The Circular Path of Remnants

The smell of meat cooking and fresh potatoes stewing over the fire permeated the air.  Richard was so hungry that he could taste the smell.  He kept his eyes closed and thought a few more minutes of sleep would preserve his strength and when supper was ready he would get up and eat. 

“Wake up---wake up.”  He heard a man’s voice whisper.  Richard was disoriented by the sound.  In that liminal state between sleep and consciousness he thought perhaps someone had finally found them and came to take Victoria and himself back to Grove Street where they could recuperate under a physician’s care.

“Wake up, man.”  The voice insisted.  Richard opened his eyes slowly and he saw the visage of an Indian hovering over him.  He was gnawing on a piece of meat, the melted fat dripping down his chin.

“It’s me, Uncas.  Come.”  The man said as he grabbed Richard’s hand and attempted to pull him up.  Richard rubbed his eyes for a moment as he sat up.

“You’re not Uncas.”  Richard said.  The man laughed heartily. 

“No, but I interpret him on stage.” Booth said.  “Come, we’ve got to hurry.” He urged.  Richard stood upright and felt lightheaded.  As he caught the sunlight through the window he could see that the snow had melted and that Spring had returned.  Everything was green and lush.

“Where’s Victoria?” Richard asked. 

“She’s waiting for us.  Come.”  Booth insisted.  They wandered out into the yard where Michelangelo was tethered and saddled.  Booth laced his hands and bent over.

“You’ll need some help.”  He said.  Richard began to insist he could mount himself but then felt a wave of weakness and steadied himself with the fence post.  He slipped his boot into Booth’s hands and the assassin hoisted Richard up and onto the animal.  Then in a split second he acrobatically swung himself up, over and behind Richard and adjusted comfortably behind the lip of the saddle.

“Hand me the reins, if you please.”  Booth instructed.  Richard, feeling as though he might pass out, followed orders.  In a moment Booth clicked and they were trotting at a quick pace through the yard and into the farmland of the flatlands.  The air was crisp and fresh and temperate.  Michelangelo was amiable with her adventure.  It had been awhile since she had stretched her legs.  Richard reached down in his trouser pocket and he felt Chelsea’s card.  Somehow it reassured him that he was someplace real and not in the midst of a dream.  They moved along the perimeter of Prospect Park.  People were out in their carriages or strolling along the walkways enjoying a day of leisure.  It reminded Richard of only a few days prior just before the storm moved in.  It seemed as though every New Yorker was out taking in the fine weather. Booth navigated Michelangelo into the park and they moved quickly through the brambles.  Gunshots suddenly pierced the quiet day.  The wooded area filled with smoke and the smell of burnt powder.  Unseen men shouted out commands as others in red coats darted quickly through the brush. 

“Shouldn’t we take cover?”  Richard said startled.

“Remnants.”  Booth replied. As they moved out into an open road they passed a military brigade of Englishmen fighting for the crown.  Wide-eyed and confused Richard took in the spectacle like a small boy.

“Washington is just over that ridge.” Booth pointed out as they passed a large boulder in the woods.  The place no longer resembled a park but a dense woodland area and battleground.  Suddenly Booth halted the horse and pointed to a tall thin man standing just to the left of earthen breastworks, Flatbush Pass.

“That’s him.” Booth said. “That’s our first president.”

“I feel like I’m in a Dicken’s novel.”  Richard replied.  “If there is something I need to know please tell me so that I can go home.”

“Ah.  That won’t do. I could tell you lots of things but you will not understand until you experience them.” He replied enigmatically.

“This is a dream---I, I know it must be a dream.  And you’ve made me Scrooge and I must say I’m too sick and far too tired to do this now.”  Richard pleaded.

“Ah, but that is when the greatest knowledge can take effect.” Booth laughed.  He clicked and Michelangelo moved along unfazed by the gunfire, cannons and screams.  A cloud of smoke cloaked the woods and as they navigated the trail it seemed as though they were floating through a thick bank of fog. Then something within Richard made him shrink at the thought of being in London once again. Something about the dankness and desperate lives existing there made him shiver.  He felt the undeniable pains of hunger just like when he was a child on the streets. The dampness made him cold to his bones.  He forced himself to think of happier times with Victoria and the fog faded and the trail in the park resumed its familiar topography.  As they approached a tunnel Booth handed the reins to Richard and in an instant he was alone.  The horse ambled to a stop.  Everything was quiet.  It seemed as if no one was in the area.  Peace had been restored.  The trail led into the tunnel and Richard was familiar enough with the landscape to know where he was and so he clicked and Michelangelo hesitated.  The sound of horse hooves approaching in the distance made her antsy and she tried to turn the other way.  Richard pulled hard at the reins to keep Michelangelo from reversing.  The horseman barreled through the tunnel and Richard could see that it was an apparition.  He reasoned that it was a figment of his imagination or that perhaps the fever had returned and he was hallucinating.  The hooded figure on a black steed aimed right for Richard and although Richard clicked and kicked and then shouted at Michelangelo she would not budge.  Richard ducked into the saddle as the collision would be imminent.  A tingling rush of air passed through him and as he turned to see the horseman go there was nothing.  He could hear Booth laughing from his hiding place in the woods.  Richard angrily wheeled the animal about, kicked hard and began to retrace his steps.

