The Storyteller's Muse

  Peter. She smiled to acknowledge his query. This is what I imagined for Henry too. She approached and took hold of his hand. So let’s go and see him, shall we?

  You know where Henry is?

  Of course, we’re old friends, he and I.

  Peter was unsure if he should trust this happy turn of events, given he’d been told that Penelope didn’t want him to write Em’s story.

  This tale was not something I could ask you to take on. She seemingly read his mind as he allowed her to lead him along by the hand. It was odd that he could feel her hand in his, and yet he was aware of his other hand hugging his effigy to the heart of his slumbering form. The day I first became aware of the dark character in this tale was the day I had my first stroke.

  So it wasn’t Em —

  No. Em has been nothing but a blessing to me my entire career. It was only when I attempted to piece together my muse’s tale that our relationship took a dark turn.

  Around the time you bought the painting of The Lovers?

  Penelope nodded. I adored that picture of my muse, and yet somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I always suspected that it was cursed. My life went into a downward spiral after that purchase. Yet I also knew it could be evidence, and I couldn’t bring myself to sell it on.

  You did well to keep it. Your foresight is the only reason I have a story. I am so very grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Peter thought to say; even if this entire experience was just a figment of his imagination, in this spirit realm, that was the greatest superpower of all. You were the supportive parent I wanted and never had.

  And you were the admiring, artistic child that I never had. She nudged a shoulder against his. You have come far closer to breaking this story than I ever dared. I could not be prouder.

  A great weight was lifted from his shoulders in feeling his mentor was not against him in his quest. But I haven’t cracked it yet. Do you or Henry know what became of Emanuel?

  Penelope shook her head, appearing sad about that. But Henry does have some information he is eager to share. She directed his attention to the cottage that had appeared before them in the field, and the fellow standing in the doorway of the dwelling.

  May the muses bless you, Peter. Penelope turned to face him. But not every day of your life . . . so that you might have many wonderful memories, and not just stories, to take with you when you depart this world for the next.

  This felt like goodbye, and all the sadness Peter had felt and repressed since the time of Penelope’s passing, came flooding to the fore.

  Peter!

  As Penelope, the cottage, the field and Henry, all vanished in a flash of light, he was distressed. No!

  ‘No!’ He awoke struggling and thrashing about. The light was on, and it was blinding. ‘Augh!’

  ‘Peter, it’s me, Gabby!’ She turned the light back off. ‘You were weeping.’ She rubbed his shoulder in a soothing fashion.

  He wanted to cry out in frustration, yet he didn’t want to blast Gabrielle for looking out for him. He wiped his face to find he had indeed been crying. ‘I’m okay, but I have just made contact with Henry, I think, I have to go back.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She caught her breath, perhaps in an effort to repress her urge to ask questions, and crept quietly out of the room.

  Peter’s inner frustration made it a struggle to recapture the image of the cottage and its occupant.

  Just let the angst go, he advised himself.

  But I was right there, God damn it. He resisted his own best advice, still wanting to hit something.

  Just grow up and focus.

  Deep calming breaths brought his surging emotions into check and he got the upper hand on his discontent. Calm now, he mentally began to wade past his pre-slumber mental noise, towards his prior appointment.

  That mental thread that one was supposed to hang onto when entering a lucid dreaming state, must have slipped from Peter’s fingers for a time, as when he joined Henry by the hearth in the little cottage, they were already deep in conversation. It was like his concentration had gone AWOL during the conversation and now he’d snapped out of it. Peter had no idea what Henry had already said. But he dared not question what he’d missed, as Henry was speaking about the genesis of this mystery — the night that Emanuel and Emeline had been born.

  . . . unlike Mrs Beech, I saw no monster in my Lord and Lady’s child. I saw only the monstrous problems that lay in store for the newborn. Complete disinheritance, and a lifetime of shame and abuse for something my charge had no choice in.

  Hence, twins. Peter caught up with the conversation; Henry was confirming that Emanuel and Emeline were indeed the same person.

