FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 13]
May. 3rd, 2013 10:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
*
Sean pulled the bell of Viggo's Franklin Street house for the third time. Where the hell had they all got to? Had Viggo, with his soft heart, given them Saturdays as well as Sundays off, or had they seen him and intended to let him stand all night on the doorstep like a fool? He remembered, suddenly, Freddy telling a story about one of what he called their fellow outcasts: the young man's family had discovered his tastes and had made certain that every door in town was closed to him. Freddy had lingered over that phrase, 'every door in town,' savoring its dramatic flair and secure in the knowledge that he was too wealthy and important to be shut out of society altogether. "It must have been dreadful," Freddy had said dreamily, and Sean had nodded in acquiescence as he'd nodded along to Freddy's every nonsensical remark, wondering why the fellow hadn't simply moved out of town.
Perhaps the poor bloke had been left standing on doorsteps like this one.
Damned if I'm going to let them leave me out here. He yanked on the bell again and hammered on the door with a fist. That would wake the bloody dead. If Viggo was in his room, he'd hear the racket and come down himself. Sean stepped back and craned his neck, seeking what he knew was Viggo's room. "Viggo!"
One of the double doors opened and Viggo's valet Pearce appeared, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He wore a white shirt, sober black tie, green butler's apron, and a thunderous scowl. Nearly half a head taller than Sean, he folded his arms across his chest and stared down as if Sean were an impudent puppy. "Well now. Mr. Bean."
Sean ignored the surly greeting. "I've come to see Mr. Mortensen."
"He isn't here."
"The hell he isn't. Go and get him."
Pearce regarded Sean with a bitter, inimical stare. "Sure I think you didn't hear me the first time."
"Aye, I heard you," Sean spat. "And I know he's here. I spoke to his father yesterday. He took the train back Thursday morning, so where else would he bloody be?" Sean tried to peer round the big man's bulk, but failed. He took another step back and cupped his mouth with his hands. "Viggo!"
"That's enough." Pearce lunged forward, grasped Sean's coat, and drew him close. "Listen to me, you snot-nosed little Sassenagh. I'll give you five seconds to get out of here before I start pounding the stuffing out of you, and don't think I won't do it." He shook Sean roughly, then released him. "Go on, get out."
Sean stumbled back a few steps. "What did you call me?"
"Ah, you're not deaf, are you, lad? Now start walking. Mr. Mortensen's not here and I'm not expecting him back any too soon. That's as much as I'll tell you. Get out."
"Bastard," Sean muttered, but walked backward down the sidewalk, looking up at Viggo's window. The sash was raised, but the curtain didn't so much as twitch. Viggo wouldn't have refused to see him, would he? Had his parents' anger convinced him to abandon Sean? "Oh, Christ almighty," Sean whispered, then raised his voice in a bellow. "Viggo! Down here!"
"All right. That's it." Pearce started down the walk, rolling up one sleeve as he strode toward Sean.
Sean stepped back quickly, but kept up his shouting. "Viggo!"
"Quiet over there or I'm calling the police!" A man on the lawn of the house across the street strode to his fence, carrying a tennis racquet. "What in thunderation is all the yelling about?"
"Sod off!" Sean snarled, and took another step backward too slowly to evade Pearce, who grabbed his lapel and drew his fist back. Sean thrust his hand out and caught Pearce's arm. He chanced one last look up toward Viggo's room; the curtain remained motionless. Sagging, he let go of the big Irishman's arm, not caring if he got the stuffing pounded out of him. "Why won't he come out?"
"Because he's not bloody here, that's why. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Pearce stared at him, still holding his lapel. "What's wrong with you? I'm not after lying to you, you bleeding eejit."
"His father said he'd come back to Wilkes-Barre."
"Well, he hasn't been here."
"Mrs. McGuire hasn't seen him?"
Pearce blew out an exasperated breath. "Nobody's seen him!" He let Sean go. "You'll have the neighbors calling the police. Go on home." Shaking his head, he started back toward the house.
"Would you – would you tell him I've been by, if you should see him?"
Pearce turned, his brow laddered in consternation. "Aye, I should say so, if somebody else doesn't. Likely the whole city heard you calling him." He scowled, but seemed less hostile now.
"Sorry," Sean murmured.
"Jesus," Pearce said, and went back into the house.
Bereft and suddenly exhausted, Sean stood on the walk outside the gate. Where would Viggo be, if he wasn't in Wilkes-Barre? Surely Mr. Mortensen hadn't lied to throw Sean off the scent? No, he decided. Mortensen's words had the ring of truth about them. There had been a row, and Viggo was not in accord with his parents. He must have come back.
But where had he gone?
The bells of the First Presbyterian Church down the street struck the hour, and faintly, here and there, Sean heard the refrain taken up by the other churches. St. Stephen's, St. Mary's, the Methodist church on River Street. Four o'clock.
Sean swore softly. Of course!
He closed the gate with a firm click and pivoted on his heel. Across the street, the man with the tennis racquet had been joined by his wife and their three children. They stared silently at Sean as if he were an exhibit in a zoo.
"What are you bleeding looking at?" Sean snapped.
The man scowled, raised his racquet threateningly, then apparently thought better. "I ought to call the police."
"Go on then. Call them."
The man snorted and herded his wife and children away, throwing a final dark glance over his shoulder.
Sean matched the man stare for stare, then rounded the corner and headed for St. Mary's.
*
The church was dim, cool, and hushed; Sean automatically softened his steps upon the stone floor and peered through the gloom, seeking and finding a queue of people lined up against one wall. Confession, the priest-house maid had said, cocking her head toward the church. Started at three, should be over soon. Sean could wait in the parlor if he wished. He'd demurred and then asked if Mr. Viggo Mortensen was in residence. The maid had given a negative shake of her head, then ushered him out. Now Sean stood uncertainly at the back of the queue. Briefly, he considered stepping to the front of the line, then thought better of it. He tapped on the shoulder of the man in front of him. "Is this for Mi – for Father Mortensen?"
The man nodded, then turned round again, fingering a rosary.
Sean shuffled uncomfortably. Romans were strange folk. Who else would do such a peculiar thing, telling a priest everything they'd done wrong? He'd asked Viggo about it one early Sunday morning as the church bells rang. Why would anyone want to do that?
Viggo had laughed. "It's…I suppose it's a spiritual cleansing. And it's reassuring to hear that one's been forgiven for one's transgressions."
"So you can do whatever you please – beat a man, steal from him, tumble his wife – and if the priest says so, you're forgiven?"
"Well, it's not quite that simple. One has to do penance, and make reparations. For example, if I'd stolen money from you, the priest would likely assign me, oh – say three rosaries as a penance, and then I'd have to make restitution to you. I wouldn't get away scot-free."
"But you could steal over and over, and as long as you did your confession and reparation, you wouldn't be eternally punished for owt."
"You're supposed to be genuinely sorry for your sins, and not commit them again." Viggo's grin had been infectious, full of amusement and delight.
Sean had trailed his fingers down Viggo's chest and belly. "Do you tell the priest what we do?"
"No. I don't think it's a sin." But there had been a cloud on Viggo's brow.
"You do."
"It doesn't matter. Not anymore." And Viggo had kissed Sean thoroughly, driving out all thoughts of priests and confessions.
Sean smiled. Like as not Reverend Pomeroy back in Winsley would call him a sinner, but there'd be no confession and forgiveness – he'd simply be hell-bound. Reverend Pomeroy never talked much about forgiveness, though from his childhood Bible classes Sean gathered that Jesus had forgiven quite a lot.
The queue moved quickly enough, shuffling forward every few minutes. Perhaps if one went to confession often enough, sins took less time to tell about. Sean leaned against the wall, looking around with undisguised curiosity. Viggo still went to church sometimes, and often invited Sean, but Sean had always refused. The only time he'd been in a church with Viggo was at the miners' funeral in June. It would be too odd to attend church with Viggo, and too conspicuous.
Still, it was pretty here, and soothing, the way that the Covenanter church in Winsley was soothing when it was devoid of Reverend Pomeroy's presence. He inhaled the mingled aromas of damp stone, polished wood, candle wax, and incense, and gazed at the altar, the little red glass lamp flickering beneath a statue of Mary and the infant Jesus, the large crucifix over the altar. That was not so soothing, the image of a tortured man, bleeding and in agony. Sean frowned and turned away. He was closer to the curtained alcove now; there were only two people in front of him, and as he watched, a shawled woman emerged from the alcove and held the curtain for the next person, a little girl. What on earth could a wee lass have done that was so terrible, Sean wondered. This confession business was all a bit daft.
At last the man in front of him slipped behind the curtain. Sean leaned forward, straining to hear the voices within, but they were only soft murmurs, indecipherable. All at once he felt a little guilty and took a step back. The murmurs went on and on, and it seemed an hour later that the man came out, rosary and cap in hand. He looked no different from when he'd gone in, neither happy nor discontent. Sean watched him slide into a pew and kneel, hiding his face in his hands, then jumped, realizing it was his turn. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the little alcove.
His throat tightened as the darkness surrounded him. It was hot, and smelled faintly of wood and unwashed bodies. Sean stifled the urge to flee; it was nonsense. Right outside the curtain was the huge expanse of the church – plenty of air, still plenty of light. He swallowed and groped forward in the enveloping blackness. His hands struck the wall. A tremor heaved and fluttered in his chest. It was so close, like being trapped in a coffin.
A scraping noise sounded from the other side, and feeble illumination suddenly flickered through a small, patterned square. A soft voice spoke. "May your loving mercy come to me, O Lord. Your Word is a lantern to my feet and a light to my path."
Sean wheeled and took a staggering step forward. His foot hit something hard – a prayer bench, he realized. He sank to his knees, straining to see past the scrolled iron grill. "Father?" His mouth was as dry as paper. He swallowed. "Father Mortensen?"
"Yes."
"It's Sean Bean, Father." There was a silence. Sean cupped his hands, peering fruitlessly through the frustrating metal lacework. "Viggo's secretary."
"Of course. Of course." The voice on the other side of the screen was quiet, but not unfriendly. "This is a surprise, Sean. I was under the impression that you were a Protestant."
"I am. That is –" Sean brought his hands down and folded them. "I'm sorry to come here. I know it's a bit disrespectful. But I was wondering if you knew where Viggo was – if he was staying with you, perhaps?"
"No. I'm afraid I don't know where he is."
Sean rested his head on the wooden frame of the screen. "It's just that – I went to Philadelphia to see him and your father said he'd come back." He wouldn't lie, would he? A priest? "Please, I only want to talk to him." Doubt assailed him, insinuating and ugly. Would Viggo hide himself behind his family from shame, or anger? Had they browbeaten him into avoiding Sean, into condoning Sean's dismissal? It couldn't be! But the doubt was a worm, burrowing through him, eating him in tiny, painful bites. "Please."
"I'm sorry, Sean. I haven't seen him, or spoken to him."
