthewicke,” Ogdred attempted somewhat awkwardly. “We have such trouble keeping a kitchen maid.”

Peacham drew her dressing gown about her, pushed her hair out of the way, and allowed herself to be served, clearing a space for Ogred to place the tray down among her various jars of ointments and unguents.

“I didn’t know your virtues had extended into the domestic,” she said, raising a white arm to place two lumps of sugar in her tea. “So very much has changed since we have last been together.”

Indeed it had, thought Ogdred. Peacham seemed more angular than he remembered, and in her white robe, paler than ever. He noticed a new set of small lines about the corners of her eyes, but perhaps he had simply not remembered the way she looked when she first awoke. But he bit his tongue.

“Eat, Peacham,” was all he said.

A LATE BATH.

The pair retired to one of the upper floors and Peacham drew a bath while Ogdred smoldered.

They undressed and took to their opposite corners of the tub, Peacham cleaning the grime from her fingers and soot from her hair acquired naturally from a day of walking. Her long curls made strange swirls in the bathwater and she washed them and wrung them out in quiet ritual, knowing the futility in disturbing Ogdred’s contemplation.

At his end Ogdred sat with a knuckle under his chin, the steam condensing on his brow and his upper lip. The water made a thin froth around his shoulders in a fashion that might have appeared amusing if not for the despair etched into his face.

After a while, Peacham stretched her thin, pale frame over the side of the tub to retrieve a tin of cigarettes; lighting one on a nearby lamp, she then leaned back to smoke.

“Brother,” she said, exhaling smoke, “The water will cool soon and I am mildly light-headed. I would prefer neither to drown in the tub nor to catch hypothermia.”

Ogdred only grunted in reply.

Peacham stood up out of the bathwater and looked down on him a moment. Then she took a towel, stepped out and dried herself. She threw a robe around her shoulders and dimmed the lamps, holding a candle to light her way back to her room.

Ogdred did not move. Peacham knelt next to him beside the tub, her head rested on its lip.

“Even you can only brood for so long, loved one,” she said.

And Ogdred looked at her then, his face a broken mess. “I fear I shall never stop.”

“Oh dear,” Peacham said. She touched his face. “I haven’t much of a nurturing heart in me,” she sighed. “But you are a poor, poor man. I think you should come to bed.”

“I have no bed in this house,” Ogdred whispered. “You know that. This house is not for sleeping.”

“This house is for you and it is for me and there is nothing else,” Peacham said. “We knew that from the first night we stayed here. If you wish to sleep, you may. If you wish to freeze in the bath, you may as well.

“But I need you, brother, and it is a poor thing to choose your own sadness over the people who love you.”

Ogdred coughed in the semi-darkness.”I take your point, sister.”

He stood. The water sloshed and the candle fizzled out; Peacham sputtered as water splashed her face. Ogdred spoke from the darkness. “My apologies.”

“Oh Ogdred,” Peacham said flatly. “Do hush, and help me to find a facecloth. It seems I must dry off a second time.”

TEA AND REVELATIONS.

When Ogdred rose again, the house was quiet. A plate of steamed cabbage and some spiced roast was resting under a tea towel, left by the maid – it seemed that she had come and gone while he was asleep. He sat and ate, muddled cobwebs obscuring the morning’s events. Across from him, the parcel left by Anglin’ Jenn sat centered on the tablecloth – a silent question from the maid as to whether or not it was to be kept, he supposed.

Suddenly, there was a clattering at the front door. Ogdred turned to see Peacham enter the parlor, frosted with snow and cheeks ablaze. Barnabus peeked out from beneath her wrap, shivering.

“Well dear sister, “ Ogdred said. “I hardly knew you were out. And if you are home already it must mean the night did not offer its usual entertainments. What part of London did you lose yourself in this time?”

“The banter will have to wait, loved one. Dim the lamps and draw the shades at once. What I am about to say will change the course of our destiny. I have seen such sights as you would not believe, and there is much we need to discuss.”

A lifelong friendship had left Ogdred well accustomed to Peacham’s flair for the dramatic, and he was tempted to dismiss her with a pass of his weary, pale hand across his tormented temple. Peacham’s eyes were bright and wild, a few auburn curls of hair escaping from her chignon and roiling coarsely about her forehead, and he wondered if she had passed by the Chinese pharmacist again for one of those small, intricately folded paper packets of powder.

“You verge on the histrionic, my dear sister,” he began. However, the sardonic smile that had begun to pleat the left side of his upper lip was frozen in mid-sneer as he noticed a long rip in her skirts and mud on one of her shoes.

THE FALLEN MAILBOX.

“I’m afraid,” said Ogdred, “that other than a common address, I can shed no light on the disappearance of the lady in question.”