  It was a stroke of genius, Henry raised both brows to acknowledge. It was not mine, however. Twins was Sister Cole’s idea, for we had no way of knowing to which sex the child would feel affiliated. We expected Em would go one way or the other. If the male won out we had an heir to the estate, if the female won out we would sell everything and move elsewhere. But as my charge grew I realised that was not going to be the case. One day the child would wake as Emeline — feminine, musical and confident in every way, and other days Em was Emanuel — artistic, moody and withdrawn.

  And this preference was entirely random?

  At first, Henry recalled, constraining the concern that the memory obviously rekindled in him. But as Em grew, a way to control that preference was discovered —

  The letters. Peter realised that was why the dates were all bunched together first from Emeline and then from Emanuel — as these were the times Em had to maintain either a female or male persona. It also explained why these letters were found with Henry’s diary, as they were never sent. They spoke of missing the other so much because it actually put that part of themselves at a distance.

  Exactly, Henry concurred.

  That’s brilliant. Peter was overwhelmed with admiration for Em and for Henry.

  Em was absolutely gifted, to the point of being god-like. In ancient times hermaphrodites were not considered freaks of nature, but were the most holy, perfect balance of man and woman. Like genderless humans, they had a higher calling as they were not distracted by the base desires of the other single-sex beings. And this was certainly true of Em, whose only wish was to create great art simply for the pleasure of it. But Em was also very handsome in either persona, and that was the problem.

  I’m sure there were many problems with raising such a child, Henry; you did an outstanding job.

  Henry was shaking his head to disagree.

  Henry, you gave your life to protect your charge —

  But did I protect Em? Henry was clearly desperate to have that question finally answered. Did Em get away from Pettigrew, or see justice done? I don’t think so.

  Rather than wasting time debating Henry’s virtues, Peter thought their time could be better spent. What happened the day of the exhibition, after you sent the journal to Emanuel?

  In order to run a diversion for his charge, Henry attended the exhibition opening, and was warmly welcomed by Miss Manning, who reported a roaring trade and insisted on introducing him to all their big-spending patrons, and still others who wanted private commissions.

  The exhibition was open for four hours and Henry spent three and a half of those hours sweating on Pettigrew to arrive.

  The Lord made quiet the hurrah of his arrival when he finally did make an appearance, walking into the room and exclaiming. ‘Marvellous! This is just how I would have it!’

  ‘Our critic friend sounds impressed,’ Miss Manning uttered aside to Henry. ‘Perhaps he’ll prove worth inviting after all?’

  Then four policemen entered the function after Pettigrew, who’d spotted Henry and was pointing in his direction. ‘There he is, Henry Chesterfield, my agent.’

  There was a huge gasp of shock from everyone in the room, but none so great as that of Miss Manning, who turned to Henry. ‘Is this true?’ She appeared betrayed. ‘Is this man Em Jewel?’


  Henry was overwhelmed. ‘Of course not. My client would never reveal himself.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ The Lord made a beeline in their direction. ‘I think he would reveal himself if he discovered that he was being swindled by a suspected murderer! Using my hard-earned funds to pay off the woman blackmailing you for her silence.’

  ‘This is madness!’ Henry insisted. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. This is not my client.’

  ‘If I am not Em Jewel, then tell me why I am the other signatory and your partner in Em Jewel Holdings, who will inherit everything upon your death.’ He held up a document that appeared to be quite an adept forgery — even Henry’s own signature was perfect.

  How many people had this man bribed or bullied to produce a document that had the address of the studio written upon it? He could only hope that Pettigrew had not yet had the opportunity to visit there. Regardless, this was checkmate for Henry. If he denied the document as forgery, they’d ask to see the original and that would lead to questions about Emanuel. If he didn’t deny it, Emanuel might make a clean escape. Henry’s past would no doubt come to light when he was investigated, but he wasn’t going to help the process along. ‘Then it must be true.’