"I got sacked," Sean said. "A man came from Mortensen Coal and sacked me. And when I went to Philadelphia, your mam and dad gave me the boot, and right quick. I didn't mean any harm, or to upset owt in your family – I only wanted to talk to Viggo." Tears stung his eyes. It was easier to say all this in the dark, in the quiet, with only the little square of glowing lacework. He thought he might understand confession after all. He sniffed, and swiped angrily at his nose. "Sorry, Father." He began to stumble to his feet. "Sorry."
"Sean."
"Aye?" Sean thumped onto the hard wooden kneeler again.
There was a sigh from behind the grill. "Sean, I've had some correspondence from my parents. They…they did tell me that you had come by, though they omitted some details. But…." Another sigh emerged. "You must understand that they acted in what they felt were Viggo's best interests. Despite what you might think, they only want him to be happy."
"Aye, I know that." And he did. It was likely true, as they saw it. If his parents had known about him, they'd have condemned Viggo as well. They'd have driven him off, the way Viggo's parents had driven Sean off.
"The trouble is, Viggo has been happier these past few months than I've ever seen him. I've told you that myself, if you recall."
Sean nodded, then realized Michael probably didn't see him. "Aye, I remember that."
"So I am presented with a serious conundrum. The source of what my parents believe to be great unhappiness is in fact a source of tremendous joy. And I know you're not a Catholic, but I don't suppose I need tell you what the Church has to say on the matter."
"No."
"I love my brother, Sean. I don't wish him to come to harm in any way. I can't condone his actions, nor yours. Unfortunately, I can't condone my parents' behavior either. I'm terribly vexed and confounded by all this. Viggo is happy and sinful. My parents are virtuous and miserable. Sometimes I wish I'd become a Jesuit, or a contemplative monk." Michael chuckled.
"I just want to talk to him," Sean whispered.
"I know. I'm sorry, I'm digressing. It's a minor miracle I finish any confessions before sundown. No, I haven't seen him. Father did say he was planning to return to Wilkes-Barre, and I sent him a note, but I've not yet heard from him. It's been two days now. Haven't you any idea where he might have gone?"
"No. That's why I came to you."
"He always did have a tendency to wander off alone. Did you check the coal office?"
"No. Mr. King from Philadelphia said he'd move in there." But not immediately, Sean realized. Hadn't King said he would stay at a hotel for a week so that Sean could sort things out? "Aye, he might be there at that. I'll look. Thank you, Michael – Father, sorry."
"Michael will do. When you see him, would you please tell him to stop by, or at least send a note? I'm starting to worry about the little nincompoop."
Sean grinned despite himself. "Aye, I'll tell him."
"Do. And Sean?"
"Aye?"
"Please know that I'm praying for you both. Though what exactly I'm praying for I haven't quite yet discerned. I hope God will show me in the days to come."
What a strange one Michael was. Still, he'd been far kinder than Viggo's parents, and he'd expected the bitterest condemnation. "I can use the prayers, Father. Thanks."
*
He still had his key, and he rejoiced that the locks hadn't been changed. He burst into the offices, panting. He'd run to the office, hope and anticipation lending wings to his feet. "Viggo?"
The place felt empty and silent. Sean's mood plummeted. He peered into the parlor, then the office. Both rooms were unoccupied.
"Where the hell are you, Viggo?" Sean went into the kitchen. The countertop and fixtures were bare and clean, and the icebox stood empty. He took the stairs two at a time and found the storage rooms and bedroom untouched; Mr. King hadn't moved in yet, and none of Viggo's belongings were about. He came back downstairs and checked the cellar. Nobody; nothing. He trudged back upstairs and into the office, slumping down in Viggo's chair.
The figured Chinese carpet had been removed. Had King done that? Maybe he'd spilled something on it. Otherwise, the place was clean, if a bit dusty. Viggo had paid Noreen extra to come and clean, but it looked like she hadn't been by for a few days. Sean brushed at a speck on the surface of the desk and noticed his notes on the Halloran purchase. He sighed. He'd been so pleased with himself, and now all his efforts had proved useless. Pettishly, he considered crumpling the notes and throwing them away, then chided himself. Viggo would need them, even if Sean wouldn't be around to help. He paged through them idly, then sat bolt upright.
Viggo's handwriting was scribbled here and there in the margins. He'd been here after all.
Slowly, he picked up the telephone. He'd call Gavin at the mine. It was Saturday, but if the place had been closed down, Gavin might be there, checking on things. "Lynwood 1020." He waited, listening to the crackling on the wire.
"I'm sorry, sir. There is no answer."
"Right," Sean said absently, and rang off. He stood up. The floor was a dark, smooth square where the carpet had been removed. It bothered him in a distant and inexplicable way. Mr. King was staying at the Sterling. If Viggo had been here, they'd likely crossed paths. If King hadn't seen him, then what? Sean didn't know, and that was a far more troubling thought than a stupid patch of bare flooring.
He left, worry creasing his brow.
*
Viggo emerged from thick, muddy insensibility in minute increments – not the untroubled and serene surfacing of a man drifting up from sleep, but the confusion and stumbling of someone lost in a dark wood, as if the next step might lead over a cliff. Scarcely aware that he was doing so, he catalogued his discomforts one by one, as if logic and order might shine a lamp upon his disorientation. His head ached like the very devil, so badly that even his eyes hurt. His knee throbbed, his hands tingled, there was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth, and he felt strangely chafed and constrained. The air was cool and damp, though, soothing after the day's heat. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open but beheld only darkness.
His first thought was that Harry Slater had blinded him somehow. He brought his head up sharply, and the back of his skull collided with something that felt like a tree. Crimson and silver sparkled in front of him, and he groaned in pain tinged with relief. Surely the blind didn't see flashes of color. He tried to lean forward and cradle his head in his hands and found it impossible.
All at once he understood why he had felt constricted. He was sitting upright, on a wet stone floor, it seemed, and his arms were wrapped round a post or column or some sort and tied behind him. His chest and waist had also been bound to the post. He moved experimentally, and discovered that his knees and ankles were lashed together as well.
Careful not to move too quickly, he leaned his head against the post and groaned again. What a damned fool he'd been to let Harry and his hulking compatriot get the best of him. He remembered trying to escape them and failing. They'd hit him on the head, and he was fairly certain Harry had cracked two back teeth with the pistol. He remembered waking up feeling heaviness and thick, hot, dusty air surrounding him, and the irregular jolting of cart wheels over a bumpy road. Had he cried out then, and had they struck him again to silence him? He couldn't recall anything else until a moment ago, when he'd struggled back to consciousness here.
And just where was he? And where, for that matter, were Harry and his friend?
Viggo tugged at the tether around his wrists and winced. It was almost too tight to endure, and felt solid and cold, like wire rather than rope. He lifted his head and squinted, searching out the faintest source of light. There was none. When he blinked, there were faint flashes of red, but nothing without to relieve the utter blackness. Fear crept into his belly.
"Hello?" he called softly.
His voice echoed for an instant, then stopped, as if suddenly barricaded. Viggo tamped down his growing apprehension and tried again.
"Hello? Can anyone hear me?"
Again his voice was swallowed. It was the queerest sensation. He shifted his legs, feeling cold wetness beneath him, and a lumpy, uneven surface. He heard water dripping not far away.
He knew where he was now. Harry had brought him to the mine.
"Oh, God." A surge of panic clawed at his insides, making him feel faint. He fought to breathe normally and contain the grim terror that sought to escape. He closed his eyes, ignoring the pounding of his head, and tried to consider his plight from every conceivable perspective. Harry hadn't killed him. It would have been easy enough in the office; they could have strangled him, or suffocated him, or simply bludgeoned him to death. But Harry had said that his father would pay to keep him safe, and that was true. Even if Viggo was in disgrace, his father would likely pay any sum that Harry demanded. Harry might well bankrupt his father, and poor Harald would pay it gladly. And what better place to hide? The tunnels below the Lynwood colliery extended several miles along the bank of the river and even below it, and there were more than two hundred chambers dug into the earth. And now that it had been closed, traffic would come to a stop. He might be imprisoned for weeks before anyone found him.
Viggo opened his eyes, straining to see in the darkness. It was like the pits of hell down here. To mask his fright, he yanked furiously at the bonds around his wrists and body, and clenched his teeth as they bit into his flesh. His hands felt as if they were on fire now, and the pain in his head was worse. His body twitched involuntarily, and all at once he realized how much he hurt, how hungry he was, how thirsty. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Icy sweat trickled down his temples and nausea roiled his stomach. He wanted to scream, but if he screamed, he might never stop. He'd simply scream himself into insanity.
"Please –" He bit his lip. "Please help me." His voice grew louder. "Can anyone hear me?"
"Now, now."
Viggo reared back in shock and fright and hit his head again. Agony surged as if someone had stabbed him in the ear with an ice pick. When his vision cleared, he saw the screened light of a carbide lamp. Dim as it was, it took his dazzled eyes moments to accustom themselves to the sight of Harry Slater, grinning at him happily.
"Bit scared, are we, sir?"
Still feeling sick, Viggo didn't trust himself to speak. He glared at Slater in impotent fury.
"No point in screaming, Vig me lad. You're as far as far can be from anyone hearing you."
Viggo pulled cool air in through his nose and felt a bit better. Cautiously, he peered round his prison, realizing with a sinking heart that he'd been correct. He was in a small chamber, no more than five feet high. Broad, slanting stripes on the walls gleamed with their bounty of coal, and chunks of slate and shale lay on the stone floor. Puddles of glistening standing water lay here and there, as if a sudden rain had fallen. Beyond the chamber was the fathomless black of the tunnel. He could be in any one of a hundred corridors under the earth. "You've made the mistake of your life, Slater," he said.
"And how's that?" Harry seemed genuinely interested.
"You think my father and the police won't realize what you've done? My father knew where I was going."
"Maybe," Harry allowed. "Maybe he did. Does he know if you arrived?"
"I don't know what you mean." Viggo looked down at the shining lengths of copper wire that bound his waist and chest to the timber supporting the roof. The same wire held his knees and ankles fast, and he presumed his wrists were tied with the same material. For the love of God, did Slater think that Viggo was strong enough to break rope?
"Did you tell him you'd arrived?" Harry crouched beside Viggo and held his lamp close to Viggo's face.
Viggo jerked his head away, wincing at the sudden agony that blossomed in his jaw and temple. "Leave me alone."
"Oh, I'll do that, never fear." Harry patted Viggo's cheek and rose to his feet with a groan. He had to duck his head to avoid hitting the low ceiling. "Not as spry as I used to be. You comfortable, sir? Can I get you anything?"
He wouldn't rise to Slater's baiting. "If you let me go at once, I'll say nothing. You'll escape with your life, your freedom, and the money you stole from the safe. I promise you that's a far better bargain than what you'll get if you decide to keep me here. This will be the first place they search."
