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We pay an entrance fee and Bree hands me a contraption that I fit over my ears. It barks information at me as we walk around the museum. How marvellous! I learn all about Hugh Bancroft’s life and poetry as we wander through the house and grounds. I’m even allowed to touch some of the displays. Museums have come a long way from my day, when they were just rooms in grand houses filled with looted objects and brains in jars.
The tour finishes in a large sitting room at the front of the house. I can tell from the way the light fades as we enter that the curtains are drawn. Bree leans close and whispers to me, “The windows are draped with the most amazing gold damask curtains. Everything is in shades of emerald green and gold. It looks…it looks like just the kind of room Edward would love.”
The commentary from my contraption informs me that this was Hugh’s ‘absinthe parlour’ where he entertained fellow writers, musicians, artists, and other bohemian folk. Famous occultists conducted seances in this room, and the trendiest folk of London clamoured for an invitation.
I pick up one of the faux crystal absinthe glasses, but nearly drop it when the voice mentions Edward.
I squeeze Bree’s fingers.
“I heard.” She squeezes back as we move deeper into the room. “Edward was a frequent visitor to Hugh’s home. I can’t believe he’s never mentioned that Hugh lived so close by before. There’s a display of letters in the corner. Let’s have a look.”
I pause the recording to listen as Bree reads out Hugh’s letters. One rails against his London editor for rewriting one of his essays without permission, while numerous others detail wild tales of debaucherous parties. I admit that my chest tightens with a little envy. The Van Wimples had such lovely gatherings at Grimwood, but they were nothing like what Hugh describes.
No wonder Edward finds me so dreadfully boring.
Perhaps, if we ever do manage to solve his case and bring him back, I will allow him to show me more of his ways…
“Ambrose…” Bree whispers. “Did you hear what I just read?”
“Please repeat,” I say, ashamed of myself for drifting away when Bree needs me.
“It’s a letter addressed simply ‘To my friend,’ and it’s written by Hugh.” Bree clears her throat. “It’s dated from just before the party and Edward’s death. Listen.”
“To my friend. I have read the poem you enclosed in your last missive, and I must admit that it is a fair attempt, although it brings to mind something that I have wished to say for some time. I pen these lines with the utmost respect and reverence to our friendship, hoping that my words may yet find a place in the chambers of your dark and licentious heart. I have long put off this letter out of respect for your position, but it is my duty as a poet to speak truths that may resonate beyond the verses of mere frivolity.
As always, I stand in awe of your grandeur, and your most splendid revelries in the countryside where true artists such as myself are free to pursue our every intellectual purpose. Truly, the world sings praises of your prowess as the sovereign of revels. However, as I contemplate the grandeur of your festivities, I cannot help but notice that the realm of substance remains untrodden in your path.
While those in our circle applaud your ability to amuse and delight, there lies an overshadowing concern for the truly talented and earnest artists who surround you. Your name carries weight and influence, but the world will not take our artistic endeavours seriously when your libertine ways are at the centrepiece of the narrative. As you revel in increasingly debased pleasures, the efforts of your genuine and passionate friends may be dismissed as mere dalliances with indulgence.
I entreat you, my dear prince, to reflect on the greater purpose of your position and the impact you can make beyond the ephemeral pleasures of the present. Your father’s court awaits your return with open arms. Embrace the mantle of advocacy for your most beloved friends, who are the true artists of repute, for within the royal heart lies the power to foster a renaissance of creativity and intellectual advancement. Imagine the profound influence you could wield, not just as the Prince of Revelry, but as a patron of culture, literature, and art! Support those of us who strive to leave an enduring legacy of beauty and meaning, for our work enriches not only your kingdom but also the very essence of humanity. If you cannot do this, then I fear that there is nothing left for us, that’s the last of it, and I shall have to consider—
“And…what? What?” I’m bouncing on my heels with excitement. “What must he consider?”
“That’s it. The letter is torn. The rest of it has not survived.” Bree shudders. “Ambrose, those words…‘that’s the last of it’ – they are theexactwords that Countess de Rothschild said she heard Hugh speak to Edward the night he died.”
“Hugh wanted Edward to return to his father’s court.” I think back to all the nights when Edward had stuck his head in the liquor cabinet, and his usual guarded nature had let slip certain details of his unhappy family. His father beating him when Edward expressed an interest in art school, his father doling out much worse punishments when Edward refused to participate in a royal hunt. Any true friend of Edward would never suggest such a thing.
Andhe insulted Edward’s poetry, claiming that Edward’s work lacks substance. For the most part, that’s true. But Edward’s final poem, the one Hugh stole, is a work of deep and harrowing emotion that still makes me tear up a little.
This letter would have wounded Edward deeply. But clearly, Hugh felt ardently about it, and so, this must have been what they quarrelled about on the night Edward died.
“That’s exactly the words that he was saying to Edward the night he died,” Bree says again quietly, as if she can’t quite believe it. “And then, he took Edward’s poem for his own…”
“But still,” I say, trying to stamp down the churning in my gut. “We must not jump to a hasty conclusion. This means only that two friends were quarrelling, not that Hugh murdered Edward.”
This is exactly what I suspected, but hearing the evidence with my own ears suddenly makes me wish more than anything that it wasn’t true. I wish Edward hadn’t been murdered by his dearest friend. I wish he’d been loved and respected the way he deserved. The way Pax, Bree, and I love and respect him.
Although we are both reluctant to move on from the letter, there is one final room on the tour. Bree leads me through a narrow passage at the rear of the room. The recording explains that we are now entering a room that was hidden from the public, and only discovered recently when workers were rewiring the museum.
“We have named this The Room of Repentance. This room represents the later years of Hugh’s career, where he became a virtual recluse, and his poems became dark, twisted tales of guilt and despair. Hugh wrote often of some desperate act he committed in his youth, an act that all but ensured his fame and fortune but that also doomed his soul—”
“Ambrose,” Bree says suddenly. “I need to get out of this room.”
“Of course. Let’s go.”
She grips my arm tightly, and we retreat out the door and back into the museum’s gift shop. Bree’s trembling all over.
“Whatever is the matter?” I wrap my arms around her, almost knocking over a display of keyrings. Bree manages to catch it before it falls over.
