He awakened with a start and he was completely disoriented. The room he was in was not at all familiar. It was not a room in the great manor house and he wondered what had happened while he had been sleeping. He was dressed in his black wool suit and he still had his boots on. His first thought was Victoria. Where was his wife? Then panic set in and he thought, perhaps something terrible had happened. How did he get to this place? Where was she and why couldn’t he remember? He moved quickly out of the small room that held shelves upon shelves of books and old maps that hung on the walls, yellowed with age. Spilling out into a long corridor he could hear the sounds of people, a low murmur here and a cough or soft grunt there. He looked down to see all kinds of people, men and women sitting at long wooden tables examining books and documents.
“Excuse me?” He said over the railing to the patrons below.
“SHHHHHH!” They replied.
“Where am I?” He asked in a hushed tone. The patrons exchanged glances with each other. Some shook their heads in judgment. Then one man looked up and put away his monocle. “The New York Public Library.” Then he raised his finger to his lips and warned “Shhh.”
How the hell did he get to the Library? He thought. When he glanced back over the railing the monocled man had disappeared. He had never heard of the New York Public Library. He had certainly frequented the Astor Library downtown. He stood there a moment and closed his eyes. There were a multitude of sounds that he could not decipher, hums and rings and buzzing and loud traffic that confused him. When he opened his eyes again, looking up he could see that the Edison lights had been installed everywhere. Perhaps the bulbs made the buzzing sounds. It was a cacophony and very different from the quiet hiss of gas lamps that he had been used to. Slowly he meandered down the corridor to investigate the building. He wondered if Victoria was home on Grove Street. He wanted to go home. He came to a door at the end of the corridor hoping it might lead to a staircase to the ground floor. As he opened it he saw a man dressed in American Indian costume moving about on a proscenium stage. It was much more vibrant and impressive than his homemade costume he had made a few hours earlier.
“Oh, do come in.” The man said as he turned. Richard was taken aback by the amazing likeness they shared.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to interrupt---“ Richard stuttered as he tried to back out of the auditorium.
“No, please. Sit for a moment.” The man offered.
“But it looks as though you are rehearsing---“ Richard continued.
“My name is John.” And he thrust out his hand to shake. Richard clasped his hand and it was cold yet firm and sincere. Richard took in John’s costume admiring its fine design and craftsmanship. It certainly looked like an authentic Indian deerskin shirt and leggings. Then it suddenly dawned on him who the gentleman was. John laughed, as Richard’s expression changed and he seemed even more startled.
“You look as though you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.” John exclaimed.
“I have to go---I have to get home.” Richard stammered again trying to regain his sense of direction.
“I need someone to feed me lines.” John said and he thrust a script into Richard’s hands.
“Read the part of Magua the Mohawk.”
Richard gazed at the title of the script. It was a staged version of The Last of the Mohicans.
“We’re performing this play at the Richmond Theatre. It should prove amusing.” He added amiably. “So go ahead—you have the first bit of dialogue.”
Richard gazed at the page and the letters seemed like jumbled hieroglyphs, undecipherable scratchings that made his head swim. John studied him almost like a predator and then wondered if the poor chap could even read.
“Why did you do it?” Richard asked.
“Pardon?” John replied confused.
“Why did you assassinate Mr. Lincoln?” He pressed.
“Who?” John replied increasingly confused.
“The president---the president---why did you kill him? You had so much good fortune and then you threw it all away.” Richard exclaimed.
“I have killed no one, sir. I am an actor. And I do not know of this Lincoln you speak of. So, if you please.” John replied indignant and jerked the script from Richard’s hand.
“I see I have come upon an Englishman with abolitionist leanings. I suppose you were sorry to see John Brown Hang!” John almost spit.
“I have to go home---“ Richard said turning again to the doorway.
“To Whom?” John asked stepping in his path.
“My wife.” Richard replied growing anxious.
“She’s not there.” John said and he sauntered away captivated by the words on the page.
“What do you mean?” Richard asked.
“She’s not where you think she is. That’s all.” John said sweetly distracted by his lines.
“Where is she?” Richard queried, the sweat beginning to break across his forehead.
“Why did you do it?” John asked and he pierced Richard with his dark haunting eyes.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” Richard said baffled.
“Why did you kill that man on Toynbee Street?” John said softly with a hiss. And he slowly slithered up in between Richard and the exit. “And ‘Shakespeare’? Why did you do it?” Richard could not answer. He was confused and disoriented.
“Were you mad?” Booth whispered.
“Perhaps…In a way.” Richard replied.