Harry met his bluff coolly. "It might be. But I doubt it. Tommy's going to Philadelphia tomorrow morning to deliver the note to your dad's house. And your dad's to take the money to Broad Street Station. I'm not daft enough to have him bring it here. That ought to throw him off the scent quick enough."
Viggo tried to think faster than Harry. "Gavin will come, then. He's got to make certain the mine's ventilated."
"But he won't come this far, boy. You're quite a ways from the slope. Gavin won't come any further than the crank house to inspect the fans. I'll say this, though – bloody good thing you installed that ventilation shaft awhile back. The blackdamp would get you in a day."
"My father's hiring the Coal & Iron Police. They'll track you down and see that you end up in prison." Viggo endowed his words with scorn. "You can't possibly think you'll get away with something like this."
A laugh of what sounded like authentic delight pealed forth from Harry's chest, bounced around the small chamber, and dissolved. "I'm surprised at your spirit, lad. I'd had you figured for a soft sort."
"Like Freddy Watkins?"
Harry's smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed to little glinting pinpoints in the dimness. "That's right. Like Freddy."
"Sean was right about you." And Viggo had been such a fool not to heed him more carefully.
"Oh, he was. He was indeed. But don't go thinking that Sean's altogether innocent, sir. That's not true at all, as it happens."
Viggo snorted. "I'm sure."
Harry moved closer, drew his foot back, and kicked Viggo's injured knee with all his strength.
White-hot anguish drove the breath from Viggo's body. Unable to scream, he gasped, his eyes tearing. His body tried to curl in on itself for protection, but he was hampered by the copper wire securing him to the timber. He writhed helplessly for a moment, trying to gulp in air and breathe past the pain in his knee. Hard fingers threaded themselves through his hair and yanked his head back.
"You listen." Harry's breath was sour and smelled of onions. "You listen to me and shut your smart mouth. You know what Freddy Watkins did? He paid Sean to kill me. Four hundred pounds. Not a bad sum, eh? But your sweetheart was too lily-livered to go through with it. He left me tied up in my cellar to piss myself, and took off with the cash. Not too smart. And not good for Freddy."
"It's a lie," Viggo whispered. His knee hurt like fire. He wanted to sob aloud and bit his lip until he tasted blood.
"Tell yourself whatever you want if it makes you feel better, sir. But it's true. I had my fun with Freddy. And now I've got you. And if Sean hasn't run off like the yellow little bastard he is, I might find him first. If I do, I'll bring him down here to keep you company. But since Sean hasn't anyone to pay for his safe return, I might as well have my fun with him too. I'll rip his fucking eyes out and tear his fingers and toes off one by one. How'd you fancy watching something like that, me giving your sweetheart Sean a proper fucking?"
"I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you if you lay one hand on him." Viggo thrashed against his fetters, ignoring the slicing twinges in his wrists and ankles, and the red, flaring agony in his knee.
Harry hurled another echoing laugh into the chamber. He released Viggo's hair and brushed at the tears beneath his eyes with gentle fingers, unperturbed when Viggo wrenched his head away. "Now, now, sir. I mightn't find him at all. You never know. I've got you, one way or t'other, and that's good enough for the moment. Sauce for the goose, you might say."
"You diseased wretch. I wish Sean had killed you."
Harry made a clucking noise with his tongue. "Temper, lad."
"Harry." Another feeble light shone in the tunnel. Tom Gwynnett stuck his head into the chamber. "It's getting late, Harry. We should go."
Viggo studied the fair-haired hulking man. His head still reeled from Harry's threats against Sean, but he tried to think rationally. He was in the hands of a madman, and there was no reasoning with a madman. Perhaps Gwynnett had yet a shred of common sense. "Mr. Gwynnett – surely you can see that this is wrong. If you go to the police, I swear upon my life that I'll give you a thousand dollars. That's a fortune. And you'll serve justice by seeing that Slater lands behind bars." He swallowed. He was so dreadfully thirsty.
Gwynnett frowned and glanced at Harry.
Harry chuckled. "Don't sell yourself so cheaply, lad. We're going to ask for ten thousand from your dad. He can afford it."
"You – ten thousand dollars! That's impossible. He'll never pay it."
"Oh, I think he will, in a few days." Harry moved behind Viggo, sank to his knees, and yanked at Viggo's fingers. He re-emerged in a moment holding Viggo's gold signet ring, and slipped it into a pocket. "You're bloody lucky I'm not sending him this with your finger still attached to it, boy."
"Harry, you're sure nobody will find him down here?" Gwynnett's brow furrowed with anxiety. "What if –"
"Tell the police," Viggo urged. "Please, Mr. Gwynnett."
Harry moved to the far corner of the cramped chamber and picked up Viggo's coat from a crumpled pile of fabric. Viggo strained and saw that the fabric was the Chinese carpet from the coal office. So that was how they'd transported him to the mines unnoticed. He watched as Harry went through the pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. Crumpling it into a wad, he walked toward Viggo.
Viggo saw his efforts at persuasion coming to a rapid close. "Mr. Gwynnett, please. Please help me."
"He'll choke, Harry, if you stuff it too deep."
A wide, leering grin crossed Harry's face. "That's a right knee-slapper, Tommy." He unknotted Viggo's necktie and tied it securely round the balled-up kerchief, then knelt and forced it into Viggo's mouth, tying it at the back of his neck. "Just in case anyone should come calling." He rose, his trousers stained with black, oily water. "Now then, Mr. Mortensen. You just sit there like a good lad, and everything will be set to rights. I'll give you a bit of advice. Don't be struggling too much." He reached up and tapped the ceiling, producing a faint, hollow reverberation. "Hear that? That timber's all that's holding this bit of rock up. You bring it down, and you might bring the ceiling down on top of you."
Viggo stared up at the ceiling, then at Harry's face. He had to be bluffing.
But Harry's face was devoid of his customary jeering humor. "And mind the rats. They oftentimes won't attack a live person, though they might if you're still enough. They bite at the poor mules' legs, did you know that? Good thing the creatures have been put out to pasture while the mine's closed. But that means they might pay more attention to you. And now that the miners aren't here, and there aren't any dinner pails to steal from –" Harry shrugged. "It could be a difficulty, you see. But then again, if you're wriggling too much, there's the problem of the ceiling."
"Harry, come on," Gwynnett said. He was staring at Viggo, and even in the dim glow looked frightened and slightly green. "It's late."
"Let's hope your dad pays when I tell him to," Harry said, ignoring Tom Gwynnett. He picked up his carbide lamp and moved toward the door. "I think a fellow can survive three days without food or water. That's what I hear, at least." He smiled. "I might visit you tomorrow. Maybe Sean will be with me, too. 'Bye, sir." He backed out of the chamber, and moved out of sight. The light disappeared with them, leaving Viggo in pitch darkness as their footfalls and low murmurs faded away.
*
It seemed nobody was happy to see Sean lately. Mr. King's expression as he crossed the opulent lobby of the Sterling Hotel could have peeled paint from the walls. "Mr. Bean, this is most irregular. I was about to dine. If you've changed your mind about that check, I'm afraid it's too late. Mr. Mortensen has rescinded the offer." He straightened the seams of his gloves, pointedly not extending a hand.
"I'm sorry about it. I won't keep you long." Sean glanced around the lobby, at the pale summer gowns and smartly tailored dinner clothes of the hotel guests. Even the few children present were subdued and dignified, beautifully turned out in organdies and Little Lord Fauntleroy suits. They all seemed to be looking at him with cold disdain and giving him a wide berth as they passed, as if he smelled foul. "I only want to know if you've spoken to Viggo – to the younger Mr. Mortensen, that is."
King, affixing a fragrant white gardenia in his buttonhole, peered at Sean with obvious irritation. "Indeed I haven't. Good night."
Sean caught King's sleeve as the man pivoted on his heel. He saw a flash of pearl and diamond cufflink. "Mr. King, I'm not intending to be a nuisance."
"And yet, Mr. Bean, you are." King plucked his sleeve free, but remained where he was.
Sean rushed on, sensing the man's patience was fast dwindling. "Mr. Mortensen left Philadelphia for Wilkes-Barre on Thursday morning. His dad told me that himself. It's now Saturday evening."
"Then surely he would have come to the offices. Or he might be piqued because I've replaced him. I really don't see what this is all about."
"Were you there all day Friday?"
King frowned. "Why, no. I spent a good part of the day at the colliery office with Mr. Rowe. I will admit that you and Mr. Mortensen left things in fairly decent order."
"He was at the Franklin Street office on Friday. I can prove it." Sean explained about the margin notes in the Halloran paperwork. "Our paths never crossed, don't you see? And Viggo's valet said he hadn't been by the house. His brother hasn't seen him. So all I want to bloody know, Mr. King, is where he's got to?"
The dinner bell rang. A small crowd flowed around the pair as they stood in the center of the lobby. King scrutinized Sean for a long moment, oblivious to the hotel patrons' well-bred curiosity. Some of the stiffness left his spine, and he leaned close to Sean. "What you seem to be suggesting, Mr. Bean, is that Mr. Mortensen has met with foul play."
Dread twisted Sean's guts into a hard knot. "I hope not, Mr. King." He tried to meet King's coolness in equal measure. "But Mr. Mortensen's a sensible sort, and he'd not wander off and disappear without saying something to – to someone. I'm concerned for his safety." Concerned. That was a nice, genteel word, suitable to the tasteful elegance of the Sterling lobby. Better than frantic, or bloody barmy.
"Do you believe his disappearance has anything to do with the closure of the mine, and the miners' unrest?"
"I don't know. Could be."
Nathaniel King moved in with lawyerly precision. "Is there anyone who bears a personal grudge against him?"
"Viggo? He hasn't an enemy in the world. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
King was observing him keenly. "Mr. Bean?"
"Mr. King – I know it's a lot to ask, but would you call the police?" Sean wrung his hands in anxiety. "I'd tell them myself, I would that, but I don't think they'd believe me. You're a man of substance; they'd listen to owt you had to say."
"Nat," said a voice behind Sean, "What on earth's keeping you?" Sean turned and saw Chester Welles, his plump cheeks florid above the immaculate black and white of his dinner clothes. He gave no sign of greeting or recognition as Welles looked his rumpled suit up and down, then appeared to place him and drew his brows together into an unprepossessing scowl. Grace had been right; the man did look like a carp. "Putting out another mine fire, Nat, old boy?"
"I'll be along presently, Chester. No need to wait for me."
"Whatever you say, Nat." Welles gave Sean a hard look as if to remind him that it wasn't at all proper for Sean to foul the Sterling's rarefied air with his working-class stink, and then retreated into the dining room.
Sean ignored Welles' departure. "I've got to go, sir. There's someone I need to see. Will you call the police?"
King sighed and nodded. "I will, Mr. Bean, tomorrow. But I shall take particular care to make my inquiries discreet. I don't wish to alarm Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen when there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this." He caught Sean's arm, holding it in a surprisingly strong grip. "And Mr. Bean – you mustn't do anything rash. Do you hear me? The colliery has been peaceful thus far, and I intend to keep it that way. If you should provoke the miners into further agitation, Mortensen Coal will stop at nothing to hold you responsible."
