Category:

UPPER HOLLOWAY NEWS

Sunday, February 18, 1866

A ROMANTIC DISAPPEARANCE: HUSBAND AND WIFE BOTH MISSING

Mr. Christian Comstock, the son of Mr. George Comstock, has been missing for over two months. The young clerk has not appeared at his role in the London National Bank, nor has he been seen at or anywhere near his premises during this time. The Comstocks are a family of great repute in Upper Holloway, our northern suburb of London, thanks to the senior Mr. Comstock's successful career at the bank. For the son of such a champion of capitalistic progress and well-touted member of London's financial hierarchy, the junior Mr. Comstock's absence is highly uncharacteristic, so say family and colleagues. The suggestion of foul play is, of course, being investigated, though nothing conclusive has come to light.

It appears that Mrs. Christian Comstock has also been missing since late last year. The wife is known throughout Worthing Road to be "strange" and "a recluse." One particular acquaintance of the married couple expressed his "suspicion" upon hearing about her disappearance. Neighbors have no idea as to either of their whereabouts.

Police are investigating, but with so little information, we may be left only to wonder: What has happened to the Comstocks?

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

 

CHAPTER ONE

Though the letter lay on the small table, Harriet did not open it.

Instead, she watched a fox begin its work on a plum just outside.

The fruit that fell from the plum tree in her garden was a deep violet in some light, golden in others. They grew in plump clusters along generous branches. A fallen plum, an abundance of which was often shaken free by the train rumbling by, smelled sickly sweet when it began its slow rot. The aroma each plum gave off was both familiar and intoxicating.

Harriet knew it well.

The fox sniffed the plum first. It was easy prey, already lying on the ground, waiting for someone to claim it. Harriet could almost see the little creature drooling from here, so indulgently it licked its mouth in anticipation. And then, it began to nibble. The plum rolled a short way away at the first breaking of the skin, yellow flesh exposed, and the fox chased it hungrily. Now that he had a taste, it was going to be hard to resist.

The fox played this game of nibble and chase until half the fruit was consumed, and then he took the last of it in his mouth and chewed with fervor.

Just then, the train roared past. The little fox gave the machine a brief, wary look, and Harriet did too, watching blurs of black cross her vision like splatters of ink.

The greens and pinks and whites of her garden glowed in the hazy morning light while the train burst through, a violent shadowy interruption. She had become quite used to the train over the years, so much so that it was a part of the garden's natural rhythm. It used to drown out her father's thundering commands, and for that, Harriet had been grateful.

But now that it was just her, she found she did not appreciate the train quite as much as she once had.

A shower of overripe fruit thunked to the ground near the fox. The animal was too distracted by the juicy finale of his dessert to care. Now, he stumbled over the fallen plums. There was a distinct imbalance to his gait, and then he lay down right where he was, part of him shadowed by the thicket of blackberry brambles that stood guard along the garden wall and part of him glinting in the brightness of the day. He curled his head around so he lay snugly on top of his tail, a little white tuft sticking out like the corner of a pillow.

A tendril of leafed ivy, as alive as a hand, slunk up to the tiny fox, then another, and another. Soon, the animal was shrouded by vines and covered in veiny green leaves.

The garden explored the visitor, and the visitor slept.

Harriet turned away. The room around her was still and quiet, such a contrast to her garden. The flowers that adorned the walls in here were stuck in a flat, lifeless existence. The paper peeled away at the corners, exposing spots of bare adhesive and plaster. She had lived in this space since she'd been too small to see out of the window. Now, the neatly made bed lay half illuminated, stripped of its bed curtains, posts prodding the air like spears. A faded blanket that had once matched the wallpaper covered the bed, and a droopy pillow peaked limply, though she'd tried, and failed, to help it sit upright. The room smelled faintly stale, like dust trapped too long under layers of damp.