“I figgered as much,” sighed Jenn. “If you’d been lyin’, you would have at least commented upon seein’ the knickers. But you didn’t even blink.”

She rose. “And now I’m so embarrassed to ‘ave bothered you on a Sunday, sir. Very unlike me, very unlike. I’m sure the girl will appear this evening right as rain, and just one old woman’s worries will be all that’s left of the affair. I should be going.”

“It’s quite all right, miss,” Ogdred said, somewhat weary. “If you’d like, I can call for a fresh pot of tea to warm you before you’re on your way. Despite the confusion, I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

“Oh!” Jenn scoffed. “Look at you now! What are the chances that the address on that box would lead me to a house where I’m invited in and treated to a proper interview and investigation! I can only imagine you must be a scientist with all the flotsam you’ve got to work with, and yet you set aside the time for me. It’s much appreciated sir, and don’t you think twice on it. I can show m’self the door.”

“Only a scientist of a sort, I’m afraid –“ Ogdred began, but Jenn was already turning to leave. She’d scuttled into the foyer and was at the doorknob before he could finish his thought, and it was only as the door opened and shut that he realized the woman’s parcel still sat, unwrapped, on the workbench. “Madame!” he called out, and grabbed the box as he ran to follow her out the door.

Outside the snow was falling, and the normally empty sidestreet was filled with the muffled clatter of a carriage approaching. As Ogdred peered out into the blowing snow, Anglin’ Jenn’s dark shape was already partially obscured.

THE GOTHIC KNICKERS.

“Now then,”Ogdred said, turning to his visitor. “If you might take a seat at the drawing table, we can take a closer look at the parcel you’ve brought us.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, lord n’ lordship,” Anglin’ Jenn replied in a quivering voice. “But now that the young lady is gone, I feel the need to speak up on the nature n’ purpose o’ me bringin’ that box hear to yew.”

“What’s that?” said Ogdred, squinting. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, madame,” he said.

With a heavy, wheezing grunt, Jenn leaned forward in her seat and unfolded the parcel with dirty, stuttering hands. A moment later, she lifted a thin skein of fabric to the light.

“It was these, sir, that I wished to bring your attention,” Jenn whispered. “But I didn’t want to steer the course toward discussin’ my true concerns in polite company.”

“And what, may I ask, might be considered impolite about discussing a piece of fabric?” Ogdred and reset his goggles on his nose and reached for his tongs.

Jenn laughed – a harsh, croaking guffaw. “Oh sir! Iss not just fabric, sir!” She coughed, and calmed herself. She shook her head. “That there is a ripped bit of a ladies’ knickers! You mean to say you don’t recognize ‘em?”

Ogdred blanched, and inspected the fabric with a frown. “I can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” he intoned. “And while your concern for discretion is understood, there was really no need. The occupants of this house are no stranger to the darknesses that lurk beneath the skin.” He looked up from his perusal of the undergarments. “So to speak.”

THE LABORATORY.

Making her way down the narrow, moldering staircase, Peacham entered the laboratory to find Ogdred flat on his back on the floor, his safety goggles askew and a large charcoal smudge running down one cheek.

A short, ragged person of indeterminate sex stood in the corner opposite, wrapped in layer upon layer of foul rags and tattered clothing, with a battered greatcoat thrown on top of the whole ensemble. The creature pressed a square of moth-chewed handkerchief over its nose and mouth.

Pointedly ignoring the unknown party who had found a way into their home, Peacham tiptoed over the prostrate form of Ogdred and made her way to the worktable, where a viscous green liquid emitted an evil-smelling vapor as it bubbled over a burner. Barnabas leapt to the table and proffered the glass stopper, which had been flung halfway across the room by the force of the explosion, coming to rest under the frightful yellowed skeleton she had given Ogdred for Christmas three years prior.

“Really, Ogdred,” Peacham said languidly, seating herself on the edge of the worktable as she reached into her décolleté for a long, pearl-white cigarette. “How many times must we repeat this sordid scene? Not only have you put another scorch mark in the linoleum, you have given yourself a fearful bruise over your left eye and the domestics will begin to wonder.”

At last she deigned to look in the direction of the newcomer, whose face was still hidden by the handkerchief, although whether this was to ward of the dissipating odor of Ogdred’s potion or the icy reception by Peacham, only the visitor knew.

“And who is this… this person standing by watching idly as you endeavor to blow yourself to smithereens in our basement?” Peacham exhaled irritably, still fishing for an implement with which to light her cigarette.

When the rotted handkerchief was lowered at last, a wizened old face appeared, smeared with two large circles of rouge which revealed the guest to be a woman of impossible age.

THE LESSON.