“There is no return.” Booth shouted.

“You’re bloody mad.” Richard retorted and rode back down the trail.  Booth followed hopping along the brush that grew at the sides of the worn path. 

“You must admit that was a fantastic trick.”  Booth laughed.  “Do you know who the headless horseman was?”

“No and I’m certain I don’t care.” Richard said angrily.

“Lincoln.” Booth snickered.  Richard grew enraged and he looked for something to flog the insufferable actor.  He gazed down at the saddle and found a piece of leather tied to the saddle.  It was for attaching a bedroll or some kind baggage.  With a little effort he slipped the leather thong from its place and wound the end about his wrist.  He moved the reins in a hard right angle and Michelangelo reared up for a moment and turned.  Richard whipped Booth as he fumbled for cover in the brush.

“Leave me be!” Richard shouted. “I’ll hang you with it next!” Richard had moved beyond containment.  His anger was so inflamed that he kicked the poor horse hard.  He felt that if he could gallop back to the manor house at top speed the air would calm him down.

As he rushed through the woods he found himself engulfed once more in the thick fog.  The terrain changed and something about it was familiar.  The scent in the air and the dampness reminded him of his midnight ride to the estate in Northampton to reunite with Victoria a few years before.  The sunlight filtered through the mist and created a dappled effect.  Then suddenly another figure appeared.  It was a man and as he moved closer Richard was aware that it was yet another Indian.  Booth had disappeared slipping inconspicuously into the brush.  The man was regal and graceful and elegant.  His hair was shorn at the sides in Mohawk fashion even though the Mohawks were his mortal enemy.  Richard noticed that the Indian emanated light and calm.  And as he drew near he smiled amiably.  Then he raised his arm and pointed to a large field.  Perhaps this is the direction to go but it was not the way home.  He clicked for Michelangelo to move closer and as he drew nearer he could see the soft doe eyes that were once Victoria’s. 

“I will not tell you wrong.”  The Indian said softly and his voice was familiar like a father’s. 

“Who are you?” Richard asked softly and he felt his heart begin to lift and a wave of emotion rush by.

“Tamanend.”  The man said and his warm smile touched Richard so profoundly that he could feel himself begin to weep. 

“I know you.” Richard said earnestly and he dismounted his ride.  It felt like a reunion of a long lost family member.

“And I, you.” Tamanend said as he held out his arm to shake wrists in the familiar aboriginal way.  “There is much to learn.” He added.  Richard nodded as he wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve. 

“You have found me once again in this life.” The Indian smiled.  “And so you will again in the next.”  And he pointed to Richard’s pocket.  Richard pulled Chelsea’s card out and gazed at it.  Then Tamanend placed his finger on the card and slowly moved his finger to his chest smiling kindly.  Then he faded into the mist with only his soft brown eyes visible and as the sun burned the moisture away the Indian’s eyes melted into the verdant landscape.  Richard realized he had been presented with a riddle and as he pulled himself up onto Michelangelo’s back and began to ride in the direction that Tamanend pointed out, his mind opened up and thoughts and memories from other times began to rush in.  He passed a few farmers that were old enough to be his great-great-grandfather’s age if he had one. But they appeared young and virile like him. They wore the familiar tricorn hats of the time and breeches.  He realized he was witnessing the birth of his beloved America.  But he was born in England in 1861.  And he knew that the American revolution had taken place just under a century before.  It was confusing and his head began to hurt.  He moved through the fields with ease and it seemed as though Michelangelo knew the way.  She crossed a small canal that then opened into farmland.  A Dutch stone house stood alone in the fields.  Vechte Cortelyu had been carved into a fence post.  A young boy ran out excitedly speaking Dutch and guided Michelangelo to the trough in the front of the house.  “feestelijk inhalen!”  Richard let the animal and the boy guide him.  His energy was seeping away and he felt as though he might pass out.  He slid off the horse and the boy grabbed hold of his hand.  “Da!  Da!” He exclaimed and an older gentleman stepped across the threshold and his face betrayed his concern.  He took Richard by the arm and led him inside.  A woman sat at the table snapping beans.  She got up suddenly and the couple helped Richard into a straight-backed chair.  The woman fetched water quickly and the man offered fresh oysters from the canal outside.  It had been a long while since Richard had oysters.  They were seasonal and the winter had been harsh.  As the woman took her knife and broke open the shells the man passed them to Richard and gestured for him to eat.  They slipped easily down his throat and the taste reminded him of summer and champagne and evenings along the boardwalk strolling with Victoria on the beaches of Long Island Sound.  He noticed another man in a top hat and great coat sitting in the corner.  He blended into the shadows of the house So well that Richard almost overlooked him but the glass of green liquid caught the sunlight and Richard’s attention.  By his looks and his dress the gentleman was a contemporary of his and he slowly brought the glass to his lips and took a slow easy pull.  For a moment Richard wondered if he was in a stopping place for the dead.

