Mind of the Phoenix, page 7
“I will ask all the questions, Del–Moira,” he instructs, and I wonder how many times he will have to correct himself before he starts automatically calling me by my first name. “I will tell them that you are an Elite blocker–”
“I’d rather be a concubine than one of them.”
“So that when it comes to our interrogation with the maid, you’ll be permitted to read her mind,” he says, ignoring my interruption. His green eyes then glance at me austerely as he adds, “You’re to only read her mind of the crime scene, but I would also like you to see if her mind has been tampered with by the Phoenix.”
“Alright,” I mumble, feeling buoyed by the idea of reading someone’s mind.
We leave the vehicle and head toward the door. The butler, a tall, dark-skinned man, opens the door and takes our coats. He’s shocked by the cropped length of my dark hair but has the decency not to gawk. He undeniably has much practice when it comes to turning away at scandalous affairs. He directs us to a parlour room where Mrs. Darwitt is already seated elegantly on a chair. She’s a beauty with gorgeous golden locks. Her face seems to glow despite the shadows beneath her eyes, and then my gaze drops to the protruding stomach beneath the silky folds of her dress. I instinctively touch my own belly, but then quickly hide the behaviour when I catch the detective’s keen gaze on my hand. The detective skillfully ushers me toward the velvet, rust-coloured sofa so that I have no choice but to sit beside him. As they exchange polite introductions, I try to ignore the sound of a screaming infant that has suddenly pervaded my thoughts.
“I understand that bringing up the death of your husband will be painful, but I am bound by the law to ask you the mandatory questions when an Elite member has died,” says the detective.
“I understand, detective,” replies Mrs. Darwitt, her hand resting on the top of her round belly.
Pregnant and now widowed. Normally, I would pity such a circumstance, but she most likely has enough money to take care of her and the baby for a long time. Then again, I have no idea how Mr. Darwitt spent his money, so I can’t say for certain if he had left a hefty sum. She’s so young, too, probably around my age. The Elite governs the breeding rights of my kind, and it’s illegal for us not to use protection if we haven’t been sanctioned to procreate. Of course, that doesn’t stop some people from trying to mate nor does the law protect people from rape. I’ve begun to fidget with my dress.
“I would like you to recall the events of that night in your perspective.”
“I went to bed early like I usually do,” she explains. “I believe it was around seven thirty. I had just begun to doze off when I was startled awake by a loud bang. The time then was a quarter past eight. I rushed downstairs as fast as I could.” She pauses and looks down at her stomach. “I would have fallen down the stairs if it hadn’t been for Arnold. He caught me and told me that I shouldn’t go into my husband’s study, that it wouldn’t be good for me and the baby.”
“Did you go into the study, Mrs. Darwitt?”
“No.”
“Now, for these next two questions I am able to look into the records, but if you could answer them truthfully it would save us both a lot of time,” he says. “Did your husband ever visit the memory house?”
“No, not that I am aware of.”
“And the dream house?”
She shakes her head. “Again, I assume no.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Darwitt,” he says. “We appreciate you taking the time out of your day to answer our questions. Now, if you could send in–”
“What about the pleas–” I begin, but Keenan’s hand is suddenly resting on my leg, squeezing as if to quiet me. I immediately clamp my mouth shut, and Mrs. Darwitt gives us a curious look.
“If you could please send in the maid who was in your husband’s study that night and allow us to conduct our interrogation in private, I would appreciate that,” continues the detective.
“Of course,” says Mrs. Darwitt. “It was a pleasure to meet you, detective.”
He stands up and nods his head in polite farewell. Mrs. Darwitt returns the gesture and then exits the room. I notice with annoyance that she didn’t even address me in her departure, as if I wasn’t even in the room or worthy of the courtesies extended to other human beings. I conclude that she is haughty just like the other women of high society, and I no longer pity her situation. As soon as she is gone, the detective sits back down beside me on the couch and glares at me.
“I told you to be quiet, Moira.”
“You forgot to ask her if her husband was a client at the pleasure house,” I mutter accusingly.
“I didn’t forget,” he says. “If you won’t be quiet, then at least consider how a young pregnant widow would feel if we asked her if her husband was a frequent customer of the pleasure house.”
“Oh. I suppose you’re right.”
When the maid enters the room, the detective stands and directs her to sit beside me on the sofa while he takes the chair that Mrs. Darwitt had sat in. He does this purposely, so that when he asks me to read the maid’s mind I don’t have to reach far to touch her. Though she’s undoubtedly several years older than Mrs. Darwitt, her nervous behaviour makes her appear younger. She’s trying not to look at me as the detective begins to ask his questions, and I speculate on whether it is out of fear, or a blatant dismissal like Mrs. Darwitt.
“You were in Mr. Darwitt’s study with him on January seventh and the only one to bear witness to the incident,” he says. “Am I correct, Sophia?”
She nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember if the letter you had given him that night had come with the morning mail or if someone had personally delivered it?”
“It was with the mail, sir,” she answers timidly.
