Page 2 of A Sonata for the Fiery Lady
Melisa shuddered at the memory of overhearing her lady-in-waiting whispering about the evil deeds of Lord Smithers. Miss Thorsten had wondered aloud why Lord Stanton would allow such a man to marry his daughter, but the servants reasoned that their master truly did not know the real Lord Smithers. But Melisa now felt like she had a realistic idea of what type of married life she’d have. And it didn’t look like a pretty picture.
Melisa sighed as she leaned forward and took a piece of toast from the breakfast tray, spreading jam on it before taking a bite. She’d finally started to feel hungry after a while and knew that it would be important to keep up her health. It would be no good if she allowed herself to waste away simply because she had no hope for her future. Instead, Melisa knew that she should remain as strong as she could just in case an opportunity arose that allowed her to escape this engagement.
“Perhaps Lord Smithers will choke and die on his dinner tonight?” Melisa wondered aloud as she began to giggle. It was an evil thing to say, and she hoped that God would forgive her. But it was those types of thoughts that allowed Melisa to capture some sort of hope that her future wouldn’t be completely miserable.
Chapter 2
“Father! Someone is at the door!” Oliver called out from his bed at the back of the loft apartment. He’d been up late last night after performing for another prestigious family. When he’d returned to the apartment after the performance, he’d noticed that his father was still not home, wondering if he’d gone to the gaming hells again. But surely the man had returned home by now and would answer the door?
As the banging on the front door continued, Oliver was forced to get out of bed and hastily pull on a pair of trousers. He walked from his room at the back of the apartment and crossed the common room till he reached the door, pulling it quickly open as anger crossed his face.
“Are you Mr Oliver Quinn, son of Mr Edward Quinn?” the man asked directly without greeting him. Oliver wasn’t expecting a constable to show up at his door, causing him to still as his mind raced to think what had happened for the officer to be at his door.
“Yes, that is I,” Oliver replied, his hand still on the door handle as his fist closed around it.
“My name is Constable Williams, and I have come to inform you that last night Mr Edward Quinn was shot in the alleyway outside of a popular gaming hell. No one saw the shooter, but your father’s body was found after the sound of the pistol was heard. You’ll need to answer a few questions, Mr Quinn,” the constable said so quickly that Oliver had a hard time reasoning his words.
The constable continued to speak, but Oliver heard none of it as the news of his father’s death washed over him. He felt sick to his stomach and a bit dizzy as he leaned heavily on the door, afraid that he might faint.
“My father is dead?” Oliver asked, querying what the constable had said.
The man just stared at Oliver, noticeably frustrated. “Yes, Mr Quinn; that is what I said. Your father was shot outside of Luthiers. The body is down in the morgue, and you’ll have to come with me now to identify it. You also need to explain where you were last night since most are wondering if you were the one that killed Mr Edward Quinn,” the constable said, clearly annoyed to have needed to repeat himself.
Oliver blanched, surprised that he would be considered a suspect. “Constable, I was performing with a troupe of musicians at Lord Hawthorne’s last night. You may enquire with his lordship if you need confirmation. The musicians were sent away at eleven o’clock, after which I returned straight away since I have another performance this evening,” Oliver explained, fighting the urge to vomit. He still felt dizzy as his mind tried to process that his father was not only dead, but murdered.
“I’ll be sure to enquire with Lord Hawthorne. So, you are a musician?” the constable asked.
“Yes, I’m a pianist. Tonight, I will be performing with other musicians for Lord Stanton’s ball. I’m expected at the Earl’s house at four o’clock for rehearsal,” Oliver explained, wondering if he was still dreaming. But when he pinched his leg, hard, all he felt was pain.
“Well then, you better come with me. We’ll identity the body, and I’ll get your sworn statement. You should be able to make it in time if we leave now,” Constable Williams said as he gestured to the hallway.
Oliver simply nodded his head. “Just give me a minute to collect myself,” Oliver said as he shut the door partially and returned to his room to finish dressing. He threw some water on his face, using it to comb back his light brown hair. Once he felt collected, he returned to the door and stepped out with the constable, locking the door behind him.