“Most murderers are mad. Don’t you agree? Mad as a March hare.” He continued. “Was it the warmth?” Richard looked at him baffled. “The warmth of the life force slowly pooling on the wet, cold ground.” He circled him and Richard felt claustrophobic as if being constricted by some unseen force. “Or maybe it was the brightness of it on such a drab, grey, depressing and dark canvas. London will certainly do that to a man. The color leeches out bit by bit, day by day until there is nothing left but a shell.”
“You must know the feeling of being grey.” Richard said with a smirk. “Helpless with no uniform and nothing but other people’s words that made you famous.” Richard retorted. The fire seethed in Booth’s eyes.
“Will you do the same to her?” He said almost inaudibly. Richard felt his heart contract. He ached from someplace hidden deep. “It would be a slow demise, wouldn’t it? To take her for your selfish gain and do things that could be quite unhealthy. Scandalously unhealthy.” He purred.
“Such a pity. A brilliant, successful actor led astray by delusions of glory and false heroic grandeur. There was no resignation from the stage, was there? Your life was frivolous and unimportant compared to the real soldiers fighting. There was no time for amusement and that is all you ever were. Something disposable in a time of crisis.” Richard rebutted.
“Let her bleed out as she lay beside you in your bed.” Booth whispered. Suddenly Richard overcome with furious violence grabbed Booth with one arm, threw him to the floor and began punching him, fist after fist until the floor was soaked with blood and his face swollen from the blows. A murderous rage engulfed him and he did not care if he choked the last bit of life from the famous and infamous John Wilkes Booth.
“She would be so proud of you. Defending her honor like, well, like a common criminal. She was proud of you when you beat and threatened Mr. Whitby. Isn’t that right?” He laughed and wheezed and coughed and spit. Richard jumped up from Booth and sprang through the doorway to the landing. He could see a young woman sitting at a table below. But he could not find the stairs to lead him to the ground floor. At that moment Booth limped through the doorway. “There are no stairs, my friend.” At that moment Richard was willing to jump the two stories down to the ground floor. He hiked his leg over the railing and as he was about to swing the other leg over. John rushed to him. “Don’t do it! I tried that once and it ended very badly for me!” Within moments Richard was air born and it seemed as though he were falling from a great height. He could feel the rush of air against his face and time seemed to slow down and he wondered if he would ever find the ground. He hit the floor with a great bang and the young woman was startled from her reverie. It was Victoria but she looked a bit different than she usually did and strangely she did not recognize him.
Chelsea sat quietly in the great hall of the New York Public Library waiting patiently for her appointment with the archivist. She had brought along her dog-earred copy of Thomas Wolfe’s The Painted Word. It had been her favorite book in college and anytime she was not currently engaged in a novel or research she always toted it along to while away the time. Her career in New York was filled with odd jobs specifically as personal assistants to art critics, gallery owners, museum curators, painters and sculptors and the odd experimental videographer. She even worked for a well-known performance artist until the idea of the universe revolving around that one person greatly impaired her personal life and strained her work ethic. Thomas Wolfe’s book was endearing because it made fun of the excessiveness and exclusivity of the art world with its intellectual jargon, bullshit conceptual ideas and amazing self-importance. Critical theory of the day was tilted one way or the other depending on who was sleeping with what artist when. It seemed that the very niche world of art was not that much different from the seedy music business. Everyone wanted to get to the top and if they could fuck their way to success and a museum exhibition at the Tate or the Whitney then they developed that skill almost like going to the gym.
It had been over a month since her interview of Ashley appeared in the Magazine. Ashley called about a week after it hit the stands and thanked her profusely. She also invited her back for tea sometime if she found herself in that part of Brooklyn again. Chelsea wanted to take her up on it but felt she should make good on her promise to research the Victorian painter first. Since many artists had moved from Manhattan to cheaper studios in Williamsburg, Dumbo and Red Hook she found herself in Brooklyn a lot more since her first foray across the river. She had yet to visit Red Hook and did not like the idea of having to go there. It was remote and involved a lot of walking from public transportation. She knew eventually she would have to make her way through the bad neighborhood to interview an artist for the publication.
Suddenly a man in a dark suit tripped and fell as he rounded one of the large bookshelves. The noise echoed through the place and seemed to catch everyone’s attention. He recovered so quickly that he looked like a dark blur moving out of view to avoid embarrassment, no doubt. She resumed her place on the page and was just getting into the current paragraph when a lovely older woman interrupted her.
“Chelsea Barrett?” The woman asked sweetly. Chelsea nodded.
“Angela, I’ll be taking you into the archives now.” The woman replied.
“Great.” Chelsea said and suddenly she remembered the man in the suit. “Did you see a gentleman fall just over there a minute ago? It looked like he may have hurt himself.”