Peacham Gothicker was feeling a bit short of breath as she ran through her harpsichord scales. In anticipation of her instructor’s arrival, she’d pulled her corset strings extra tight that morning. Fraulein Schlaffmittel always insisted that she sit ramrod straight for the duration of their lessons, and while Peacham held herself to be a liberated, modern woman, she nevertheless always felt the need to primp a bit for the teacher’s arrival.

Although they’d never spoken directly of such delicate matters, Peacham felt a strong, though silent, kinship with the Fraulein, for like her, she had never professed any interest in matrimony and had thus far successfully evaded the well-meaning attempts of distant, older relatives to hitch her to a promising young man. Peacham admired the harpsichord teacher’s commitment to being a career woman.

“Und jetzt we go, vun, two, tree, vun, two, tree,” counted the Fraulein, whacking her baton against her thigh as Peacham began the lesson. She was an angular, though well-built woman, who always wore the same severe, black dress with no hint of adornment but a mourning brooch containing several thin braids of dark hair twisted into a complicated arrangement of leaves and flowers.

There was something handsome about her, thought Peacham, even though she was surely past thirty. Whose hair did the Fraulein wear on her breast, she couldn’t keep from wondering. It certainly couldn’t have belonged to a mother or older sister… Had the older woman with the pinched eyes once known romance, perhaps in the tea houses of Vienna?

“Ach! Stop! stop! stop!” shouted the Fraulein, her throaty voice filled with annoyance. “How many times must I tell you, Miss Gothicker, zählten Sie an! Count, count, count!” With every repetition of the word Count, her baton fell sharply onto the music stand. Peacham swooned slightly, the combination of the German woman’s righteous severity and the whalebone stays of her corset rushing to her head. Surely it was almost time for tea and jam… Surely Fraulein Schlafmittel wasn’t really so angry with her!

A VISITOR.

“Ever so sorry, sir, so sorry am I,” the woman burbled, her apologies falling forth in a messy wet screech. “Are you, lord, master of the ‘owse?” Ogdred, no sharper for the cold blast of air slicing in from the street, nodded and made affirmation. “Oh dear, sir,” the crone quaked. “I fear we must speak, and daresay that I don’t want to suck the ‘eat out o’ yer houshold, might I entreat upon you to come in and take your ear?”

From this point Ogdred and his visitor entered into a moment or two of predictably painful conversation, his vague and petulant protests squared equally against the woman’s humble, sputtering pleas upon his time. It was neither he nor she who won their battle of wits, but instead a sudden cold and wind which both pushed her halfway in and made Ogdred himself retreat, so that before he could stop himself, grace demanded that he offer the stranger a seat and, uncomfortably, move to rescue his tea from the kitchen.

The woman continued to apologize profusely but insist stubbornly on having her say, and began her story by pulling a wrinkled parcel from beneath her worn shawl and placing it on the parlor table between them. It seemed damp and mildewy, and Ogdred watched it as one would watch a dead rat that might yet have life in it.

“Now sir,” she dribbled, “Yew must accept my apologies in advance for what I ‘ave brung is of a delicate and grievous nature, so I ‘ope an’ pray yew ain’t of faint ‘eart.”

Ogdred’s head pounded nails and hammers. “Please,” he said simply, and his eyes were shards of impatient ice.

“Perhaps it’s something that could be opened outside?” a sleepy voice lilted in from the staircase. Ogdred and and the stranger turned to see Peacham descend, a pouting Barnabas wrapped round her neck. “Or in the furnace, with a poker? I can only imagine the odors that surrounds what lies in that musty parcel will peel the wallpaper once revealed.”

THE HOUR OF EIGHT.

It was around the hour of eight when Ogdred Gothicker, dressed in his clothes from the evening prior, came downstairs to brew himself a pot of tea. The maid had not set the kettle to boil, as she never arrived earlier than nine on Sundays, for which Ogdred paid her two shillings less per week in an agreement that gave her time to get her own brood fed, and gave him extra pocket money for tobacco on Saturdays.

Ogdred had not changed his clothes because he had not yet gone to sleep. Instead he had fussed about all night in his laboratory with an experiment to teach himself Chemistry, using disposed medical supplies he’d found abandoned in the back alley behind his lab and an out-of-print French textbook on the very subject. His German was better than his French, and so he’d resolved himself to translating the book to German first, but had puzzled over whether he would be best served by the Swabian or Standard dialects. By the time he’d gotten himself sorted the haze had begun to show in the sky over the rooftops, and his first real hands-on breakthrough had not come until a mere half hour before he’d come down for tea.

Now, with stubble on his chin and a numbing weight on his eyelids, he put the steaming brew to his lips in a grim resolve to revive himself. His nights were not for sleeping as a general rule—especially not during the grim grey flatness of shady Sunday dawns.