“My dear lady, what happened to you?” I ask, and then I listen.
“I was living with my stepsister in Whitstable when I met him. The year was 1886. I was twenty-five and our life was peaceful, unremarkable, until a letter arrived from a solicitor in London called Mr Evening-Star, announcing that I had been left a fortune from my eccentric Uncle Lionel, who was an explorer in Mexico. I had become his heiress, owner of a moated castle on the outskirts of London, as well as inheriting his entire collection of artefacts from his explorations. Well, I nearly fainted on the carpet I was so shocked! Winnie thankfully retrieved the emergency brandy from under the cupboard.” A slight smile danced across her face at the memory, and then vanished just as quickly. “The following day I received a visitor, a friend of my Uncle Lionel, who wished to offer his condolences. His name was Professor Gabriel Hummingbird. He was a widower in his fifties and there was something unusual about him, some strange, cool mischief. The way he looked at me – as though he were peering down a microscope, examining my cells, wanting to rearrange them. We talked at length about my uncle’s work in Mexico and then finally about his own research. They had worked together for years teaching at the University in London. My uncle had died while camping on an Inca burial site, slipped and fell off a ravine while drunk on chocolate-wine. His body had been buried out there, the service simple, but in accordance with my uncle’s wishes, according to Professor Hummingbird.
“The Professor informed me that he would be staying in Whitstable for a few weeks as a holiday and hoped we should meet again. Apart from the fact that he was too old for me, there was something else about him that made me concerned. There was something mechanical, something calculating about him. I was persuaded he did not desire me; however, I was an heiress now. Perhaps it was my money, perhaps something else I had acquired, and yet despite all these warning signals I agreed to see him again, and again. It was almost as if I could not say the word ‘No’ to him. The word just would not form on my lips.
“We met for tea and sandwiches and walked along the beach, picking up curious shells. I told him about my quiet but happy life, but thinking about my Uncle Lionel, I realised how little I had actually lived. How empty my background appeared in comparison with the Professor, who regaled me with tales of his hunting for rare butterflies in Peru and getting lost knee deep in a swamp while being chased by local tribesmen.
“On our third meeting he proposed and I accepted. I knew I had made a mistake when I said the word ‘yes’. I knew and yet I said it anyway and did not retract.”
She sobbed and I put my hand in hers, and after some time she regained her composure and wiped her eyes, “We were married in a small church by the sea. Our honeymoon was spent at our moated castle and the…” – she paused – “…the wedding night was…”
She stopped and looked at me, “It is only the butterflies that excite him.”
She continued, “He had every wall in the castle painted red as though we were walking in tunnels of blood and on every wall nothing but his butterflies. Row after row of them. And his favourite he hung in his study.
“One evening we received two guests for dinner: both medical doctors. Icarus Hookeye and Sebastian Crabmouth. I should have known what he was planning. The wine was drugged. I was transported to the Blue-Flower Institution for the insane and have been here for over two years.”
“I am going to get you out of here,” I said.
Mr Angelcakes visits Boo Boo
He has come again to see me. The lovely, mad Mr Angelcakes. He only comes at night. He comes when people are sleeping.
Tonight he starts to carve something into my back. It hurts a lot. He says:
Ssssshhhhhhh
Boo Boo Don’t be afraid. I am the angel man. It’s only a butter
fly
Lady Beetle’s garden party
Nobody knows where Uncle Grubweed is, but I think Mr Loveheart is right. He’s probably dead and his corpse will turn up at some point. Grandpa says we still have to go to the party. That’s what Uncle would have wanted and we will finally get to meet handsome Horatio. Horatio the prize, Horatio the favourite. I already know I won’t like him. I already know. When I imagine him I think of the red-black juices of overripe tomatoes; squelchy, fat and bloated. There’s something squashed and damaged about him.