He gestures toward me and says, “This is Moira. She’s one of the Elite’s blockers.” The maid anxiously glances at me, and I try to give her an encouraging smile as her fear becomes obvious. Her eyes widen, and I assume that I must have displayed too many teeth. “Will you permit her to read your mind, Sophia? She has been instructed to only read the memory that pertains to the incident on January seventh.” I notice that he’s careful not to say ‘suicide’.
The maid glances at him and nods solemnly. I hold out my hand, and after a moment she reluctantly places her trembling palm against mine. I look straight into her blue eyes, because even with permission people tend to still resist, trying to fight your presence in their minds. It’s comforting to them if we maintain eye contact, and also reminds their subconscious that the mind invading theirs is the person in front of them. She keeps flickering between my hazel eye and my blue one, and then finally settles on the blue. Beneath her own blue irises, her mind opens up, showing no resistance as I search for the particular memory.
Sophia walks into the study behind a man who has begun to gain extra weight around his middle and then smiles politely at him. His blond hair has already begun to thin, and I estimate he must be in his mid-thirties. He looks vaguely familiar, but I quickly dismiss it. Sophia doesn’t seem to harbour any ill thoughts toward the man and thinks that he is a lovely husband to Estella.
“Will you be requiring anything this evening, sir?”
“A drink, Sophia,” the man responds cheerily as he sits in his luxurious leather chair behind the ornately carved mahogany desk. “Today has been a good day and requires celebration.”
“The usual, sir?” she inquires, her hand hovering over a dark bottle.
“No, Sophia,” he says, smiling. “Today calls for the cognac.”
“Yes, sir.” She pours him a glass, and then sets it on his desk. “Oh, I almost forgot, sir. A letter arrived today addressed to you.” She pulls out a white envelope from the pouch in her apron and hands it to him.
Mr. Darwitt takes a sip of the amber liquid before examining the envelope curiously. He opens the letter and pulls out a thin sheet of paper.
“Is there anything else that you will require, sir?”
The cheerful expression on Mr. Darwitt’s face has vanished and he doesn’t appear to hear the maid.
“Sir, is everything alright?” asks Sophia, concerned. She is confused because normally Mr. Darwitt responds to her immediately.
The man reaches into his right hand drawer and pulls out a revolver. The sight of the weapon frightens her, and she has the sudden idea that he intends to shoot her. Without hesitation, he places the barrel into his mouth and pulls the trigger. I see the gruesome scene of blood splattering on the wall behind the man before I hear Sophia’s horrified screams.
I release the memory and realize that Sophia is crying softly. I have pulled the memory to the forefront of her mind, and she is distressed by having to view the vivid scene once more. The sight of someone killing themselves in front of you is horrifying and changes a person. I can see the change already shifting behind Sophia’s eyes. I quickly stifle the memories that try to force their way out of the darkness, for I have no intention of reminiscing while in the presence of strangers.
“Thank you, Sophia,” says the detective. “You may go, but please send in the butler.”
Once the maid leaves, he sits beside me again and looks at me expectantly. “Has her mind been tampered with?”
“No, I didn’t see any mark of persuasion.”
“I assumed as much,” he mutters, pensively beating his index finger on his thigh, and I begin to associate the unconscious behaviour as something he does when he is deep in thought.
The butler enters the room, and the detective gestures for him to sit in the chair across from him. “Your name is Arnold, am I correct?” The butler responds with a quick nod. “Arnold, do you know if Mr. Darwitt visited the pleasure house? The house will have records of every transaction, but it saves me time if you tell me the truth.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Darwitt took to visiting the pleasure house more often when Mrs. Darwitt became pregnant.”
“I see,” says the detective, his face carefully neutral. “And had Mr. Darwitt visited the pleasure house that night?”
“Yes, sir.”
I sigh in disgust, and the detective cuts me a sharp glare. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Constable Evans had been engaged, yet he had spent a lot of time at the pleasure house. And now we discover that Mr. Darwitt, who had a young, beautiful, pregnant wife, had also visited the pleasure house. I’m positive that several of my own clients had been either engaged or married. I’m just as equally certain that the women would blame me rather than the men, as if it were my fault for luring them into my boudoir with my beauty.
“Thank you very much, Arnold,” says the detective, rising. “Kindly inform Mrs. Darwitt that our interrogation is complete once we have gone.”
I rise and follow Keenan into the foyer. But it isn’t until we are outside that I swear under my breath in annoyance. The detective turns to regard me beneath the rim of his bowler hat, his breath clouding the air momentarily in the slight chill of March.
“Is there a problem, Moira?”
“Yes, actually there is. It’s just so typical. Mr. Darwitt had a beautiful young wife waiting for him at their home, but instead he kept visiting the pleasure house. God, she’s pregnant.”
“What do you consider typical about that scenario?”
“Is there any man out there who is actually faithful to his wife, detective?” I ask instead of answering his question.
“I’m sure there is, Moira.”
“Really?” I say, and cross my arms over my chest. “Do you know any?”
He stares at me for a moment, and it is the first time that he glances at one eye and then the other. “The Chief of Police has been married to his wife for twenty-five years, and in that time I’ve never known him to commit infidelity.”