  Pettigrew’s challenging expression turned to pure elation. ‘Now that we are clear that Miss Manning can settle Em Jewel Holdings’ accounts with me this afternoon . . .’

  Miss Manning served the critic the evil-eye, perhaps suspecting something untoward was going on.

  Henry had made her swear never to reveal the name on the painting he’d first shown her, and he looked to her, praying to God she did not mention it now. In her eyes he saw an appeal; she knew the truth and wanted to voice it for his sake, but he shook his head to beseech her silence.

  ‘I shall bid you farewell, Mr Chesterfield, and allow these good officers to do their duty.’ Pettigrew stepped out of their path. ‘Your services as my agent are hereby terminated.’

  ‘This exhibition is hereby terminated.’ Miss Manning was infuriated by the entire affair. ‘You’ll get no commissions from me.’

  ‘Em Jewel doesn’t do commissions.’ Pettigrew looked up to her portrait hanging in pride of place. ‘You have the honour of being the only one.’

  ‘I’d like to see you reproduce it,’ she replied with such spite it made her voice hoarse.

  ‘As I said,’ Pettigrew declined the challenge, ‘this will be the only one.’

  ‘Henry Chesterfield?’ One of the policemen waited for Henry to confirm, before he was cuffed, read his rights and led away. Pettigrew was looking pretty damn pleased with his day’s work, the cunning and depraved depths of the man were completely beyond Henry’s comprehension. He was never going to see his beloved charge again and that thought struck a dagger through the old man’s heart. In every sense bar the birthing, Em was Henry’s child. And like any loving parent, under the same circumstance, he felt no concern for what lay ahead in his future, his only desire was that Em escaped.

  ANTI-CLIMAX

  ‘There you are.’ Gabrielle entered the library, sounding drowsy and yawning. ‘How long have you been up?’

  ‘I just wanted to get this scene down while it was still fresh in my head.’ Peter pushed the computer away, having read it through twice already.

  ‘You said last night that you saw Henry?’ Gabrielle sat on his lap and began scrolling back up to the beginning of the scene.

  ‘He doesn’t know what became of Em either.’

  ‘Either?’ Gabrielle twisted herself around to address Peter. ‘Who else did you ask?’

  ‘Penelope, Alejandra, Em!’ Peter rattled off the list. ‘Hell of a night, last night.’

  ‘Penelope?’ Gabrielle was curious to note. ‘Is that why you were crying?

  ‘Well, she was my literary mother.’ Peter forced a smile. ‘She came to say goodbye and I guess . . . I just realised how much I miss her. She did say she was happy about me finishing the story, but due to the precarious nature of the tale, I had to take it upon myself.’

  ‘That’s understandable. It certainly sounds like your sleep was very social.’ She looked back to the screen to read.

  Peter was a little bleary this morning after waking several times in the night. When he woke at the crack of dawn, he’d crept downstairs and started writing before he was even fully in his body. ‘Penelope was seriously quite the looker in her younger days,’ he mumbled, having had a moment to review his dreams.

  ‘Bastard!’ said Gabrielle venomously.

  ‘Just an observation,’ Peter defended.

  ‘Not you, Pettigrew!’ Gabrielle turned from the text, to look back at Peter. ‘He must have conned Henry’s signature out of someone at the hotel.’

  ‘Very possibly.’ Peter nodded to agree. ‘But he must have had connections inside the business registry to have had those documents altered. It was a very well planned shakedown, that is certain.’

  ‘What a jerk!’ Gabrielle stood to pace out her frustration. ‘Not only did he steal Em’s money and career, he framed Henry for several murders he didn’t commit!’

  ‘Pettigrew stole Em’s career twice,’ Peter interrupted her rant for a news update. ‘In my dream Henry confessed that he only ever had one charge, with a split personality.’ Upon reflection, it was difficult to define their conversation as a dream. Even if it was only Peter’s own imagination and intuition reflecting back at him in his dreams, that didn’t mean he wasn’t on the right track.