“I hear you were accused of murdering Shakespeare, Mr. Rhys.” The gentleman said softly.  A shiver shot up through Richard’s spine.  He had thought for sure that the rumors had been put to rest.  It had been almost a year ago and the police constantly kept their eye on him.  He even noticed that plainclothes men wandering the streets in the village might actually be working for Scotland Yard.  The New York Police made no secret of their interest in Richard as an ongoing suspect.   The only reason he was not hauled into the Tombs every other week is because he was married to Victoria. He also had an ironclad alibi. 

“We have not been properly introduced.”  Richard said softly.

“Oh.  Yes…we have.”  The man replied.  Then he took another slow pull of the neon green elixir and pulled away his top hat.

“Mr. Jones.”  Richard exclaimed.  The gentleman smiled amiably.  He looked tired and pre-occupied.  “But…I found you---“ Richard started.

“---Indeed.” Mr. Jones said.

“Frozen.”  Richard added.  Mr. Jones nodded in agreement.

“There is no possible way that you could have been alive.  You had been frozen solid in the snow drift.”  Richard said more for himself than as an explanation.

“I concur.”  Mr. Jones replied gently sipping the absinthe.

“Did you know the prostitute they called ‘Shakespeare’?”  Mr. Jones asked.

Richard took a moment and thought carefully.  Victoria had changed his life and his beliefs of right and wrong and so he wondered what she might do if she were in his situation.  She would tell the truth.

“Yes.  Yes, I did.”  Richard replied.  Mr. Jones smiled.

“Are you Jack the Ripper?” Mr. Jones asked pointedly.

“No.”  Richard said without flinching.  “No.  I am not.  I was not one of her customers.  I was simply a very small benefactor.”  Mr. Jones laughed heartily and took another sip of his drink.

“Charity is for the church.  Money is never given freely without some sort of obligation.  After all when the alms are distributed Christ comes for the heart.  There’s always a trade.”  Mr. Jones said.

“Perhaps.”  Richard replied. “I did not fuck her if that is what you’re on about.” 

“Ahhh, there are other methods of satisfaction.  No one ever suggested that the Whitechapel murderer engaged in sex.”  Mr. Jones explained.  “As a matter of fact he never did.”

“How would you know?” Richard asked.  Mr. Jones smiled knowingly.

“Mrs. Hopkins sent me out one day to the Chinamen.”  He began.  “Apparently the scullery maid, and washwoman had come down with Typhoid and she did not want the laundry infected.  So I was sent out with several items of your clothing.  Mrs. Thornton—

“Mrs. Rhys.” Richard corrected.

“Yes.  Well she certainly bought you some very well tailored suits.”  Mr. Jones smiled.  “I couldn’t resist, you see.”

Richard’s head began to spin.  All that time in London that he had been accused and hounded by the authorities made sense.  It began when he first met Victoria on that snowy night in the East End. 

“My father was a butcher by trade.”  Mr. Jones said quietly.  “I wanted a vocation that was more refined and respected.  But then if it’s in the blood…”

“Why?  Why did you do it?”  Richard asked.  He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

“Something about time.” Mr. Jones mused.  “Something about the summer and the fall…The warm air and the fair sex.  The fragrance of flowers on the misty evenings.  The soft glow of lamplight on bare skin at Cremorne Gardens.  The music and the flesh.  The smell of drink and perspiration and cheap cologne.”  Then he stopped and stared out at some unseen dream and for a moment Richard thought he could hear the faint notes of a string band playing popular music.

“In the wee hours.  Just before dawn…something dark would come over me.  And the soft murmur of a woman’s voice would compel me to own my power.  God would cease to exist.  Not that I ever believed in God.  I was aware of the strength within me and to use it to destroy felt invigorating.  I could let life exist or I could extinguish it with no more thought than a bug.”

“And you paid them.” Richard began “So that made it right.”

“Oh, no.  I never allowed myself the pleasure.  They were helpless and weak.  They weren’t clean.  They might get too close.  They might have lice…or worse a disease.  They weren’t perfect, you see.  So I had to make room for perfection.”  Mr. Jones explained.

“Why ask if I am the murderer when you were all along?”  Richard said getting angry.

“I wanted to allow you the opportunity for confession.” Mr. Jones smiled.

“Why in God’s name would I confess anything to a blackguard like you?”  Richard began.

“We’re not so very different, Mr. Rhys.  You’re indignant righteousness might land in my place.”  Mr. Jones warned.

“Dead.” Richard said.

“Precisely.” Mr. Jones said and in an instant he disintegrated into thin air and the old stone house bustled with familial activity.  Richard grabbed the sleeve of the Dutch boy that welcomed him.

“Have I died?” He asked desperately.

“Why no.  You’re a traveler is all.”  The boy said.

Hovering Between the Ghost and the Assassin

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 11^th, 1918.  Born October 25^th 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 24^th, 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.