"Oh, aye." Didn't Viggo's safety matter to them? And who would Mortensen Coal hold responsible if Viggo was found dead in a ditch somewhere? Sean, like as not. He gave a bitter snort. "Thanks, Mr. King. I suppose I can't ask for more than that. I promise I won't…do owt that's stupid." He turned to go, and then wheeled back. "Mr. King – did you have the flowered carpet cleaned? The one in the office?"
"No, I didn't. I assumed the maid had taken it to clean. I understand she has a key."
"She does," Sean said. "But it's missing altogether."
King looked thoughtful. "I see. Perhaps I'll check the safe tomorrow morning. Nothing else of value was missing?"
"Nowt that I noticed." He felt as if he should say something else, but there was nothing more to be said. He nodded briefly to King and to the doorman who bowed, wordlessly conveying a wealth of disapproval at Sean's clothes. It was true. Nobody was happy to see him. Too bloody bad. He sighed and stepped out onto the hot street.
He had suspicions, but few certainties. And King was right – if he angered the miners, there might be hell to pay later. He pulled out his watch. It was too early to go to McGerrity's, where he might hear a useful whisper or two. And he was famished. If he didn't get something to eat, he'd drop where he stood.
He headed east on Market Street, toward the boardinghouse.
*
The boarders were already gathered for supper when Sean arrived. Knowing that Mrs. Donnelly would scold if he were late, he dashed into the kitchen to wash his hands and nearly collided with her daughter at the sink. "All right, Eileen. How are you?"
Eileen gaped at him. "Sean. Where've you been?"
"Hazleton, looking at some properties for Mr. Mortensen." Sean scrubbed briskly and dried his hands on a tea towel. "Sorry. Your mam will have my head if I'm not at the table in short order." He hurried into the dining room, brushing at his suit. Murmuring a "Good evening," he slipped into a vacant chair and unrolled his napkin, settling it into his lap. He beamed at Mrs. Donnelly, who gave him a startled glance, and arched his neck to see what she'd made for Saturday supper. Usually it was ham and beans, but tonight it looked to be a clam chowder or some other sort of fish stew. Sean's stomach rumbled in anticipation, and he plunged his spoon into his chowder, savory, creamy, and thick with generous chunks of fish and potatoes.
It took him a moment to realize that conversation in the dining room had dwindled into utter silence. He looked up and saw that almost everyone at the table was staring at him. As his brow knotted in consternation, the diners began to eat, clinking their silverware against Mrs. Donnelly's china. Only old Harcourt Earley remained motionless, looking like some Old Testament prophet with his bushy grey beard and his whorled eyebrows, now drawn together over eyes that regarded him with steady contempt.
Sean sat up and examined his fellow diners, all of whom now seemed ravenous. He intercepted a look of nervous anxiety between Dorothy Knorr and Emmaley Adamson. Emmaley saw him. "Miss Knorr, will you pass the butter, please?" Dorothy passed the butter without comment and tore into her bread as if she were starving. Sean began to eat again, but a needle of disquiet pricked him. The air in the room seemed weighted with a thrumming tension he didn't understand, and he was the center of it.
He was not to remain unenlightened long. "It positively astounds me," Harcourt Earley said in his quavering old man's voice, "that you would have the utter audacity to sit among decent folk, to pretend at conviviality and fellowship. It astounds me."
So the chickens had come home to bloody roost, had they? News traveled fast in Wilkes-Barre. Sean swallowed another mouthful of soup.
"Well?" Earley's hand slammed down on the linen-covered table. Silver and glassware rattled. "I am speaking to you, young man! What have you to say for yourself?"
Sean wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Nowt. Sounds as if you've got everything sewed up." He directed a cool stare at each of his tablemates; none, save Mr. Earley, would meet his eyes. The single ladies stared at their plates, blushing. Craig Lahr averted his face, but there was disgust on it, not embarrassment. The widow Newcomb watched Earley, her drawn visage puzzled. Mr. Specht, as ever, seemed on the verge of tears.
"You don't deny it?"
"Well now. What is it you want me to deny?" Sean knew he should have been cringing, apologetic, but he was tired of crawling. "Come on, then. I know there's a name or two you're dying to call me. I'll give you a bloody earful if that's what you want." Me and Viggo arse-fuck each other. Is that what you want to hear, you mardy, rotten bastard?
"Shameless!" Earley's face flushed a mottled red. "If you think I will step into the sewer and make utterance of your behavior in the presence of ladies, you are sadly mistaken." He stood, drew himself to full Old Testament height, and addressed Mrs. Donnelly, coming in with a salad of lettuce and tomatoes. "Mrs. Donnelly, I must insist that Mr. Bean be evicted at once. If he is not, I shall presume that this boardinghouse is no longer fit for decent habitation and I will vacate the premises myself. Moreover, I shall let it be known that you willingly harbor degenerates and…inverts." He spat the last word.
So much for the presence of ladies, Sean thought.
Mrs. Donnelly chewed on her lower lip. Her gaze met Sean's for a moment and dropped to the bowl in her arms.
Sean rose to his feet. "It's no bother, Mrs. Donnelly. You needn't throw me out. I'll be leaving." He wouldn't be ashamed, not in front of these people. The lot of them put together weren't worth one hair on Viggo's head. "You can eat in peace now, Mr. Earley. No mollies about to stop up your bleeding digestion." The widow Newcomb put a hand up to her mouth.
"It would be advisable that you leave Wilkes-Barre altogether, Mr. Bean. No decent hotel or business will have you. Certainly no family of repute." Earley sat down again, flushed now with triumph.
"Oh, aye. I'm sure you'll see to that, you miserable old bastard," Sean said.
He ignored the shocked gasps of the ladies at the table, marched up to his room, and packed, glad he'd been frugal with his wardrobe; all his clothes fit in two suitcases, and he had no other personal possessions to speak of. He swept his shaving kit and hairbrushes into one suitcase, then picked up the little glazed plate that held a few dried red tulip petals from the bouquet Viggo had sent him some time ago.
The fight and anger drained out of him. He sat heavily on the bed. With Viggo about, all this might have been bearable. Viggo had all the grace and dignity he lacked. He'd have soothed Sean's anger and smoothed his ruffled feathers. In his quiet, steady way, he'd have made things right. Maybe they'd go off together, the two of them, and they'd live where nobody knew or cared a halfpenny about their affection for one another.
Or would they? Sean had a sudden vision of the future: the pair of them driven from town to town when the whispers became too loud, too pointed. Disrepute and humiliation would surround them, and poverty on the heels of that, for who would employ them? Viggo would grow to resent him for dragging him into debasement, and for separating him from his family and fortune. They'd part in anger, and Sean would end his days alone, sour, and perpetually disappointed at the hand life had dealt. Much like Harcourt Earley, he realized with a sharp, bitter chuckle.
And that was supposing that Viggo ever wanted to see him again. Maybe his parents had already persuaded him to abandon Sean. Maybe Viggo wasn't in trouble at all; maybe he'd fled, avoiding Sean, like the rest.
"Rot," he whispered. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you horse's arse." But the harsh admonition helped not at all.
There was a soft knock on the door. Sean heaved himself off the bed and flung the door open, prepared to have furious words with whoever wanted to torment him further.
Eileen Donnelly stood well back as if prepared for a blow. She drew a thick letter from her apron pocket and handed it to Sean. "My mam asked me to give you this."
Sean snatched it and turned on his heel, scarcely hearing her whispered apology. He examined the handwriting, and his heart leapt. He put the letter in his coat pocket and gently tipped the dead tulip petals into his open suitcase. He clapped his hat on the back of his head, hefted the suitcases, and walked downstairs and out of the boardinghouse without looking back.
On the corner of Northampton and South Main, he stacked his suitcases under the awning of Percy Brown's meat market. The odor of raw meat and blood stung his nostrils, but he was too impatient to find a bench. He opened the letter and read:
July 18, 1906
My dear Sean,
I scarcely know where to begin. So much has happened in the space of a few days that I wonder if I'll have paper and ink enough to tell you all about it! The first thing I should deliver, though, is a heartfelt apology. I hadn't any idea that you had telephoned, and I am dreadfully sorry for the manner in which I can well guess you were received. I know you will understand when I tell you that all has been revealed, though I have remained as discreetly silent as possible under the circumstances. Of course my parents, Mother in particular, are in a complete wax, and the atmosphere in this house is beginning to crush me beneath its weight.
More of that later. The most shocking news of the moment, Sean, is that Gracie is gone. But will you be shocked? I confess I'm not certain.
Sean read with wide eyes. "I'm shocked, Viggo," he murmured, and then burst into quiet laughter, earning a few turned heads. Well, well. Little Grace. And Miss Welles! Wouldn't that be one in the eye for her stuffy dad? He scanned the news avidly, shaking his head. There was more, much more. Viggo was a voluble letter writer, and it felt as if he were sitting beside Sean, confiding everything in his soft, slightly raspy voice, tinged with wit and affection. Sean paused to blow his nose.
I'm glad you dismissed Harry. He seemed quite dishonest to me, other suspicions notwithstanding, and I never cared for his sly, insinuating remarks. I know things are unpleasant between you, and it's better that he's gone. I do hope it won't cause too much trouble with the union. However did they fall under his influence? It's a mystery to me.
Sean's stomach tightened at that.
Finally, here's a spot of good news for you – I hope it's good news, at any rate: I'm coming back to Wilkes-Barre. Hang it all. Oh, don't mistake me. I love my parents dearly, but their disapproval is beginning to become something of an albatross around my neck, and I don't fancy myself an Ancient Mariner just yet! I'm simply not at home any longer. Perhaps you know what that feels like? The truth of the matter is that I know where my deepest heart lies, and my most fervent hope is that your heart is similarly inclined. Am I sounding foolish? Possibly. It's very late, nearly three in the morning, and I'm still deliriously happy that I heard your voice. I want to hear it again, but not distorted by horrid modern machinery, if you please! I will be home within a week, I promise. We have much to discuss, you and I, not least of which is the future. Don't be apprehensive; I'm full of hope and anticipation. Despite this grand mausoleum surrounding me, my heart is light. I shall see you very soon.
Yours,
Viggo
Sean folded the letter closed with trembling hands. That was not the letter of a man who was trying to avoid unpleasant certainties. And it had been written only three days before; surely his parents hadn't persuaded him to eschew Sean in that time. No, the Mortensens' anger had only proved that Viggo had left of his own accord, if more precipitately than he'd intended. But if that were true…again the question arose. Where was Viggo now?
Foul play. Mr. King's ominous phrase echoed hollowly in his memory. He opened the letter again, rereading Viggo's remarks about Harry Slater.
Carefully, he stuffed the letter back in his pocket and looked at his watch. McGerrity's would be open now.
