King’s College—I knew those dark hallways only too well. I’d scrubbed blood from the mortar there, dusted cobwebs from between skeleton’s bones. That was where Dr. Hastings had decided a simple cleaning girl wouldn’t dare refuse his sexual advances, and I’d slit his wrist. I still remembered the crimson color of his blood on the tile.
The last thing I wanted to do was return to those hallways.
And yet those bodies called to me, promising to tell me the answers buried within their cold flesh.
It was a call I couldn’t resist.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I dressed early and came downstairs with a lie prepared about needing to do some Christmas shopping in the market. To my surprise, I heard sounds of arguing and found the professor in the library with a visitor, a stout man with stiff waxed hair and thick glasses whose face froze when he saw me standing in the doorway.
“Ah, Juliet, you’re awake,” the professor said, rising to his feet. His mouth was still held tense from their argument, but he forced a smile as he pulled me into the hallway.
“Who’s that man?” I asked, trying to peek around his shoulder.
“Isambard Lessing. A historian, one of the King’s Club men. No need to concern yourself with him; he’s here to inquire about some old journals and family heirlooms. Did you need something?”
“I was thinking of going shopping. This close to Christmas—”
“Yes, yes, a fine idea,” he said, herding me toward the stairs. He fumbled in his pocket for some bank notes and pressed them into my hand. “I’ll see you back here for supper.”
I muttered a silent prayer of thanks that he was distracted and wasted no time hurrying from the house with Sharkey. I took the dog to the market and firmly deposited him with Joyce, so by the time I got to King’s College—wearing an old apron over my fashionable red dress—classes were already in session for the morning. I entered through the main double doors into the glistening hallway with polished wood inlay floors and wall sconces covering the electric lights. My boots echoed loudly in the empty hallways. I’d never felt comfortable on this level, the realm of academics and well-off students from good families. Grainy photographs lined the walls showing the illustrious history of the university and its construction. One brass frame bore the crest of the King’s Club, the motto underneath. Ex scientia vera. From knowledge, truth. I thought of stiff Isambard Lessing and his red face. I paused to look at the date on the frame’s inscription.
1875. Four years before I was born. The photograph documented the King’s Club membership at the time, two lines of a dozen male faces wearing long robes and serious expressions. Lucy’s railroad magnate father, Mr. Radcliffe, was among them, his beard much shorter, standing next to a stout man I recognized as Isambard Lessing himself, and with a shudder I recognized a young Dr. Hastings. I also found the professor’s face among them, decades younger but with the same wire-rim glasses and a hint of a smile on an otherwise stern face. On his left was a young man whose face I knew all too well—my father.
I shifted in my stiff clothing and drew in a deep breath. The professor had mentioned they’d met in the King’s Club, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. In the photograph Father had dark hair cut in the fashion of the time, and his eyes were alert and focused, so unlike his wild-eyed, gray-haired visage I had known more recently. The face in the photograph was the face I knew from my earliest memories, long ago when I’d idolized him, before madness and ambition had claimed him.
I tore myself away from the old photograph and hurried for the stairs to the basement, where I felt instantly more at ease. The morning cleaning crew was already hard at work scouring the stairs leading to the basement hallways. I recognized the shape of my old boss, Mrs. Bell, as her rounded body stooped to scrub the treading. A woman who used to watch out for me when no one else did. When she stood to refill her bucket, I grabbed her hand and pulled her around the corner.
“Mercy!” she cried, putting a hand over her heart. “Juliet Moreau, is that you? My, but you gave me a fright.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bell. I wondered if I might ask you a favor.”
“You aren’t wanting your old job back, I hope,” she said, then cocked her head at the fine dress beneath my apron. “No, I suppose not. . . .”
“It isn’t about that. As a matter of fact, I’ve had a change in fortune, and it’s only right for me to share.” I fished in my pocket for the silver buttons and pressed them into her hand before she could object. “I just need to know if you’ve already cleaned the hallways on the east side.”
The buttons jangled in her calloused hand. “Heading there next, right after we finish these stairs.”
I bit my lip, glancing at the two other cleaning girls. “Might you start on the west side instead? It’s a long story . . . a student friend of mine thought he might have dropped some cufflinks there and I’d like to look for them.”
She gave me a stern look, and I half expected her to ask what the real story was, but luckily for me she just threw her hand toward the hallways.
“Have at it, girl.”
I started past the steps, where a rail-thin cleaning girl was polishing the brass handrail. Her basket sat beside her, filled with a handful of cleaning tools that were all quite familiar to me. How many hours had I spent on hands and knees on this very floor, sleeves hitched above my elbows, scrubbing so hard my knuckles bled? What a lonely life that had been, with only my memories to keep me company. Only a year ago, and yet it felt like ages. How easily I could be back there if not for the professor.