There were no words needed as he followed the man quickly down the many flights of stairs to the street, the morning air rushing to greet Oliver as he followed the constable a little way down the crowded street and to a waiting carriage. People in this part of town were always up before the rising sun. Since his area consisted of mostly those who worked for businesses or as servants for wealthy masters, everyone had to rise early to carry out the day’s orders. For Oliver, he was employed by varying masters, his skills at the piano earning him many invitations to play at all manner of celebrations. But it still didn’t earn him enough to relocate himself and his father to a better part of town.
Once situated in the carriage, the constable knocked on the side of the carriage, signalling for the driver to commence to the morgue. Oliver’s stomach tightened in knots as he thought about having to go to such a place. His eyes watched those on the street walking quickly to make it in time for their morning assignments. Even though he prided himself on being able to earn an income doing what he was passionate about, at this moment he’d give it all up to avoid confirming that his father had been killed.
Oliver’s heart started to beat hard against his ribs as the carriage came up to a black building that had a small white plaque hanging from beside the front door. From appearances alone, this building told passers to beware. And as Oliver stepped down out of the carriage after the constable, his hands began to feel clammy as they approached the front door.
Constable Williams didn’t even knock as he opened the door and motioned for Oliver to step in first. The pungent smell of chemicals hit Oliver the moment he walked in, causing him to crinkle his nose at the stench. The inside of the building was completely white, not a floral print in sight. Even the floors were marble, making Oliver’s boots sound on the floor as he followed the constable down a hallway. Coming to a door, the man opened it, revealing a set of stairs descending far below.
“Right this way, Mr Quinn,” the constable said as he lit a lantern hanging at the top of the stairs before descending below. Oliver followed behind without a word, the stench of the place seeming to increase as they travelled below.
“Good day, Constable,” a man greeted them at the bottom of the stairs. It felt like they were in a basement now, completely made of stone. As Oliver looked behind the man that had greeted them, he saw what looked to be access to the underground sewers. The smell of rot filled his nostrils as he stayed close to the constable in case they became separated as the two men moved further into the room.
“The murdered man’s body is right over here. The one from early this morning,” the portly man said. Oliver couldn’t understand how the man was so rotund when he himself was having trouble keeping the bile in his stomach down. And as the undertaker moved to the body that was lying on a table, a white sheet over it, Oliver stepped closer as the face was revealed.
Never would Oliver be able to get his father’s deceased features from his mind as he peered down at his agonised face and quickly turned away. “Yes, that is my father, Mr Edward Quinn,” Oliver confirmed as he wrapped his arms around his body and started to shake.
“Come this way, Mr Quinn. You can make funeral arrangements back upstairs with Mrs Jenkins,” Constable Williams said as he walked Oliver back upstairs. Tears were gathering in Oliver’s eyes now as he followed the constable quickly up the stairs, the smell of rot seeming to fall away as he was led to an office.
The room was such a stark contrast that Oliver stopped and stared at the small room. A single desk and a few chairs were the only furniture, but the walls had been papered in a soft blue design, the floor carpeted in such a plush material that he could feel it under his boots, and several flowering plants hung from hooks in the ceiling, making the room feel more inviting.
“I’ll be waiting for you outside, Mr Quinn,” the constable said before leaving the room. Oliver then noticed a woman sitting at the desk and quickly took a seat in a chair.
“Good morning, Mr Quinn. My name is Mrs Jenkins. I’ll be helping you prepare funeral arrangements for your relative. I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Mrs Jenkins said in such a monotone voice that Oliver thought that her words must be scripted. Despite how welcoming the room was, this woman made him feel uneasy, as though he was trespassing in her personal bedchamber.
For the next half hour, Oliver answered questions about his father, from religion to heritage, to preferred way of being buried or cremated. Having never talked to his father about his will or preferences after death, Oliver did his best to honour his father’s memory, but also made choices that he could afford.
