Chapter Nine #2
“So why do you ask about Collins? Is he involved in this somehow?” Though he’d said he had a policy against gossip, the headmaster was doing a poor job of following it.
“We don’t know. We are only trying to make sure an innocent man doesn’t hang for the crime—that is not to say the butcher is innocent, only that we wish to make sure he is guilty and not innocent.” Nate frowned at how convoluted his own words had sounded.
Beside him, Bridget shifted. Apparently, she was tired of being treated as invisible by Egan. “We want to make sure a potentially innocent man doesn’t hang,” she clarified for him.
Headmaster Egan seemed a bit affronted to be addressed by a female in such a forthright manner.
His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Well, if you care to consider my humble opinion, I’d say that while a cuckolded butcher might be the obvious choice, the symbolism of this crime seems too complex for a simple butcher.
” He stressed the word “simple”, perhaps for Bridget’s benefit.
It didn’t sit well with Nate. Still, despite his arrogance the headmaster had a point. Perhaps he hadn’t given the connection between Wordsworth’s poem and Otis’s murder enough thought.
“Of course, I wouldn’t expect your local magistrate to understand any of that. You, on the other hand, must have received a gentleman’s education.” The headmaster cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “An Eton boy, perhaps?”
“Westminster,” Nate said. “And Oxford.”
“Well, then, sir, I expect you are the perfect man to solve this crime.”
“Not me,” Nate said. “Miss De Lacey is the aficionado when it comes to Wordsworth.” The headmaster’s expression clouded, and Nate suppressed a satisfied smile.
Although he’d liked the classics well enough, he hadn’t been inclined to read much popular poetry after leaving school.
But perhaps it was time to indulge in a little Wordsworth.
*
“It doesn’t make sense,” Nate said once they were back in the carriage. “Four years ago, Collins would have been three-and-twenty and no longer a schoolboy. Are you sure of his age?”
“No, I was only guessing. He looks to be about the same age as you.”
“I’m six-and-twenty.”
“That’s why I said approximately,” Bridget answered. “Either way, you are right. Unless he is much younger than we think, he would not have been a schoolboy four years ago.”
“Well, the only way we can find out is by taking a trip to Harrogate and visiting St. Joseph’s. Unfortunately, we shan’t be able to make it to and from Harrogate today. So, I’m afraid we will need to spend an extra night in York and make our trip in the morning.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Harley will do perfectly well looking after the inn.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right. But I was thinking of your aunt. If she wants to return, then I can make the journey to Harrogate by myself.”
“Don’t you dare!” Bridget laughed. “We can leave early in the morning and return by afternoon. Aunt Marianne will be thrilled to spend another day perusing the markets in York.”
Nate smiled to himself. Bridget was a true puzzle solver, and whether she’d admit it or not, investigating this murder had energized her.
“Perhaps we can get ourselves a copy of Wordsworth’s poems in the meantime.
That headmaster left me wondering if there are any hidden clues in that daffodil poem.
I don’t believe I can remember much beyond the first line.
Let’s see. ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er vales and hills…
’” He shut his eyes, trying to remember the rest.
“‘When all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils,’” Bridget finished the stanza for him. “Would you like me to go on?” She cocked her head at him and smiled cheekily, revealing two small dimples at the corners of her mouth. His heart gave a little leap, and he checked himself.
“You know the whole thing, then?” He could not help but smile back at her.
“I do,” she said. “But it’s only the last stanza I feel we need to focus on.”
“It contains some hidden clues, you think?”
“I don’t know about clues, but that headmaster was certainly right about the symbolism. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I believe I know exactly what he’s talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a moment to listen carefully,” Bridget said.
“‘For oft, when on my couch I lie, in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude; and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.’” Bridget recited the final stanza of the poem.
“He’s talking about recalling the daffodils he saw and how the memory fills him with joy. ”
“Yes,” Nate said. “That’s simple enough.”
“Now, focus on those last two lines. ‘And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.’ It’s as though the killer is sending a sinister message by perverting the delight that Wordsworth experiences when he recalls the daffodils.
Remembering the daffodils, Wordsworth feels connected to nature, and his heart overflows with joy. ”
“Unlike Otis,” Nate said, “who lies among the daffodils, lifeless and with no heart. The very core of his being was ripped from his body. Not to mention that daffodils are spring flowers. They symbolize renewal and hope. And of course, there is no hope left for Otis. Such an ugly death suggests just the opposite.”
“His murder was likely a punishment,” Bridget said. “Perhaps he stole someone’s heart and broke it, and so the killer condemned him to spend eternity without hope or heart,” Bridget said.
“Contrapasso,” Nate nodded in understanding. “That’s exactly it.”
Bridget frowned. “Now you’ve lost me. What’s contrapasso?”
“It’s from Dante’s Inferno. In Dante’s version of Hell, the sinners’ punishments echo their crimes.
In other words, they are punished in a way that befits their crimes—it’s called the law of contrapasso,” Nate explained.
“For example, those guilty of gluttony are condemned to wallow in filth like pigs and being bitten by the three-headed dog, Cerberus.”
“How awful,” Bridget said.
“Yes, but the point is that the punishment fits the crime.”
“I tremble to think what happens to murderers.”
“Murderers are condemned to wallow in a river of boiling blood. Their punishment resembles their crimes on Earth. They have blood on their hands, and so they are mired in blood for eternity. The punishment fits the crime.”
“That makes sense.” Bridget shuddered.
“It might sound awful,” Nate said. “But Dante wanted to illustrate that the Lord is just. Sinners receive a punishment that befits their sins—nothing more and nothing less.”
Bridget went silent for a moment. Then she asked, her voice trembling slightly, “And what of those who self-murder?”
Nate’s heart broke for her. She so wanted to believe her papa was at peace. “It’s only a story, Bridget. All of it conjured up in Dante’s mind. He’d been expelled from Florence, and he was furious. Do you know, he put all his enemies in the lowest levels—”
“I know it’s not real,” Bridget said. “But I want to know, nonetheless.”
“Those who self-murder lose the right to their earthly bodies for eternity, and their souls are instead trapped inside trees…” He stopped, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Bridget.
“Is that all?”
“All that I can remember,” he lied.
“There are nine circles of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, are there not?”
Nate nodded.
“And the self-murderers are in what circle?”
Nate exhaled. “The seventh.”
“And they don’t suffer any torture?”
“The trees”—Nate hesitated—“are attacked by harpies. They pull at the leaves and claw at the branches. The souls cry out but are unable to speak of their suffering until Dante breaks a branch from one of the trees and makes it bleed.”
“I understand. The souls are tormented and in constant pain. They cannot freely express their anguish, and they will never know peace or their human form again.”
He glanced at Bridget, whose eyes had welled up, and he silently cursed himself. Why had he brought up the damned Inferno? “Bridget,” he said, “you mustn’t—I mean, your father was—”
“So if we are correct in our thinking”—Bridget forced a smile—“then it’s as I said.
Whoever killed George must have had their heart broken by him.
He ripped out someone’s heart—took away their joy, hope, and future, so they did the same to him.
” Bridget worried her bottom lip. “Now we just have to find out if that person is Collins.”
“Exactly,” Nate agreed, still eyeing Bridget worriedly. “Let’s hope the headmaster at St. Joseph’s is the same one who was there four years ago, and that he’s willing to talk to us.”