Spades

The reeds by the pond’s edge crinkled in the wind like muted guitar strings, and Margaret thought of the beggar who used to pluck his banjo on the corner of Fifth and Main. He’d died only last week, stabbed thirteen times between his chest and the hollow of his left collarbone, and Margaret couldn’t help but feel a little disturbed. She couldn’t remember a time when anyone had been murdered in Tinsborough. The town was so small, they’d had to send a telegram to have an investigator come all the way from Belfast when Mrs. Dallaway had found the body on her way to the bakery last Sunday morning.

It was the only thing Margaret had heard of all week. The investigator, a serious-looking gentleman named Fritz Sparks, had made it clear he didn’t want any of the details getting out. Margaret’s fiancee, Simeon, was the only one in Tinsborough somewhat qualified to inspect the body’s wounds. Even so, Simeon said he’d promised Detective Sparks not to share what he and his assistant had learned. But it was a small town, and, reliable or not, rumors tended to spread like summer ants.

Simeon had moved to Tinsborough two years ago looking for a quiet town to practice medicine, and he ended up finding Margaret in the process. They planned to get married in April, when the blackthorn trees started to blossom. Margaret’s mama had loved blackthorn blooms.

“Everything is ready, Mama,” Margaret said to the mound of dirt a couple strides from the pond, sticking up like an infected wound. A stone with Mama’s name etched in bold black letters sat at the mound’s head bearing the dates 1842 to 1887 right below. Margaret squatted next to it, and the frozen earth crunched under her weight. She pulled her skirts up and bunched the fabric between her knees so her hem wouldn’t get dirty.

“Simeon even hired a string quartet from the city to play for our engagement party tonight. He’s a good man, Mama. He really is.”

Then why are you here instead of waiting inside with him? Mama would have asked.

Margaret looked away, slightly embarrassed. “I’m afraid,” she said.

You’re ashamed, Mama would have accused, turning her chin up indignantly.

“I want so badly to tell him how you died, but I’m afraid he’ll see me differently. Papa made me promise not to. You know the penalty.” She shivered. “No one talks about that kind of magic anymore. It’s a lonely secret, and I’m tired of feeling like it's all up to me. Papa’s always gone.”

Gambling again, no doubt. The little bastard, Mama would have concluded.

“Mama!” Margaret glared at the gravestone. “Don’t be so rude… But, yes. He probably is. He promised to help prepare for the party, but he hasn’t come yet, and people will start arriving soon. Which means he’s forgotten. I haven’t seen him since the night the old beggar died, and…” Margaret trailed off, thinking of the beggar.

What? Mama would have demanded.

“You… didn’t have anything to do with the beggar’s death, did you?” Mama was silent, and Margaret turned away. “Fine. Don’t tell me,” she huffed. More lonely secrets.

“Simeon’s all I have now, Mama. I’m tired of lying to him, and if your death makes me lose him, too, I…” Margaret’s eyes stung, and she opened them wide to pool the tears before they spilled. She pulled her big coat close. “I hate this, Mama. I hate it so much, and I miss you,” she whispered. “Why did you have to go?” Her voice caught in her throat, and she sniffled.

“Margaret, are you alright?” a voice called from behind her. It was Simeon.

Margaret started, suddenly aware she was expected to host a party within the hour. She’d told Simeon she needed a moment with her mama before the guests arrived, and he’d touched her hand and nodded like he understood, but she knew he didn’t. How could he? She hadn’t told him what really happened the night her mama died.

“Sorry to have startled you, darling,” Simeon apologized, holding his hand out to help her up. “Are you alright?” he asked again, and this time she had the sense to nod. He helped her to her feet.

“I’m fine. I must have gotten lost in my thoughts,” she said, then noticed his new suit. “My, my, you look nice,” she said, sniffing one last time and touching the silky fabric on his arm. He turned at her sniffle, but was considerate enough to play along with her stoicism.

“You think so?” he asked, grinning. “It arrived from the city just yesterday.”

“I think you look wonderful.”

“Good,” he said. “Because there’s a girl I’m trying to impress tonight.”

Margaret leaned into him as he offered his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m always impressed. Are any guests here yet?”

“Not yet,” he answered, “But they will be soon.” She nodded, and they started up the hill. “How many guests are we expecting?” he asked, and she scrunched her nose.

“Enough to make ‘Good Detective Sparks’ sleep troubled tonight,” she joked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he sends someone to take notes on all the times the investigation is brought up.” She glanced at Simeon, but his grim face told her he didn’t seem to think it was funny. Maybe evaluating the body’s wounds had given him an extra sense of duty towards the investigation. The thought made her slightly queasy. She hated keeping things from him, but how was she supposed to tell him about what Mama had done the night she died when he was already so on edge about this investigation?

They crested the hill leading towards the house and passed by Mama’s garden on the way to the back entrance. Due to her unexpected death, the ground hadn’t been cleared since last spring, and every time Margaret looked at the frozen crop, dried and overgrown with stringy weeds, she was reminded of how much had changed after Mama’s death.

“I can help you clear the ground if you’d like,” Simeon offered, noticing her wistful look.