*
TBC
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
*
Sean pulled the bell of Viggo's Franklin Street house for the third time. Where the hell had they all got to? Had Viggo, with his soft heart, given them Saturdays as well as Sundays off, or had they seen him and intended to let him stand all night on the doorstep like a fool? He remembered, suddenly, Freddy telling a story about one of what he called their fellow outcasts: the young man's family had discovered his tastes and had made certain that every door in town was closed to him. Freddy had lingered over that phrase, 'every door in town,' savoring its dramatic flair and secure in the knowledge that he was too wealthy and important to be shut out of society altogether. "It must have been dreadful," Freddy had said dreamily, and Sean had nodded in acquiescence as he'd nodded along to Freddy's every nonsensical remark, wondering why the fellow hadn't simply moved out of town.
Perhaps the poor bloke had been left standing on doorsteps like this one.
Damned if I'm going to let them leave me out here. He yanked on the bell again and hammered on the door with a fist. That would wake the bloody dead. If Viggo was in his room, he'd hear the racket and come down himself. Sean stepped back and craned his neck, seeking what he knew was Viggo's room. "Viggo!"
One of the double doors opened and Viggo's valet Pearce appeared, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He wore a white shirt, sober black tie, green butler's apron, and a thunderous scowl. Nearly half a head taller than Sean, he folded his arms across his chest and stared down as if Sean were an impudent puppy. "Well now. Mr. Bean."
Sean ignored the surly greeting. "I've come to see Mr. Mortensen."
"He isn't here."
"The hell he isn't. Go and get him."
Pearce regarded Sean with a bitter, inimical stare. "Sure I think you didn't hear me the first time."
"Aye, I heard you," Sean spat. "And I know he's here. I spoke to his father yesterday. He took the train back Thursday morning, so where else would he bloody be?" Sean tried to peer round the big man's bulk, but failed. He took another step back and cupped his mouth with his hands. "Viggo!"
"That's enough." Pearce lunged forward, grasped Sean's coat, and drew him close. "Listen to me, you snot-nosed little Sassenagh. I'll give you five seconds to get out of here before I start pounding the stuffing out of you, and don't think I won't do it." He shook Sean roughly, then released him. "Go on, get out."
Sean stumbled back a few steps. "What did you call me?"
"Ah, you're not deaf, are you, lad? Now start walking. Mr. Mortensen's not here and I'm not expecting him back any too soon. That's as much as I'll tell you. Get out."
"Bastard," Sean muttered, but walked backward down the sidewalk, looking up at Viggo's window. The sash was raised, but the curtain didn't so much as twitch. Viggo wouldn't have refused to see him, would he? Had his parents' anger convinced him to abandon Sean? "Oh, Christ almighty," Sean whispered, then raised his voice in a bellow. "Viggo! Down here!"
"All right. That's it." Pearce started down the walk, rolling up one sleeve as he strode toward Sean.
Sean stepped back quickly, but kept up his shouting. "Viggo!"
"Quiet over there or I'm calling the police!" A man on the lawn of the house across the street strode to his fence, carrying a tennis racquet. "What in thunderation is all the yelling about?"
"Sod off!" Sean snarled, and took another step backward too slowly to evade Pearce, who grabbed his lapel and drew his fist back. Sean thrust his hand out and caught Pearce's arm. He chanced one last look up toward Viggo's room; the curtain remained motionless. Sagging, he let go of the big Irishman's arm, not caring if he got the stuffing pounded out of him. "Why won't he come out?"
"Because he's not bloody here, that's why. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Pearce stared at him, still holding his lapel. "What's wrong with you? I'm not after lying to you, you bleeding eejit."
"His father said he'd come back to Wilkes-Barre."
"Well, he hasn't been here."
"Mrs. McGuire hasn't seen him?"
Pearce blew out an exasperated breath. "Nobody's seen him!" He let Sean go. "You'll have the neighbors calling the police. Go on home." Shaking his head, he started back toward the house.
"Would you – would you tell him I've been by, if you should see him?"
Pearce turned, his brow laddered in consternation. "Aye, I should say so, if somebody else doesn't. Likely the whole city heard you calling him." He scowled, but seemed less hostile now.
"Sorry," Sean murmured.
"Jesus," Pearce said, and went back into the house.
Bereft and suddenly exhausted, Sean stood on the walk outside the gate. Where would Viggo be, if he wasn't in Wilkes-Barre? Surely Mr. Mortensen hadn't lied to throw Sean off the scent? No, he decided. Mortensen's words had the ring of truth about them. There had been a row, and Viggo was not in accord with his parents. He must have come back.
But where had he gone?
The bells of the First Presbyterian Church down the street struck the hour, and faintly, here and there, Sean heard the refrain taken up by the other churches. St. Stephen's, St. Mary's, the Methodist church on River Street. Four o'clock.
Sean swore softly. Of course!
He closed the gate with a firm click and pivoted on his heel. Across the street, the man with the tennis racquet had been joined by his wife and their three children. They stared silently at Sean as if he were an exhibit in a zoo.
"What are you bleeding looking at?" Sean snapped.
The man scowled, raised his racquet threateningly, then apparently thought better. "I ought to call the police."
"Go on then. Call them."
The man snorted and herded his wife and children away, throwing a final dark glance over his shoulder.
Sean matched the man stare for stare, then rounded the corner and headed for St. Mary's.
*
The church was dim, cool, and hushed; Sean automatically softened his steps upon the stone floor and peered through the gloom, seeking and finding a queue of people lined up against one wall. Confession, the priest-house maid had said, cocking her head toward the church. Started at three, should be over soon. Sean could wait in the parlor if he wished. He'd demurred and then asked if Mr. Viggo Mortensen was in residence. The maid had given a negative shake of her head, then ushered him out. Now Sean stood uncertainly at the back of the queue. Briefly, he considered stepping to the front of the line, then thought better of it. He tapped on the shoulder of the man in front of him. "Is this for Mi – for Father Mortensen?"
The man nodded, then turned round again, fingering a rosary.
Sean shuffled uncomfortably. Romans were strange folk. Who else would do such a peculiar thing, telling a priest everything they'd done wrong? He'd asked Viggo about it one early Sunday morning as the church bells rang. Why would anyone want to do that?
Viggo had laughed. "It's…I suppose it's a spiritual cleansing. And it's reassuring to hear that one's been forgiven for one's transgressions."
"So you can do whatever you please – beat a man, steal from him, tumble his wife – and if the priest says so, you're forgiven?"
"Well, it's not quite that simple. One has to do penance, and make reparations. For example, if I'd stolen money from you, the priest would likely assign me, oh – say three rosaries as a penance, and then I'd have to make restitution to you. I wouldn't get away scot-free."
"But you could steal over and over, and as long as you did your confession and reparation, you wouldn't be eternally punished for owt."
"You're supposed to be genuinely sorry for your sins, and not commit them again." Viggo's grin had been infectious, full of amusement and delight.
Sean had trailed his fingers down Viggo's chest and belly. "Do you tell the priest what we do?"
"No. I don't think it's a sin." But there had been a cloud on Viggo's brow.
"You do."
"It doesn't matter. Not anymore." And Viggo had kissed Sean thoroughly, driving out all thoughts of priests and confessions.
Sean smiled. Like as not Reverend Pomeroy back in Winsley would call him a sinner, but there'd be no confession and forgiveness – he'd simply be hell-bound. Reverend Pomeroy never talked much about forgiveness, though from his childhood Bible classes Sean gathered that Jesus had forgiven quite a lot.
The queue moved quickly enough, shuffling forward every few minutes. Perhaps if one went to confession often enough, sins took less time to tell about. Sean leaned against the wall, looking around with undisguised curiosity. Viggo still went to church sometimes, and often invited Sean, but Sean had always refused. The only time he'd been in a church with Viggo was at the miners' funeral in June. It would be too odd to attend church with Viggo, and too conspicuous.
Still, it was pretty here, and soothing, the way that the Covenanter church in Winsley was soothing when it was devoid of Reverend Pomeroy's presence. He inhaled the mingled aromas of damp stone, polished wood, candle wax, and incense, and gazed at the altar, the little red glass lamp flickering beneath a statue of Mary and the infant Jesus, the large crucifix over the altar. That was not so soothing, the image of a tortured man, bleeding and in agony. Sean frowned and turned away. He was closer to the curtained alcove now; there were only two people in front of him, and as he watched, a shawled woman emerged from the alcove and held the curtain for the next person, a little girl. What on earth could a wee lass have done that was so terrible, Sean wondered. This confession business was all a bit daft.
At last the man in front of him slipped behind the curtain. Sean leaned forward, straining to hear the voices within, but they were only soft murmurs, indecipherable. All at once he felt a little guilty and took a step back. The murmurs went on and on, and it seemed an hour later that the man came out, rosary and cap in hand. He looked no different from when he'd gone in, neither happy nor discontent. Sean watched him slide into a pew and kneel, hiding his face in his hands, then jumped, realizing it was his turn. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the little alcove.
His throat tightened as the darkness surrounded him. It was hot, and smelled faintly of wood and unwashed bodies. Sean stifled the urge to flee; it was nonsense. Right outside the curtain was the huge expanse of the church – plenty of air, still plenty of light. He swallowed and groped forward in the enveloping blackness. His hands struck the wall. A tremor heaved and fluttered in his chest. It was so close, like being trapped in a coffin.
A scraping noise sounded from the other side, and feeble illumination suddenly flickered through a small, patterned square. A soft voice spoke. "May your loving mercy come to me, O Lord. Your Word is a lantern to my feet and a light to my path."
Sean wheeled and took a staggering step forward. His foot hit something hard – a prayer bench, he realized. He sank to his knees, straining to see past the scrolled iron grill. "Father?" His mouth was as dry as paper. He swallowed. "Father Mortensen?"
"Yes."
"It's Sean Bean, Father." There was a silence. Sean cupped his hands, peering fruitlessly through the frustrating metal lacework. "Viggo's secretary."
"Of course. Of course." The voice on the other side of the screen was quiet, but not unfriendly. "This is a surprise, Sean. I was under the impression that you were a Protestant."
"I am. That is –" Sean brought his hands down and folded them. "I'm sorry to come here. I know it's a bit disrespectful. But I was wondering if you knew where Viggo was – if he was staying with you, perhaps?"
"No. I'm afraid I don't know where he is."
Sean rested his head on the wooden frame of the screen. "It's just that – I went to Philadelphia to see him and your father said he'd come back." He wouldn't lie, would he? A priest? "Please, I only want to talk to him." Doubt assailed him, insinuating and ugly. Would Viggo hide himself behind his family from shame, or anger? Had they browbeaten him into avoiding Sean, into condoning Sean's dismissal? It couldn't be! But the doubt was a worm, burrowing through him, eating him in tiny, painful bites. "Please."
"I'm sorry, Sean. I haven't seen him, or spoken to him."