Angela seemed concerned. “Where?” And they changed direction to the place where the incident happened. As they rounded the giant bookshelf there was no one in the aisle.
“I guess he’s all right.” Chelsea said.
“I’ll have security check the tapes. Right this way.” Angela said. And she escorted her through the secure doorways and up to the second floor landing where the archives were kept. Ancient books, maps and old documents, letters and deeds were kept in a constant semi-humid environment due to their fragile condition and historic importance.
“I’m looking for a man named Richard Rhys. He was an impressionist painter and possibly a contemporary of John Singer Sargent.” Chelsea said.
“We don’t really house works of art.” Angela said.
“I know, but he was quite prolific and there seems to be nothing of his work left behind. I can’t find anything by him in any collection here in New York. I’ve tried the Frick and Pierpont-Morgan Library, the Met and the Whitney. There’s no trace.” Chelsea said.
“Let’s try to find a residence and then we will work from there. The only thing we might have in our collection are letters or speeches and maybe an old photograph if he was anyone of importance.” Angela said and they walked into a different office that housed a few computers.
“We’ll try the 1890 census and see if he shows up somewhere.” A few clicks and the computerized version of the New York Census along with PDFs of the actual scanned papers popped up onto the large screen.
“Did he spell it R-e-e-s-e?” Angela asked. “You know, like Reese’s Pieces?”
“I’m not sure.” Chelsea replied. They scrolled down the list of names just in the ‘R’ section alone. There seemed to be thousands.
“I believe he was a Brit so try ‘R-h-y-s’”. Chelsea instructed. Several minutes passed as the ‘R’s” whizzed by and finally they stumbled upon an R. Rhys.
“This might be him.” Angela said. “Looks like he lived at 12 1/2 Grove Street beginning in 1887. Let’s see his stats. Okay, here. He married V. Thornton and she was the deed holder of the house.” Angela said. Chelsea had heard the Thornton name before but only within the art circles of London. There was a private collection that the Tate housed by appointment only and she never had enough interest to see it the one time she was there.
“I wonder if it is the same Thornton.” Chelsea mumbled. Angela moved from one computer to another that seemed to be the Library’s index of everything.
“Okay. Here’s something. We have a wedding announcement in the New York Times and the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.” She said still looking through the periodical index. “And here is his obit.” Angela said quietly. Chelsea scooted around and gazed over her shoulder. The obit was dated September 11th, 1918. Born October 25th 1861 in County Clair, Ireland.
“He died at fifty-seven.” Chelsea said softly almost to herself. Then she made notes on her pad. “I wonder if he’s buried here in New York?”
“Likely places would be Green-wood Cemetery or Forest Hills. I’d look there first.” Angela said.
“Does it say what he died of?” Chelsea asked.
“Back then it was not polite to discuss the cause of death especially in the press.” Angela said. “But we’ll keep digging to see if we have some artifacts here.”
The day wore on and Angela tirelessly searched and cross-referenced lists and indexes and more lists. Chelsea realized she spent almost the entire day looking for an obscure artist whose work she probably wouldn’t like anyway since no living person seemed to own any of it. But she kept at it because she had promised Ashley and because Ashley’s painting made such an impression on her.
“Oh my God.” Angela said stunned. She scrolled down to a New York Times article. “An R. Rhys of London, now residing in New York City is a suspect in the East End murders and the murder of ‘Shakespeare’ an elderly prostitute living and working near Water Street on the evening of April 24th, 1891.”
“What?!” Chelsea exclaimed. Her curiosity grew in magnitude and now she wanted to find out whom this guy really was.
“I’m going to cross-reference with V. Thornton to see what comes up.” Angela said. She typed in a few keys and the information bloomed like a rose.
“Finally! We have something. Let me just jot this down and we’ll go down the hall and see what we might find.” Angela said.
When they entered the room it was filled with books from the floor to the ceiling and the walls were covered with old yellowed maps in heavy antique frames. It smelled musty as if no one ever visited this part of the library.
“Is this the lost and found of not-very-important-people?” Chelsea asked.
“Everyone’s important.” Angela said and immediately Chelsea felt badly for having judged prematurely. Looking at the faded numbers on the old bookcases finally Angela located a thick volume that looked like a book but was in reality hollow and housed the fragile findings inside. Angela advised Chelsea to don the white cotton gloves while looking through the material. As they opened the volume letters from Richard to Victoria were bound by ribbon and yellowed with age. At the bottom was a small tintype of a man in a dark wool suit. As Angela unearthed it and handed it to Chelsea she almost fainted. Her legs tingled and seemed to go numb. Then the feeling creeped up her back making her feel weak. The top pf her head was on fire and her hair hurt.
“This is the same man that tripped and fell earlier!” Chelsea exclaimed.
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