“Could you? I was going to do it yesterday, but I couldn’t find the garden spades.”

Simeon paused, and she felt his arms tense. “Did you lose them in the fire?” he asked.

“No, we—” Margaret made herself stop. The night Mama had died, Margaret and Papa had to set the shed on fire to hide the evidence of Mama’s crime. Small, harmless magic, like enchanted trinkets to protect from sickness, was acceptable, but the magic Mama had attempted was extremely forbidden. If anyone were to find out Mama had cast a runespell, the town would be required by law to have all her blood-relatives killed. It was why Margaret and Papa had to bury her in secret, why Papa had made Margaret promise not to talk about it. You can’t trust anyone with this, he’d said, gripping her wrists. Even Simeon. It would ruin us both, you hear?

“We were able to save the tools from the fire,” Margaret finally told Simeon, the words stumbling out clumsily. “But I just couldn’t find the spades yesterday. Maybe Papa misplaced them?”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Simeon said, not elaborating further. She was about to ask why it mattered when she saw a carriage pull up to the front of the house.

“Come on, I think that’s Nana!” Margaret said, reaching for Simeon’s hand and racing up to the front. Sure enough, Mrs. Davings’s carriage had pulled up, and she was slowly climbing out onto the steps. Mrs. Davings had been a family friend for years. She was an older woman and had always been supportive when Mama was having one of her episodes. Margaret couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known Mrs. Davings as “Nana.”

“Margaret, you look just wonderful tonight,” Nana said, looking adoringly at Margaret’s lacy dress. Margaret threw her arms around her and buried her nose in Nana’s lavender-scented neck.

“I’m so glad you could come, Nana,” Margaret said. “And I know you’ve met him already, but this is my fiance, Simeon.”

“It’s good to see you looking well again, Mrs. Davings,” Simeon said as Nana offered him her pudgy, wrinkled hand. Nana had recently recovered from a terrible winter cold which had confined her old body to bed.

“Indeed,” Nana said. “Though I credit your looks far more than your medicine.” She chuckled impishly, and Simeon blushed. Margaret shot him a silent, wide-eyed giggle as she helped Nana up the steps and into the house.

More people trickled in, and soon the room was busy with life and laughter. A game of Queens had started on the back table, and shouts of, “Hearts! Spades! Clubs!” could occasionally be heard. Others danced in the room’s open space, and Margaret lounged on a nearby chair, chatting with friends and watching as people gossiped excitedly.

“Mr. James, I hear you’re helping with the investigation,” Margaret heard Rosalia, one of the ladies, ask.

Mr. James was a young medical student from Belfast who was here in Tinsborough studying under Simeon. As the newest unmarried man in town, as well as one of the few people Detective Sparks had allowed to be involved with the investigation, Mr. James had been showered with attention by a horde of interested females from the moment he entered the room.

“How much can you tell us?” Rosalia whispered, hands poised conspiratorially.

“Detective Sparks insisted I not say anything about it,” Mr. James said slowly, but his playful smile made it clear he was willing to let a few things slip. Rosalia immediately caught on, and Margaret listened in carefully.

“Oh, is that so?” Rosalia asked. “Well what if you don’t say anything?” She fluttered her lashes cajolingly.

Mr. James grinned as if she’d read his mind.

She pursed her lips and took a sip from her punch. “Perfect,” she said, and others began listening as well, eager for details. It was a rare occasion to have something as intriguing as a murder to talk about in this town. “So is it true he wasn’t just stabbed once?” Rosalia asked.

Mr. James paused for effect, then nodded. Rosalia chirped excitedly.

The room erupted into several spirited conversations, quieting when Rosalia turned to Mr. James for more. “Have you found out what the murder weapon is yet?”

Again, Mr. James nodded, and the room burst into another wave of loud gossip.

“Was it a knife?”

He shook his head. More excitement.

“An axe?”

He shook again, and Rosalia pouted.

“Well, what else?” she asked, looking around the room for more ideas.

“What about a fire poker?” someone else chimed.

“A piece of glass?”

“A hairpin!”

“A spoon?” someone offered, and the proposition was met with several chuckles.

Mr. James kept shaking his head, looking smug. It was clear to him they’d never guess it. He mimed digging.

“A pitchfork?”

“A shovel?”

“Ooo, or a hand trowel!” The crowd paused.

“A garden spade!” someone else concluded, and Simeon’s head whipped around to glare at Mr. James who coughed and gave a guilty shrug. Margaret almost dropped her punch onto the carpet, and the room quieted, anticipating.

“Well was it?” Rosalia pressed, breaking the silence. She remained poised expectantly for Mr. James’s answer until Margaret stood and announced loudly that there was a delicious cake being served in the dining area. The crowd abruptly returned to their previous activities as if key information to the town’s rare high profile investigation hadn't just been mistakably revealed. Detective Sparks would be furious.

Margaret was reeling. She thought back frantically to the night the beggar died, but for the life of her, couldn’t remember where she’d been. She could feel Simeon’s eyes attempting to meet her own, but she looked away, realizing now why he’d gotten so tense at the mention of her missing garden spades. Why hadn’t he told her? Margaret’s heart raced.

