Part 42 (2/2)

Awaiting me in the parlor was a boy of perhaps eight years, neatly enough dressed though dirty from the street. He handed me a note and withdrew.

The note was simple enough. It was from my father's landlady. Having received word of his death, she wished for me to be made aware of his possessions, which were, by all rights, my own.

Nothing could have surprised me more. My father had never been overly nice in his paternal duties, and his care of me had only ever been motivated by keeping around first a boy, and later a young man, who might be of use for his schemes. Moreover, that this note found me so soon after his death suggested my father had known where I lived for some time. It seemed, then, that he had been watching me, plotting his revenge, awaiting the moment he could do the most damage. Did the woman who now contacted me mistake his interest in me for fatherly devotion, or did she wish to pursue his revenge now that the monster himself was no longer of this world?

I was suspicious, but I feared no landlady, and I told myself- now, I see, foolishly-that my father could do little enough harm now that he was dead, and so the next day, which was Sunday, I followed the instructions upon the letter and made my way to his house in Covent Garden.

The street was none the best, and from the exterior, I supposed the house too would be in a state of decay, but the interior was clean and neat, if spartanly furnished. A girl of perhaps fifteen-an ugly thing with a horsey face and boney frame-led me into a parlor of sorts full of mismatched furnis.h.i.+ngs. The walls were decorated with pictures torn from magazines and chapbooks.There, however, was a woman of middle years, stout and tall, with dark eyes and hair, and a handsome face that radiated kindness.

She took my hand at once. ”I am Mrs. Tyler,” she said. ”You must be Reginald.”

I nodded, for though January was a fabrication, Reginald was my Christian name. My father had always believed in keeping lies simple. He also believed in knocking children unconscious and raping chambermaids, so some of his beliefs were better embraced than others.

Once we were introduced and seated, and the horsey-faced girl brought us wine, Mrs. Tyler began to explain her business. ”Bernard told me that you and he were estranged, so you may not have known that he was to have been my husband.”

I made every effort to conceal the depth of my surprise. Mrs. Tyler hardly seemed like the sort of woman my father sought. Her kind disposition was evidenced in her every word and gesture.Was it possible that my father had changed? I then recalled an image of him standing over me, shouting like a madman while I wallowed in pain amid puddles of horse s.h.i.+t. Change, I believed, was not likely. In all probability, my father had simply wanted what Mrs.Tyler had-her house, some jewelry, or other movable.

The longer I spoke with her, however, the more I began to doubt myself. She spoke of a reformed man, a man who wished to put his evil ways aside. More importantly, she spoke of a man who had brought more property into the house than he wished to take from it, and this was the crux of Mrs. Tyler's business with me.

”I know you had difficulties with your father, and he with you,” she said. ”His anger toward you was something he could not relinquish. He learned where you lived and he spoke often of teaching you a lesson, of taking you down a peg, but I take comfort that he died before he could so debase himself.”

On this score I kept quiet. The bruise upon my face was big and black and ugly. If she did not suspect my father of having placed it there, then she had not truly known him.

”But though he had much anger, he also had much love. He was a man with a big and generous heart.”

I chose not to comment on this subject, but I forced a nod in the interest of good manners.

”For that reason, I wish for you to take his belongings, or at least as much of them as you wish for yourself. We will go to his rooms, and you may, in private, look through his things. All that you wish for is yours.”

I could not understand how my father could have conducted a conversation with so genuinely kind a woman, but I would not cast aside such good fortune. I finished my wine and allowed her to lead me to my father's room. When I stepped inside, she stood in the doorway, a wistful look upon her kind face. She wiped a tear from her eye but did not follow me within.

It was a simple room, with but a few chairs near a fireplace, a table, and several chests. One of these was open, and I could see within it linens and some cheap jewelry of indifferent value, and, most surprisingly, a single volume, bound in cracked leather. I turned to Mrs. Tyler. ”Did my father take up schooling late in life? Because I have never known him to read a word or to write anything but his name.”

She shook her head and smiled. ”No, he brought these several items with him.They were . . .” She turned away for a moment. ”They were things he acquired in his previous life.”

I nodded. Evidently she knew he had been a thief, and she believed, or pretended to believe, that he had put his wicked ways aside for the love of a good woman. ”Why did he keep this book? It could be of no use to him.”

She smiled and shook her head. ”I did ask him about the book once, and he would neither tell me nor let me look into it. He said he had a feeling about it, but would say no more. He was a man of great sentiment, as you certainly know.”

”He was subject to strong emotion,” I conceded.

”He did not wish to part with some of his things, and I saw no reason to make him.There would be plenty of time.You may find some jewels or other gewgaws of value, but I hardly know for certain. He was a private man, and I respected that privacy.”

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