"I got sacked," Sean said. "A man came from Mortensen Coal and sacked me. And when I went to Philadelphia, your mam and dad gave me the boot, and right quick. I didn't mean any harm, or to upset owt in your family – I only wanted to talk to Viggo." Tears stung his eyes. It was easier to say all this in the dark, in the quiet, with only the little square of glowing lacework. He thought he might understand confession after all. He sniffed, and swiped angrily at his nose. "Sorry, Father." He began to stumble to his feet. "Sorry."
"Sean."
"Aye?" Sean thumped onto the hard wooden kneeler again.
There was a sigh from behind the grill. "Sean, I've had some correspondence from my parents. They…they did tell me that you had come by, though they omitted some details. But…." Another sigh emerged. "You must understand that they acted in what they felt were Viggo's best interests. Despite what you might think, they only want him to be happy."
"Aye, I know that." And he did. It was likely true, as they saw it. If his parents had known about him, they'd have condemned Viggo as well. They'd have driven him off, the way Viggo's parents had driven Sean off.
"The trouble is, Viggo has been happier these past few months than I've ever seen him. I've told you that myself, if you recall."
Sean nodded, then realized Michael probably didn't see him. "Aye, I remember that."
"So I am presented with a serious conundrum. The source of what my parents believe to be great unhappiness is in fact a source of tremendous joy. And I know you're not a Catholic, but I don't suppose I need tell you what the Church has to say on the matter."
"No."
"I love my brother, Sean. I don't wish him to come to harm in any way. I can't condone his actions, nor yours. Unfortunately, I can't condone my parents' behavior either. I'm terribly vexed and confounded by all this. Viggo is happy and sinful. My parents are virtuous and miserable. Sometimes I wish I'd become a Jesuit, or a contemplative monk." Michael chuckled.
"I just want to talk to him," Sean whispered.
"I know. I'm sorry, I'm digressing. It's a minor miracle I finish any confessions before sundown. No, I haven't seen him. Father did say he was planning to return to Wilkes-Barre, and I sent him a note, but I've not yet heard from him. It's been two days now. Haven't you any idea where he might have gone?"
"No. That's why I came to you."
"He always did have a tendency to wander off alone. Did you check the coal office?"
"No. Mr. King from Philadelphia said he'd move in there." But not immediately, Sean realized. Hadn't King said he would stay at a hotel for a week so that Sean could sort things out? "Aye, he might be there at that. I'll look. Thank you, Michael – Father, sorry."
"Michael will do. When you see him, would you please tell him to stop by, or at least send a note? I'm starting to worry about the little nincompoop."
Sean grinned despite himself. "Aye, I'll tell him."
"Do. And Sean?"
"Aye?"
"Please know that I'm praying for you both. Though what exactly I'm praying for I haven't quite yet discerned. I hope God will show me in the days to come."
What a strange one Michael was. Still, he'd been far kinder than Viggo's parents, and he'd expected the bitterest condemnation. "I can use the prayers, Father. Thanks."
*
He still had his key, and he rejoiced that the locks hadn't been changed. He burst into the offices, panting. He'd run to the office, hope and anticipation lending wings to his feet. "Viggo?"
The place felt empty and silent. Sean's mood plummeted. He peered into the parlor, then the office. Both rooms were unoccupied.
"Where the hell are you, Viggo?" Sean went into the kitchen. The countertop and fixtures were bare and clean, and the icebox stood empty. He took the stairs two at a time and found the storage rooms and bedroom untouched; Mr. King hadn't moved in yet, and none of Viggo's belongings were about. He came back downstairs and checked the cellar. Nobody; nothing. He trudged back upstairs and into the office, slumping down in Viggo's chair.
The figured Chinese carpet had been removed. Had King done that? Maybe he'd spilled something on it. Otherwise, the place was clean, if a bit dusty. Viggo had paid Noreen extra to come and clean, but it looked like she hadn't been by for a few days. Sean brushed at a speck on the surface of the desk and noticed his notes on the Halloran purchase. He sighed. He'd been so pleased with himself, and now all his efforts had proved useless. Pettishly, he considered crumpling the notes and throwing them away, then chided himself. Viggo would need them, even if Sean wouldn't be around to help. He paged through them idly, then sat bolt upright.
Viggo's handwriting was scribbled here and there in the margins. He'd been here after all.
Slowly, he picked up the telephone. He'd call Gavin at the mine. It was Saturday, but if the place had been closed down, Gavin might be there, checking on things. "Lynwood 1020." He waited, listening to the crackling on the wire.
"I'm sorry, sir. There is no answer."
"Right," Sean said absently, and rang off. He stood up. The floor was a dark, smooth square where the carpet had been removed. It bothered him in a distant and inexplicable way. Mr. King was staying at the Sterling. If Viggo had been here, they'd likely crossed paths. If King hadn't seen him, then what? Sean didn't know, and that was a far more troubling thought than a stupid patch of bare flooring.
He left, worry creasing his brow.
*
Viggo emerged from thick, muddy insensibility in minute increments – not the untroubled and serene surfacing of a man drifting up from sleep, but the confusion and stumbling of someone lost in a dark wood, as if the next step might lead over a cliff. Scarcely aware that he was doing so, he catalogued his discomforts one by one, as if logic and order might shine a lamp upon his disorientation. His head ached like the very devil, so badly that even his eyes hurt. His knee throbbed, his hands tingled, there was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth, and he felt strangely chafed and constrained. The air was cool and damp, though, soothing after the day's heat. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open but beheld only darkness.
His first thought was that Harry Slater had blinded him somehow. He brought his head up sharply, and the back of his skull collided with something that felt like a tree. Crimson and silver sparkled in front of him, and he groaned in pain tinged with relief. Surely the blind didn't see flashes of color. He tried to lean forward and cradle his head in his hands and found it impossible.
All at once he understood why he had felt constricted. He was sitting upright, on a wet stone floor, it seemed, and his arms were wrapped round a post or column or some sort and tied behind him. His chest and waist had also been bound to the post. He moved experimentally, and discovered that his knees and ankles were lashed together as well.
Careful not to move too quickly, he leaned his head against the post and groaned again. What a damned fool he'd been to let Harry and his hulking compatriot get the best of him. He remembered trying to escape them and failing. They'd hit him on the head, and he was fairly certain Harry had cracked two back teeth with the pistol. He remembered waking up feeling heaviness and thick, hot, dusty air surrounding him, and the irregular jolting of cart wheels over a bumpy road. Had he cried out then, and had they struck him again to silence him? He couldn't recall anything else until a moment ago, when he'd struggled back to consciousness here.
And just where was he? And where, for that matter, were Harry and his friend?
Viggo tugged at the tether around his wrists and winced. It was almost too tight to endure, and felt solid and cold, like wire rather than rope. He lifted his head and squinted, searching out the faintest source of light. There was none. When he blinked, there were faint flashes of red, but nothing without to relieve the utter blackness. Fear crept into his belly.
"Hello?" he called softly.
His voice echoed for an instant, then stopped, as if suddenly barricaded. Viggo tamped down his growing apprehension and tried again.
"Hello? Can anyone hear me?"
Again his voice was swallowed. It was the queerest sensation. He shifted his legs, feeling cold wetness beneath him, and a lumpy, uneven surface. He heard water dripping not far away.
He knew where he was now. Harry had brought him to the mine.
"Oh, God." A surge of panic clawed at his insides, making him feel faint. He fought to breathe normally and contain the grim terror that sought to escape. He closed his eyes, ignoring the pounding of his head, and tried to consider his plight from every conceivable perspective. Harry hadn't killed him. It would have been easy enough in the office; they could have strangled him, or suffocated him, or simply bludgeoned him to death. But Harry had said that his father would pay to keep him safe, and that was true. Even if Viggo was in disgrace, his father would likely pay any sum that Harry demanded. Harry might well bankrupt his father, and poor Harald would pay it gladly. And what better place to hide? The tunnels below the Lynwood colliery extended several miles along the bank of the river and even below it, and there were more than two hundred chambers dug into the earth. And now that it had been closed, traffic would come to a stop. He might be imprisoned for weeks before anyone found him.
Viggo opened his eyes, straining to see in the darkness. It was like the pits of hell down here. To mask his fright, he yanked furiously at the bonds around his wrists and body, and clenched his teeth as they bit into his flesh. His hands felt as if they were on fire now, and the pain in his head was worse. His body twitched involuntarily, and all at once he realized how much he hurt, how hungry he was, how thirsty. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Icy sweat trickled down his temples and nausea roiled his stomach. He wanted to scream, but if he screamed, he might never stop. He'd simply scream himself into insanity.
"Please –" He bit his lip. "Please help me." His voice grew louder. "Can anyone hear me?"
"Now, now."
Viggo reared back in shock and fright and hit his head again. Agony surged as if someone had stabbed him in the ear with an ice pick. When his vision cleared, he saw the screened light of a carbide lamp. Dim as it was, it took his dazzled eyes moments to accustom themselves to the sight of Harry Slater, grinning at him happily.
"Bit scared, are we, sir?"
Still feeling sick, Viggo didn't trust himself to speak. He glared at Slater in impotent fury.
"No point in screaming, Vig me lad. You're as far as far can be from anyone hearing you."
Viggo pulled cool air in through his nose and felt a bit better. Cautiously, he peered round his prison, realizing with a sinking heart that he'd been correct. He was in a small chamber, no more than five feet high. Broad, slanting stripes on the walls gleamed with their bounty of coal, and chunks of slate and shale lay on the stone floor. Puddles of glistening standing water lay here and there, as if a sudden rain had fallen. Beyond the chamber was the fathomless black of the tunnel. He could be in any one of a hundred corridors under the earth. "You've made the mistake of your life, Slater," he said.
"And how's that?" Harry seemed genuinely interested.
"You think my father and the police won't realize what you've done? My father knew where I was going."
"Maybe," Harry allowed. "Maybe he did. Does he know if you arrived?"
"I don't know what you mean." Viggo looked down at the shining lengths of copper wire that bound his waist and chest to the timber supporting the roof. The same wire held his knees and ankles fast, and he presumed his wrists were tied with the same material. For the love of God, did Slater think that Viggo was strong enough to break rope?
"Did you tell him you'd arrived?" Harry crouched beside Viggo and held his lamp close to Viggo's face.
Viggo jerked his head away, wincing at the sudden agony that blossomed in his jaw and temple. "Leave me alone."
"Oh, I'll do that, never fear." Harry patted Viggo's cheek and rose to his feet with a groan. He had to duck his head to avoid hitting the low ceiling. "Not as spry as I used to be. You comfortable, sir? Can I get you anything?"
He wouldn't rise to Slater's baiting. "If you let me go at once, I'll say nothing. You'll escape with your life, your freedom, and the money you stole from the safe. I promise you that's a far better bargain than what you'll get if you decide to keep me here. This will be the first place they search."