  ‘Whoa!’ Gabrielle had suspected this, but still seemed surprised. ‘That is so impressive, on so many levels. Mainly on Henry’s behalf . . . to have been so open-minded, brave and forward thinking is incredible, even by today’s standards.’

  ‘He accredited much of the forward thinking to Sister Cole,’ Peter conveyed.

  ‘Another of Pettigrew’s casualties, despite that she did get away with murder herself. Then there was Margret’s death that Pettigrew was ultimately responsible for . . . and that’s just one tiny group of people we know of! How many other lives did this man intentionally destroy?’

  ‘But more importantly, did Em escape him alive?’ Peter already knew the answer, in his gut.

  ‘Why would we be at this juncture, if that were the case? Is it only justice for a stolen identity and artistic legacy, or justice for murder that Em is seeking?’

  Peter didn’t have a definitive answer to that query just yet, but he had a clue to finding it. ‘How can one ghost attach itself to another?’

  ‘If they die together —’

  ‘What if they didn’t?’

  ‘If they were close during life.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘If they died in the same place.’ Gabrielle suddenly realised what he was driving at.

  ‘And we know where Pettigrew died.’

  ‘You think Em’s remains may still be in the building?’

  ‘It would explain why they’ve had trouble knocking the site down,’ Peter allowed. ‘Some force is protecting that site and has gone to great lengths to ensure that the building hasn’t been levelled.’

  ‘How synchronous that our appointment was delayed until today.’ There was a hint of trepidation underpinning her excitement. ‘Kind of scary when you think about it, or rather fortunate. A few days ago, we didn’t have a clue what we were dealing with.’

  Upon reflection Peter recalled that he had wanted to run off and investigate the property at 4 Kismet Way when he’d first learned about it, but he didn’t have any sort of psychic protection at that time and may have just ended up another artist fatality of the apartment.

  ‘You worried?’ Peter wasn’t expecting anything too dramatic to happen, but then he hadn’t expected smoke to drive an entity out of his painting yesterday either.

  ‘No. Just wary. If all this proves true, then it’s very likely that a lot of the darker events that took place in that studio, from Em’s time to this, were all orchestrated by Pettigrew.’

  ‘Like the ballet dancer’s death?’ Pet
er rolled with her train of thought.

  ‘Isabelle, yes. And if Monique’s seduction in the book was a true account, perhaps that was Pettigrew too? Em was not interested in such base desires. The creative inspiration, I believe that was Em, making an attempt to inspire someone to uncover her tale,’ Gabrielle warranted. ‘Or just inspiring the artists out of sheer boredom!’

  ‘Pettigrew might have done away with Isabelle purely to get the other artists to turn against their muse?’ Peter concluded, and then decided he didn’t like the implications of that scenario.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Gabrielle rolled her eyes. ‘My protection is the only reason we’ve got this far.’

  ‘I believe it is,’ Peter agreed. ‘That’s a very powerful little statue you gave me — it did wonders for my focus last night.’

  Gabrielle had a chuckle at this. ‘Any amulet is only as powerful as the will of the person who wears it.’

  ‘What?’ Peter hadn’t been clear on that footnote.

  ‘Think of the amulet like a magnifying glass for your will,’ Gabrielle said. ‘At least that’s my view on the matter, as I believe that ultimately we are all the authors of our own lives. So what the statue did was aid you to hone your focus, but you are the one with the power to either invoke or dismiss the powers you are calling to your assistance, and those powers will only aid those they deem to have a worthy cause. If Pettigrew was innocent and harmless, my blessing on this house would not have agitated him.’

  ‘In light of that, you’re definitely coming with me, in case I screw up.’ Peter knew he couldn’t stop her anyway.

  ‘You bet your arse I am.’ As she moved towards the door, she inhaled. ‘I smell coffee.’

  ‘Mrs E has no doubt arrived. Time for you to sample the marvellous house breakfast.’ Peter took up his phone. ‘I’d better message Spooky a morning report to let him know we are still alive and kicking.’