A Study in Drowning(17)
“I know you might think it blasphemous to have a portrait of the Fairy King beside the likeness of saints,” Ianto said, breaching the archway. “But my father was a Southerner through and through. He never left this estate, did you know that? After the publication of Angharad. He took no interviews, gave no speeches. They called him mad, his critics, but he didn’t care. He didn’t leave this house until the Sleeper Museum came to load his corpse into their car. And—well, I won’t bore you with the details. All I meant to say is that despite his thoroughly Southern upbringing, my father never sought to humanize or pardon the Fairy King in any way.”
Effy thought of Myrddin’s Fairy King: charming, cruel, and, in the end, pitiful in his corrosive desires. He had loved Angharad, and the thing he loved the most had killed him. She frowned. Surely there was nothing more human than that.
“I would suggest the opposite, actually.” Preston spoke up unexpectedly, his tone cool. “Stripped down to his essence, as he is in the end when Angharad shows him his own reflection in the mirror, the Fairy King represents the very epitome of humanity, in all its viciousness and vulgar fragility.”
That was how Angharad had finally slain him: by showing the Fairy King his own countenance in the mirror. There was a beat of silence. Ianto turned slowly toward Preston, pale eyes narrowing.
“Well,” he said in a low voice, “I suppose you are the expert among us. Preston Héloury, student of Cedric Gosse, the university’s preeminent Myrddin scholar. Or perhaps I should say Gosse’s errand boy—I presume he’s far too busy to pick through old letters in a house at the bottom of the world.”
Preston said nothing after that, but around the spine of his notebook, his knuckles turned white. Effy stood still for a moment in shock. He had been bold enough, articulate enough, to voice precisely what she had only thought quietly to herself. She had absolutely no interest in letting him know it, of course, but it seemed that on the topic of the Fairy King . . . she maybe almost agreed with him.
Effy pushed it out of her mind. She didn’t want to share any common ground with Preston, especially not when it came to Angharad.
Ianto led them down the hallway, naked glass bulbs flickering on the walls. The first door on the left was cracked open.
“The library,” he said, turning to Effy. “I’m sure you’ll agree there’s the most work to be done in here.”
Effy followed him into the room. A single greasy window poured light onto the overflowing bookshelves, the three-and-a-half-legged desk, the melted-down candles. A stained armchair peered out from behind one of the shelves like an old cat, ornery at being disturbed. The rotted wood floor creaked and moaned under their feet, heavy with so many stacks of books. They were overflowing the shelves and spilling onto the ground, spines ripped and pages torn out, sitting in puddles of their own bled ink.
It was several moments before Effy was able to speak. The question that rose to her lips surprised her. “Was it like this all your life?” she managed. “Did your father keep it this way on purpose—”
“Unfortunately,” Ianto said in a clipped tone. “My father was a genius in many respects, but it often meant he had little care for the mundane, unpleasant tasks of daily life.”
Should she have been taking notes? She felt woozy. Myrddin had been an odd man, a recluse, but there was no reason he had to live in such squalor. Effy could no longer see him as the enigmatic man in his author photo. She could only picture him now as a crab in its slippery tide pool, oblivious to being drenched over and over again by the water.
“Let’s keep going,” she said, hoping her voice did not betray how weary she felt. In her peripheral vision, she saw a little furrow appear between Preston’s brows.
The door to the next room was closed. Ianto pushed it open, and Preston immediately pressed forward, lodging himself in the threshold.
“This is the study,” he said. “I’ve been keeping my things in here.”
What could he possibly have to hide? Maybe he was examining Myrddin’s coffee rings after all. Maybe he had dug up Myrddin’s dentures. Another wave of nausea washed over her.
“I’d really like to see it,” Effy said. Sick as she felt, she didn’t want to miss an opportunity to goad him. And his caginess had made her curious.
Preston eyed her with immense disdain, lips going thin. But as it turned out, there was nothing incriminating or embarrassing in the study: there was a ripped chaise, a blanket tossed over its back, that he had clearly been sleeping on, and a desk scattered with papers. Cigarette butts lined the windowsill.
It was neater than every other room in the house by miles, but it was still not as immaculate as she’d expected from the smug, pedantic P. Héloury.
As they left the study, the floor groaned deafeningly under them, and Effy lurched for the nearest wall. Momentarily she was certain the wood was going to collapse under her, just like the rock had on the cliffs.
Ianto gave her a sympathetic grimace, and she righted herself, cheeks hot. Her mother’s voice thrummed in her mind. Bad decision after bad decision.
They came to a door at the end of the hallway, and Ianto said, “I would show you the bedrooms, but my mother doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Myrddin’s widow. Effy didn’t even know her name; didn’t know a single thing about her other than that she’d ordered Ianto to have her stay in the guest cottage. But she’d allowed Preston inside the house. Effy couldn’t help but think the widow did not want her here.