Harry met his bluff coolly. "It might be. But I doubt it. Tommy's going to Philadelphia tomorrow morning to deliver the note to your dad's house. And your dad's to take the money to Broad Street Station. I'm not daft enough to have him bring it here. That ought to throw him off the scent quick enough."
Viggo tried to think faster than Harry. "Gavin will come, then. He's got to make certain the mine's ventilated."
"But he won't come this far, boy. You're quite a ways from the slope. Gavin won't come any further than the crank house to inspect the fans. I'll say this, though – bloody good thing you installed that ventilation shaft awhile back. The blackdamp would get you in a day."
"My father's hiring the Coal & Iron Police. They'll track you down and see that you end up in prison." Viggo endowed his words with scorn. "You can't possibly think you'll get away with something like this."
A laugh of what sounded like authentic delight pealed forth from Harry's chest, bounced around the small chamber, and dissolved. "I'm surprised at your spirit, lad. I'd had you figured for a soft sort."
"Like Freddy Watkins?"
Harry's smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed to little glinting pinpoints in the dimness. "That's right. Like Freddy."
"Sean was right about you." And Viggo had been such a fool not to heed him more carefully.
"Oh, he was. He was indeed. But don't go thinking that Sean's altogether innocent, sir. That's not true at all, as it happens."
Viggo snorted. "I'm sure."
Harry moved closer, drew his foot back, and kicked Viggo's injured knee with all his strength.
White-hot anguish drove the breath from Viggo's body. Unable to scream, he gasped, his eyes tearing. His body tried to curl in on itself for protection, but he was hampered by the copper wire securing him to the timber. He writhed helplessly for a moment, trying to gulp in air and breathe past the pain in his knee. Hard fingers threaded themselves through his hair and yanked his head back.
"You listen." Harry's breath was sour and smelled of onions. "You listen to me and shut your smart mouth. You know what Freddy Watkins did? He paid Sean to kill me. Four hundred pounds. Not a bad sum, eh? But your sweetheart was too lily-livered to go through with it. He left me tied up in my cellar to piss myself, and took off with the cash. Not too smart. And not good for Freddy."
"It's a lie," Viggo whispered. His knee hurt like fire. He wanted to sob aloud and bit his lip until he tasted blood.
"Tell yourself whatever you want if it makes you feel better, sir. But it's true. I had my fun with Freddy. And now I've got you. And if Sean hasn't run off like the yellow little bastard he is, I might find him first. If I do, I'll bring him down here to keep you company. But since Sean hasn't anyone to pay for his safe return, I might as well have my fun with him too. I'll rip his fucking eyes out and tear his fingers and toes off one by one. How'd you fancy watching something like that, me giving your sweetheart Sean a proper fucking?"
"I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you if you lay one hand on him." Viggo thrashed against his fetters, ignoring the slicing twinges in his wrists and ankles, and the red, flaring agony in his knee.
Harry hurled another echoing laugh into the chamber. He released Viggo's hair and brushed at the tears beneath his eyes with gentle fingers, unperturbed when Viggo wrenched his head away. "Now, now, sir. I mightn't find him at all. You never know. I've got you, one way or t'other, and that's good enough for the moment. Sauce for the goose, you might say."
"You diseased wretch. I wish Sean had killed you."
Harry made a clucking noise with his tongue. "Temper, lad."
"Harry." Another feeble light shone in the tunnel. Tom Gwynnett stuck his head into the chamber. "It's getting late, Harry. We should go."
Viggo studied the fair-haired hulking man. His head still reeled from Harry's threats against Sean, but he tried to think rationally. He was in the hands of a madman, and there was no reasoning with a madman. Perhaps Gwynnett had yet a shred of common sense. "Mr. Gwynnett – surely you can see that this is wrong. If you go to the police, I swear upon my life that I'll give you a thousand dollars. That's a fortune. And you'll serve justice by seeing that Slater lands behind bars." He swallowed. He was so dreadfully thirsty.
Gwynnett frowned and glanced at Harry.
Harry chuckled. "Don't sell yourself so cheaply, lad. We're going to ask for ten thousand from your dad. He can afford it."
"You – ten thousand dollars! That's impossible. He'll never pay it."
"Oh, I think he will, in a few days." Harry moved behind Viggo, sank to his knees, and yanked at Viggo's fingers. He re-emerged in a moment holding Viggo's gold signet ring, and slipped it into a pocket. "You're bloody lucky I'm not sending him this with your finger still attached to it, boy."
"Harry, you're sure nobody will find him down here?" Gwynnett's brow furrowed with anxiety. "What if –"
"Tell the police," Viggo urged. "Please, Mr. Gwynnett."
Harry moved to the far corner of the cramped chamber and picked up Viggo's coat from a crumpled pile of fabric. Viggo strained and saw that the fabric was the Chinese carpet from the coal office. So that was how they'd transported him to the mines unnoticed. He watched as Harry went through the pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. Crumpling it into a wad, he walked toward Viggo.
Viggo saw his efforts at persuasion coming to a rapid close. "Mr. Gwynnett, please. Please help me."
"He'll choke, Harry, if you stuff it too deep."
A wide, leering grin crossed Harry's face. "That's a right knee-slapper, Tommy." He unknotted Viggo's necktie and tied it securely round the balled-up kerchief, then knelt and forced it into Viggo's mouth, tying it at the back of his neck. "Just in case anyone should come calling." He rose, his trousers stained with black, oily water. "Now then, Mr. Mortensen. You just sit there like a good lad, and everything will be set to rights. I'll give you a bit of advice. Don't be struggling too much." He reached up and tapped the ceiling, producing a faint, hollow reverberation. "Hear that? That timber's all that's holding this bit of rock up. You bring it down, and you might bring the ceiling down on top of you."
Viggo stared up at the ceiling, then at Harry's face. He had to be bluffing.
But Harry's face was devoid of his customary jeering humor. "And mind the rats. They oftentimes won't attack a live person, though they might if you're still enough. They bite at the poor mules' legs, did you know that? Good thing the creatures have been put out to pasture while the mine's closed. But that means they might pay more attention to you. And now that the miners aren't here, and there aren't any dinner pails to steal from –" Harry shrugged. "It could be a difficulty, you see. But then again, if you're wriggling too much, there's the problem of the ceiling."
"Harry, come on," Gwynnett said. He was staring at Viggo, and even in the dim glow looked frightened and slightly green. "It's late."
"Let's hope your dad pays when I tell him to," Harry said, ignoring Tom Gwynnett. He picked up his carbide lamp and moved toward the door. "I think a fellow can survive three days without food or water. That's what I hear, at least." He smiled. "I might visit you tomorrow. Maybe Sean will be with me, too. 'Bye, sir." He backed out of the chamber, and moved out of sight. The light disappeared with them, leaving Viggo in pitch darkness as their footfalls and low murmurs faded away.
*
It seemed nobody was happy to see Sean lately. Mr. King's expression as he crossed the opulent lobby of the Sterling Hotel could have peeled paint from the walls. "Mr. Bean, this is most irregular. I was about to dine. If you've changed your mind about that check, I'm afraid it's too late. Mr. Mortensen has rescinded the offer." He straightened the seams of his gloves, pointedly not extending a hand.
"I'm sorry about it. I won't keep you long." Sean glanced around the lobby, at the pale summer gowns and smartly tailored dinner clothes of the hotel guests. Even the few children present were subdued and dignified, beautifully turned out in organdies and Little Lord Fauntleroy suits. They all seemed to be looking at him with cold disdain and giving him a wide berth as they passed, as if he smelled foul. "I only want to know if you've spoken to Viggo – to the younger Mr. Mortensen, that is."
King, affixing a fragrant white gardenia in his buttonhole, peered at Sean with obvious irritation. "Indeed I haven't. Good night."
Sean caught King's sleeve as the man pivoted on his heel. He saw a flash of pearl and diamond cufflink. "Mr. King, I'm not intending to be a nuisance."
"And yet, Mr. Bean, you are." King plucked his sleeve free, but remained where he was.
Sean rushed on, sensing the man's patience was fast dwindling. "Mr. Mortensen left Philadelphia for Wilkes-Barre on Thursday morning. His dad told me that himself. It's now Saturday evening."
"Then surely he would have come to the offices. Or he might be piqued because I've replaced him. I really don't see what this is all about."
"Were you there all day Friday?"
King frowned. "Why, no. I spent a good part of the day at the colliery office with Mr. Rowe. I will admit that you and Mr. Mortensen left things in fairly decent order."
"He was at the Franklin Street office on Friday. I can prove it." Sean explained about the margin notes in the Halloran paperwork. "Our paths never crossed, don't you see? And Viggo's valet said he hadn't been by the house. His brother hasn't seen him. So all I want to bloody know, Mr. King, is where he's got to?"
The dinner bell rang. A small crowd flowed around the pair as they stood in the center of the lobby. King scrutinized Sean for a long moment, oblivious to the hotel patrons' well-bred curiosity. Some of the stiffness left his spine, and he leaned close to Sean. "What you seem to be suggesting, Mr. Bean, is that Mr. Mortensen has met with foul play."
Dread twisted Sean's guts into a hard knot. "I hope not, Mr. King." He tried to meet King's coolness in equal measure. "But Mr. Mortensen's a sensible sort, and he'd not wander off and disappear without saying something to – to someone. I'm concerned for his safety." Concerned. That was a nice, genteel word, suitable to the tasteful elegance of the Sterling lobby. Better than frantic, or bloody barmy.
"Do you believe his disappearance has anything to do with the closure of the mine, and the miners' unrest?"
"I don't know. Could be."
Nathaniel King moved in with lawyerly precision. "Is there anyone who bears a personal grudge against him?"
"Viggo? He hasn't an enemy in the world. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
King was observing him keenly. "Mr. Bean?"
"Mr. King – I know it's a lot to ask, but would you call the police?" Sean wrung his hands in anxiety. "I'd tell them myself, I would that, but I don't think they'd believe me. You're a man of substance; they'd listen to owt you had to say."
"Nat," said a voice behind Sean, "What on earth's keeping you?" Sean turned and saw Chester Welles, his plump cheeks florid above the immaculate black and white of his dinner clothes. He gave no sign of greeting or recognition as Welles looked his rumpled suit up and down, then appeared to place him and drew his brows together into an unprepossessing scowl. Grace had been right; the man did look like a carp. "Putting out another mine fire, Nat, old boy?"
"I'll be along presently, Chester. No need to wait for me."
"Whatever you say, Nat." Welles gave Sean a hard look as if to remind him that it wasn't at all proper for Sean to foul the Sterling's rarefied air with his working-class stink, and then retreated into the dining room.
Sean ignored Welles' departure. "I've got to go, sir. There's someone I need to see. Will you call the police?"
King sighed and nodded. "I will, Mr. Bean, tomorrow. But I shall take particular care to make my inquiries discreet. I don't wish to alarm Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen when there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this." He caught Sean's arm, holding it in a surprisingly strong grip. "And Mr. Bean – you mustn't do anything rash. Do you hear me? The colliery has been peaceful thus far, and I intend to keep it that way. If you should provoke the miners into further agitation, Mortensen Coal will stop at nothing to hold you responsible."
