Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

“You go in next,” she said, looking at Katherine, her tears flowing again as she spoke.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Miss Beacham.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Fallon.”

They sat together in silence, the politeness of their interaction startling them both.

“Too sensitive for his own good,” Mr. Boyne could be heard saying through the flimsy kitchen door. “His father was the same. Never rested easy with the fact he had made his money out of the war. Uniforms, parachutes, that kind of thing.”

Ivy blew her nose, sobbed, blew her nose again then cleared her throat.

“All those things I said to you about him. .,” She lifted her head. “I’m so sorry I said those things. . about the money issues, about the gambling…. None of it was true.” The two ruby eyes stared directly at Katherine. “I was just jealous. . of you both. . ” She continued, bowing her head. “He was kind to me — that was all,” Ivy said earnestly. “But that was enough to make me. . want him.”

The handle of the kitchen door turned and the two women froze.

“I couldn’t deny the McKinley boy is”—here Mr. Boyne stopped for a moment—“was. . a good employee. Like his father, a man of impeccable character. Always worked hard, too hard, if you ask me. . Yes, a good lad.” The other voice in the room was less distinct, but Katherine could make out the words, “Thank you for coming over, Mr. Boyne.”

Katherine turned her head quickly from the door as it opened. She could feel a flush of intense heat hit her cheeks. Boyne stood in the doorway, looking back into the room.

“Thought too much, that McKinley boy,” said Boyne as he tapped his forehead with the wet end of his cigar and screwed up his thick lips as a means to illustrate the perils of an elegant mind. Then he turned and moved solemnly past Katherine and was gone.

Katherine stood up from her chair. She wanted to acknowledge Ivy’s candor in this awful situation, knowing that it couldn’t have been easy for her to say what she had said. Katherine turned to Ivy. “Thank you, Ivy, thank you,” she said to her kindly.

Ivy straightened her back. “My name’s Celia,” she said slowly to Katherine with a look that could kill.

When it was her turn to talk to the young policeman, Katherine found him sitting at Miss Harper’s improvised sewing table, playing with a sewing-repair kit.

He arranged a straight line of buttons across the table, making minor adjustments to them as he talked to her. The buttons clacked a little against his fingernails.

“Do you know, I’ve never seen an opera.” He seemed almost proud of this fact as he revealed it to her. “Never been to plays much, either, but I love a good film.” A button moved slowly and smoothly under the pressure of his finger, coming toward her like a planchette on a Ouija board, as though the button could provide for him a currency of prescience, could divine the truth and identify the lies from whatever she said. She was silent. The button moved back into place.

“You must be a good singer.” The young policeman had a large face. His manner had an element of laziness about it, as though he had been assigned to a job that he knew didn’t need doing.

“And how long have you been at this”—he hesitated slightly—“this opera singing, then?”

“Not long. About two years.”

“Long enough.” He sounded impressed. “Very good. Very good.” He began to space the buttons farther apart. “Now, my mother loves music.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose briefly with his large fingers. “Loves Beniamino Gigli. Can’t get enough of Gigli. Thinks he’s very romantic, so she does.” The young policeman lifted his gaze from the worktable to look at her. “Very popular with the ladies, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” Katherine replied.

The young policeman shot one arm up in the air, a way of freeing his wrist from the tightness of his shirt cuff, and bent his arm sharply to scratch the back of his neck. He inhaled deeply in an effort to swell his own importance a little.

“How well did you know Mr. McKinley?”

“Not very,” she said to the young policeman, trying to disguise the shakiness in her voice and conscious that Ivy — Miss Celia Beacham — was waiting outside the kitchen and could hear her every word. “I hardly knew him at all.”

“Can you tell me, Miss Fallon, when you last saw Mr. McKinley?”

“Last night,” she said.

“And did you see him leave the hall?”

“Yes.”

“And what time would that have been?”

“Just before eight o’clock.”

“Right.” The young policeman remained still. He was waiting for more information. When none was offered, he continued. “And do you know where he was going after that?”

“No.”

The young policeman drew his lips into a tight pucker, his eyebrows pulling together. Then he shifted his position in the chair.

“And that was definitely the last time you saw him?”

“Yes.”

The young policeman smiled at her.

“That’s fine, Miss Fallon. I won’t keep you any longer. Sorry to hold you back from getting ready for the show tonight, but much appreciated. And who knows, I may just catch your performance tonight. That’s quite a costume you’re wearing!” He looked at her, leaning his body forward a little. “We’re simply trying to work out what time it happened. No reason to suspect foul play — it appears to have been an accident, a sudden fall; he was probably unconscious when he hit the water — but. . thank you, Miss Fallon.”

The young policeman began to rearrange the buttons on the worktable once again, then looked solemnly at her.

“Are you all right, Miss Fallon? You look a little pale.”

“I feel I might get sick.”

“Oh, the old stage fright, eh?” said the young policeman, smiling to himself. He began to rearrange the buttons on the worktable once again.

Katherine rose slowly from her chair. As she stood, the lemon sateen lining of her costume caught on a rough edge along one of the chair’s legs. She reached over to untangle the threads, which were tightly hooked around a splinter of wood. Her fingers were trembling. Unable to release the threads, she tugged forcibly at her costume, tearing the lemon sateen lining and leaving a gaping hole.

After the performance of Carmen that night, Katherine put on her pearl gray woolen coat and walked from St. Anne’s church hall toward High Street. In her hand, she held Mr. Agnew’s keys to the tailors’ rooms. When she reached Mr. Boyne’s premises, she could see her distorted outline on the dark, glossy sheen of the street door. She was a broken prism of light, shards of herself oscillating around a black center.

She felt a sudden rushing pressure in her stomach. Her face and head became tight. She instinctively moved a pace over to the corner of the building, turning her body into the wall. Seconds later, she got sick on the pavement — fast and violent retching, which left her cold and weak. She stood for a few moments to gather herself, conscious that some passerby may have seen her, hoping that no one had. She pulled a cotton handkerchief from out of her handbag and wiped her mouth, then gently brushed away the line of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. She turned slowly from the wall. Her pearl gray woolen coat was now flecked with spots of vomit across its collar and breast. A man walked briskly along the other side of the street but did not appear to have noticed Katherine. Embarrassed, nonetheless, Katherine steadied herself. She looked down at the mess she had made on the pavement, at the spots of vomit that covered her shoes. She wiped her shoes with the cotton handkerchief and tucked it into the pocket of her pearl gray woolen coat. She put the key in the door of Mr. Boyne’s premises, went inside, and climbed the stairs to the third floor.