She remembered a tale Mama once told her of why runemagic was forbidden. There was once a tragic accident, Mama had said, caused by a Runecaster using too much blood in a spell. The witch was jealous of the attention her younger sister’s lover received and was determined to make him unloveable. But she lost control. She accidentally gave more blood than she intended, and the spell got greedy and wanted more, taking the witch’s life. The spell spiraled into a great beast, possessing the sister and forcing her to kill her beloved. But he wasn’t all who she killed, Mama had whispered. The witch’s tormented spirit became even angrier at the spell’s mistake, and the sister was forced to kill countless others without even knowing she’d done it. Now that is why people are afraid of Runemagic, she’d told Margaret, explaining that because the Runecaster and the sister shared the same blood, the spell lived on in the sister’s body. After that, Runemagic was banned, and a law was put in place demanding the lives of anyone caught drawing runes as well as the lives of their bloodkin.

Margaret thought of the night she found Mama’s body in the shed a month ago, legs folded unnaturally beneath her like a broken lamb. Unfamiliar runes had been carved into Mama’s arms and face and all over the walls of the shed, covered in blood.

Mama’s mind had been sick for a while, but Margaret never thought she was crazy enough to try to cast a spell. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Had Mama’s spell taken her life just like the witch’s had?

What was she going to tell Simeon? They intended to marry. He deserved to know, but telling him would make it real, and she desperately needed to believe there was a chance this news was irrelevant. Knowing her spades were missing and knowing the beggar’s murder weapon, would Simeon still want to marry her after learning how her mother had been found?

“…Margaret,” Simeon was saying. He was holding his hand out like he wanted to dance. She looked around, noticing most of the guests had left.

“Of course,” she said, taking his hand. The music started, and he began leading her through the dance. They were the only ones on the dance floor, and the remaining guests were giving them plenty of space.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Simeon whispered when he knew no one else was listening. Margaret was silent, unable to think of anything to say that wasn’t terribly hypocritical. She kept things from him, too, and her secrets were turning out to be far more horrific.“Don’t be angry with me, Margaret,” he pleaded, misjudging her silence.

“I’m not angry,” she assured him. “Just confused.”

He nodded, thinking he understood why. “We can ask your papa about the missing spades tomorrow,” he said, and she tensed. “Would you rather Fritz arrest him?” Simeon replied softly. “I don’t want to make a spectacle, but this is information I can’t keep from him, and if we do it privately, the town can’t talk about it.”

Margaret thought for a moment. If she talked to Papa beforehand, they could decide together how to best avoid incriminating themselves, and if Papa knew the trouble she was in, maybe he would even agree to tell Simeon everything.

“I’ll try asking him tomorrow,” she said.

“Thank you,” Simeon responded, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, smiling warmly. She smiled back, holding onto the hope that Papa might agree to work with Simeon.

The dance picked up tempo, and Margaret leaned into Simeon’s touch as they spun faster across the floor. When it ended, the remaining guests gave their final congratulations and left. Margaret glanced at the clock, realizing how late it was.

“Simeon, a word?” Mr. James asked, lingering behind.

Simeon had been in the midst of telling Margaret goodnight, and he turned to her apologetically. “Give us just a moment,” he said, stepping aside with Mr. James. She couldn’t help but listen from across the room.

Mr. James spoke in a low voice, and he motioned Simeon close. “Mrs. Dallaway must have talked about the…” his voice dropped to a faint whisper, and Margaret could barely make out the words. “I heard someone whispering about it. They’re worried if runes were found on the body, the murderer could be anyone. Even the normally physically unable.”

Margaret’s stomach dropped. Mrs. Dallaway was the lady who’d found the beggar’s body. She’d seen what the wounds looked like which meant… Margaret’s mind raced. With such clear evidence Mama’s spell was connected, she doubted Papa would agree to talk to Simeon now. Her heart fell. She needed to think.

She nodded mutely as Mr. James left, and Simeon gently kissed her cheek. “Goodnight, my darling,” he said.

“Goodnight,” she answered, and he departed as well.

She locked the door behind him and went to her bedroom to think and prepare for bed. Sitting by her mirror, she undid the plaits in her hair and rubbed off the charcoal makeup around her eyes. She thought of her missing spades and of Mrs. Dallaway. How could Margaret not remember anything from the night the beggar was murdered? And if she’d done it, wouldn’t there have been blood on her? Margaret climbed into bed, feeling exhausted and slightly sick.

She laid her head down, but sleep didn’t come. She tried not to feel betrayed by Mama. And Papa. Where was he? Margaret turned over, restless, and a pit of dread settled deep in her stomach. Could Margaret be a killer? She had to tell someone, had to tell Papa, had to tell Simeon… Oh no. He’d probably leave her, and they’d have to kill her or lock her up…

Margaret’s eyes widened. She sat up, racing to her bedroom dresser. She grabbed the longest of her stockings and tied her ankle tight to the bedpost. If the spell wanted something from her tonight, she intended to know about it.