“But how–”
“How would I know?” he says, finishing my sentence. “I suppose I don’t, really. But I think something like that would be hard to hide if you did it more than once.”
I grunt, but don’t pursue the conversation further. I’ll let him think that he has made a point when in fact he hasn’t. The Chief of Police could have still cheated on his wife without the detective’s awareness, but I don’t bother mentioning that fact since it would only be useless. I suddenly wonder if that is the reason why the detective isn’t married yet. Maybe he just couldn’t commit to one person and enjoys his freedom where he doesn’t have to attend or justify his behaviour to someone else.
“I forgot to mention that tomorrow evening I have to attend an event at the residence of one of the Elite,” he informs me as we drive back to the hotel. “I’m to bring you along with me.”
“To a social gathering?”
I’m surprised and excited at the prospect of going out in the evening rather than being stuck at the hotel. I’ve never been to a private event and, even though I’ll undoubtedly be introduced to various Elite members, I think it would be worth the trouble just to avoid the boredom I inevitably face in my hotel room.
“Yes, that means you’ll have to wear an evening gown, so I will have one delivered to you tomorrow.” He then glances at my hair with furrowed brows. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do about that hair.”
“Is it really that awful?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
The corner of his mouth quirks upwards and I suspect he’s trying not to laugh at me. “No, even if it is rather uneven.”
I smile brightly at him. “Well, it was either this or trying to brush out the knots in my hair and potentially yank clumps right out of my skull.”
He parks the vehicle in front of the hotel and turns to face me. “I must warn you though, that because no one but the Elite knows who you are and that you’re aiding in the investigation, you will be introduced as my–” He stops abruptly and appears to struggle with what word to use.
“Oh, come on, detective,” I say sweetly. “There’s no need to be shy.”
“You will be introduced as my property,” he states finally. “So, your name will be Moira Edwards for the time being.”
“Hmm, and do I get any sort of payment for my cooperation, master?”
“Yes,” he says quietly, his eyes never wavering from my gaze. “That I won’t throw you back in prison.”
I laugh heartily. “So, you’ll still be by tomorrow morning so that we can interrogate Rachel, right?” He nods in response.
I’m almost out of the motor vehicle when he stops me by saying in a quiet voice, “You could have read my mind, Moira.” I glance back at him, knowing that he’s referring to when he grabbed my neck in the tub this morning. He’s looking at me as if I’m a puzzle he doesn’t understand. “Why didn’t you?”
I smile sadly, knowing that I should respond with a flippant remark and confirm his cynical prejudices against empaths. But instead I find myself saying, “I suppose, detective, that some things you want given to you willingly.”
I quickly head toward the hotel entrance, leaving him to think whatever he wants of my reply. There’s no way that I would elaborate if he asked, and, in fact, if he mentions it tomorrow I’ll deny the whole statement. I should have read his mind when I had the chance. To him, I’m probably nothing but a concubine and a murderer; I shouldn’t try to convince him otherwise. It’ll make escaping that much more difficult.
Yes, but if you earn his trust he won’t suspect your intentions, says a voice inside my head.
Yes, I suppose the voice inside my head is right. Right now the detective is watching me carefully and probably expects that I plan to escape. If I earn his trust, however, his attention will eventually slip, allowing me the opportunity to fade from his sight. But if I’m honest with myself I know that the idea of manipulating the detective’s trust is unappealing to me. It’s messy and has the potential to involve too many emotions that somehow always get muddled. Besides, I don’t think I would be capable of falsely luring the detective into a false anything.
Even if it means your survival? asks the voice. Besides, it’s not like the detective could see you as anything other than a whore and a murderer.
I scowl and try to shut out the voice. I prefer not to stay up all night with her cynical thoughts swarming around in my mind, and I sigh in relief as the darkness slowly ebbs away in the distance.
6
Sometimes I’m sure I’ve succeeded in complete detachment. I learned to stop crying at a young age. I can throw sardonic remarks at the sound of someone else’s death. I’ve managed to become invincible. Yes, others still have the power to hurt me physically, but they can never reach my mind. But other times, I find myself standing in a familiar place or catching a hint of a familiar scent. It could be something so simple and ordinary, but my mind shatters with no warning. Memories, thoughts, emotions all come tumbling to the forefront of my mind in a violent assault, and I realize that I’m not as invincible as I had believed. It’s strange that a seemingly neutral place has the power to have me emotionally crumpling to my knees with the memories it forces me to recollect. It’s as if the scene has imprinted itself onto the landscape.
As I descend the stairs to the underground prison, I’m bombarded in such a way, and I instinctively halt half-way down. Madame Del Mar and my previous master had used light deprivation as a form of punishment, so I should be accustomed to the darkness, especially since the police use the same tactic in their underground prison. But that month of darkness in the cell, where I had only my thoughts and memories as companions, was brutal and reminded me of all the other times I had been caged in the dark. Even though the scattered lights along the wall have been lit and the detective and I both carry a lantern, I still feel powerless against the wave of memories. I can almost hear the crack of the whip and feel black eyes leering at me from the shadows.