"Oh, aye." Didn't Viggo's safety matter to them? And who would Mortensen Coal hold responsible if Viggo was found dead in a ditch somewhere? Sean, like as not. He gave a bitter snort. "Thanks, Mr. King. I suppose I can't ask for more than that. I promise I won't…do owt that's stupid." He turned to go, and then wheeled back. "Mr. King – did you have the flowered carpet cleaned? The one in the office?"
"No, I didn't. I assumed the maid had taken it to clean. I understand she has a key."
"She does," Sean said. "But it's missing altogether."
King looked thoughtful. "I see. Perhaps I'll check the safe tomorrow morning. Nothing else of value was missing?"
"Nowt that I noticed." He felt as if he should say something else, but there was nothing more to be said. He nodded briefly to King and to the doorman who bowed, wordlessly conveying a wealth of disapproval at Sean's clothes. It was true. Nobody was happy to see him. Too bloody bad. He sighed and stepped out onto the hot street.
He had suspicions, but few certainties. And King was right – if he angered the miners, there might be hell to pay later. He pulled out his watch. It was too early to go to McGerrity's, where he might hear a useful whisper or two. And he was famished. If he didn't get something to eat, he'd drop where he stood.
He headed east on Market Street, toward the boardinghouse.
*
The boarders were already gathered for supper when Sean arrived. Knowing that Mrs. Donnelly would scold if he were late, he dashed into the kitchen to wash his hands and nearly collided with her daughter at the sink. "All right, Eileen. How are you?"
Eileen gaped at him. "Sean. Where've you been?"
"Hazleton, looking at some properties for Mr. Mortensen." Sean scrubbed briskly and dried his hands on a tea towel. "Sorry. Your mam will have my head if I'm not at the table in short order." He hurried into the dining room, brushing at his suit. Murmuring a "Good evening," he slipped into a vacant chair and unrolled his napkin, settling it into his lap. He beamed at Mrs. Donnelly, who gave him a startled glance, and arched his neck to see what she'd made for Saturday supper. Usually it was ham and beans, but tonight it looked to be a clam chowder or some other sort of fish stew. Sean's stomach rumbled in anticipation, and he plunged his spoon into his chowder, savory, creamy, and thick with generous chunks of fish and potatoes.
It took him a moment to realize that conversation in the dining room had dwindled into utter silence. He looked up and saw that almost everyone at the table was staring at him. As his brow knotted in consternation, the diners began to eat, clinking their silverware against Mrs. Donnelly's china. Only old Harcourt Earley remained motionless, looking like some Old Testament prophet with his bushy grey beard and his whorled eyebrows, now drawn together over eyes that regarded him with steady contempt.
Sean sat up and examined his fellow diners, all of whom now seemed ravenous. He intercepted a look of nervous anxiety between Dorothy Knorr and Emmaley Adamson. Emmaley saw him. "Miss Knorr, will you pass the butter, please?" Dorothy passed the butter without comment and tore into her bread as if she were starving. Sean began to eat again, but a needle of disquiet pricked him. The air in the room seemed weighted with a thrumming tension he didn't understand, and he was the center of it.
He was not to remain unenlightened long. "It positively astounds me," Harcourt Earley said in his quavering old man's voice, "that you would have the utter audacity to sit among decent folk, to pretend at conviviality and fellowship. It astounds me."
So the chickens had come home to bloody roost, had they? News traveled fast in Wilkes-Barre. Sean swallowed another mouthful of soup.
"Well?" Earley's hand slammed down on the linen-covered table. Silver and glassware rattled. "I am speaking to you, young man! What have you to say for yourself?"
Sean wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Nowt. Sounds as if you've got everything sewed up." He directed a cool stare at each of his tablemates; none, save Mr. Earley, would meet his eyes. The single ladies stared at their plates, blushing. Craig Lahr averted his face, but there was disgust on it, not embarrassment. The widow Newcomb watched Earley, her drawn visage puzzled. Mr. Specht, as ever, seemed on the verge of tears.
"You don't deny it?"
"Well now. What is it you want me to deny?" Sean knew he should have been cringing, apologetic, but he was tired of crawling. "Come on, then. I know there's a name or two you're dying to call me. I'll give you a bloody earful if that's what you want." Me and Viggo arse-fuck each other. Is that what you want to hear, you mardy, rotten bastard?
"Shameless!" Earley's face flushed a mottled red. "If you think I will step into the sewer and make utterance of your behavior in the presence of ladies, you are sadly mistaken." He stood, drew himself to full Old Testament height, and addressed Mrs. Donnelly, coming in with a salad of lettuce and tomatoes. "Mrs. Donnelly, I must insist that Mr. Bean be evicted at once. If he is not, I shall presume that this boardinghouse is no longer fit for decent habitation and I will vacate the premises myself. Moreover, I shall let it be known that you willingly harbor degenerates and…inverts." He spat the last word.
So much for the presence of ladies, Sean thought.
Mrs. Donnelly chewed on her lower lip. Her gaze met Sean's for a moment and dropped to the bowl in her arms.
Sean rose to his feet. "It's no bother, Mrs. Donnelly. You needn't throw me out. I'll be leaving." He wouldn't be ashamed, not in front of these people. The lot of them put together weren't worth one hair on Viggo's head. "You can eat in peace now, Mr. Earley. No mollies about to stop up your bleeding digestion." The widow Newcomb put a hand up to her mouth.
"It would be advisable that you leave Wilkes-Barre altogether, Mr. Bean. No decent hotel or business will have you. Certainly no family of repute." Earley sat down again, flushed now with triumph.
"Oh, aye. I'm sure you'll see to that, you miserable old bastard," Sean said.
He ignored the shocked gasps of the ladies at the table, marched up to his room, and packed, glad he'd been frugal with his wardrobe; all his clothes fit in two suitcases, and he had no other personal possessions to speak of. He swept his shaving kit and hairbrushes into one suitcase, then picked up the little glazed plate that held a few dried red tulip petals from the bouquet Viggo had sent him some time ago.
The fight and anger drained out of him. He sat heavily on the bed. With Viggo about, all this might have been bearable. Viggo had all the grace and dignity he lacked. He'd have soothed Sean's anger and smoothed his ruffled feathers. In his quiet, steady way, he'd have made things right. Maybe they'd go off together, the two of them, and they'd live where nobody knew or cared a halfpenny about their affection for one another.
Or would they? Sean had a sudden vision of the future: the pair of them driven from town to town when the whispers became too loud, too pointed. Disrepute and humiliation would surround them, and poverty on the heels of that, for who would employ them? Viggo would grow to resent him for dragging him into debasement, and for separating him from his family and fortune. They'd part in anger, and Sean would end his days alone, sour, and perpetually disappointed at the hand life had dealt. Much like Harcourt Earley, he realized with a sharp, bitter chuckle.
And that was supposing that Viggo ever wanted to see him again. Maybe his parents had already persuaded him to abandon Sean. Maybe Viggo wasn't in trouble at all; maybe he'd fled, avoiding Sean, like the rest.
"Rot," he whispered. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you horse's arse." But the harsh admonition helped not at all.
There was a soft knock on the door. Sean heaved himself off the bed and flung the door open, prepared to have furious words with whoever wanted to torment him further.
Eileen Donnelly stood well back as if prepared for a blow. She drew a thick letter from her apron pocket and handed it to Sean. "My mam asked me to give you this."
Sean snatched it and turned on his heel, scarcely hearing her whispered apology. He examined the handwriting, and his heart leapt. He put the letter in his coat pocket and gently tipped the dead tulip petals into his open suitcase. He clapped his hat on the back of his head, hefted the suitcases, and walked downstairs and out of the boardinghouse without looking back.
On the corner of Northampton and South Main, he stacked his suitcases under the awning of Percy Brown's meat market. The odor of raw meat and blood stung his nostrils, but he was too impatient to find a bench. He opened the letter and read:
July 18, 1906
My dear Sean,
I scarcely know where to begin. So much has happened in the space of a few days that I wonder if I'll have paper and ink enough to tell you all about it! The first thing I should deliver, though, is a heartfelt apology. I hadn't any idea that you had telephoned, and I am dreadfully sorry for the manner in which I can well guess you were received. I know you will understand when I tell you that all has been revealed, though I have remained as discreetly silent as possible under the circumstances. Of course my parents, Mother in particular, are in a complete wax, and the atmosphere in this house is beginning to crush me beneath its weight.
More of that later. The most shocking news of the moment, Sean, is that Gracie is gone. But will you be shocked? I confess I'm not certain.
Sean read with wide eyes. "I'm shocked, Viggo," he murmured, and then burst into quiet laughter, earning a few turned heads. Well, well. Little Grace. And Miss Welles! Wouldn't that be one in the eye for her stuffy dad? He scanned the news avidly, shaking his head. There was more, much more. Viggo was a voluble letter writer, and it felt as if he were sitting beside Sean, confiding everything in his soft, slightly raspy voice, tinged with wit and affection. Sean paused to blow his nose.
I'm glad you dismissed Harry. He seemed quite dishonest to me, other suspicions notwithstanding, and I never cared for his sly, insinuating remarks. I know things are unpleasant between you, and it's better that he's gone. I do hope it won't cause too much trouble with the union. However did they fall under his influence? It's a mystery to me.
Sean's stomach tightened at that.
Finally, here's a spot of good news for you – I hope it's good news, at any rate: I'm coming back to Wilkes-Barre. Hang it all. Oh, don't mistake me. I love my parents dearly, but their disapproval is beginning to become something of an albatross around my neck, and I don't fancy myself an Ancient Mariner just yet! I'm simply not at home any longer. Perhaps you know what that feels like? The truth of the matter is that I know where my deepest heart lies, and my most fervent hope is that your heart is similarly inclined. Am I sounding foolish? Possibly. It's very late, nearly three in the morning, and I'm still deliriously happy that I heard your voice. I want to hear it again, but not distorted by horrid modern machinery, if you please! I will be home within a week, I promise. We have much to discuss, you and I, not least of which is the future. Don't be apprehensive; I'm full of hope and anticipation. Despite this grand mausoleum surrounding me, my heart is light. I shall see you very soon.
Yours,
Viggo
Sean folded the letter closed with trembling hands. That was not the letter of a man who was trying to avoid unpleasant certainties. And it had been written only three days before; surely his parents hadn't persuaded him to eschew Sean in that time. No, the Mortensens' anger had only proved that Viggo had left of his own accord, if more precipitately than he'd intended. But if that were true…again the question arose. Where was Viggo now?
Foul play. Mr. King's ominous phrase echoed hollowly in his memory. He opened the letter again, rereading Viggo's remarks about Harry Slater.
Carefully, he stuffed the letter back in his pocket and looked at his watch. McGerrity's would be open now.
*
TBC
