Page 49 of Dead Serious Case 5 Madame Vivienne
“Ow,” I protest, grasping Jacob Marley around his ample middle to haul him into place. “I know you’re pissed that Danny’s not home to cuddle up to, but do you need to take it out on my new jeans?” Jacob Marley yowls loudly in response. “You do know you have to share Danny, right? You can’t monopolise his lap every evening. I wouldn’t say no to some quality snuggling—and I mean with Danny. I love you, Jacob Marley,honestly I do, but you’ve put on so much weight recently that my legs go numb every time you sit on my lap.”
He gives another meow and turns. As he lifts his tail, he moons me, which I’m beginning to think is the feline equivalent of flipping the finger. Sliding my hands under his belly, I heft him into my arms and cross the room to deposit him in his favourite spot on the sofa.
As much as I’d love to curl up with him, I need to get the mess I’ve made cleaned up before Danny gets home. Clutter and mess make him uncomfortable, and he’s got enough on his plate already. The last thing I want is him stress cleaning until two in the morning, which I’ve caught him doing before.
I glance at my phone, noting the time, and frown. He said he was going to be late coming home, but I didn’t think he’d be this long. I hope everything’s okay. I’d call him but I don’t like to disturb him if he’s working. Still, I can’t help the little kernel of unease lodged in my belly.
I look at the time again. If he’s not back by the time I’ve finished cleaning up, I’ll call and get him to pick something up for dinner on his way home. Sliding the master copy ofCrawshanks Guide to the Recently Departedto the side where Jacob Marley can’t get at it, I pull the cardboard box Viv gave me at the end of last year closer.
It’s going to take me forever to sort through it all, but I’m pretty sure the majority of the torn pages from the book are somewhere in the box. Not wanting to just tape the pages back in, I’d spent ages online trying to find the best way to repair it myself.
My favourite book series when I was a kid had been the Narnia books. Huddled in my little blanket fort of safety, Dad and I used to read them every night after Mum died. I read them so much the pages began falling out, so I did what any little kid would have done. I sellotaped them back in and taped the frontcover back in place, which had also fallen apart. I still have those copies to this day, tucked away safely in a keepsake box, but they’re too fragile to display. The tape is now yellow with age, cracked and peeling away, leaving dirty marks behind from the glue.
Crawshanks Guideis nearly two hundred years old. It really needs to be preserved properly, most likely by a professional, but Viv had said it was personal and she didn’t want me to show it to anyone else. After the brief glances I’ve been able to take, I’m beginning to understand why.
The master copy isn’t just the original draft of his insanehow to commune with the deadguide. It’s first and foremost a journal. A very,verypersonal journal. I think he pulled the instructional parts out to give to the publishers so they could make the guide, but the rest of it is every unfiltered thought, deed, and feeling he had. And Cornelius had alotof feelings for someone he referred to as Ichabod.
Honestly? The most awesome name I think I’ve heard.
I need more time to read through the book in detail once I’ve reassembled it, but so far, I’m almost a hundred percent certain that whoever this Ichabod person was, he was Cornelius Crawshanks’ lover. Which kind of makes me feel a warm kinship with this eccentric, more often than not drug-addled man, who not only struggled with seeing ghosts but seems to have had a male lover, one who he couldn’t acknowledge in public given the fact that they were hanging men for homosexuality during the first half of his life and it was still highly illegal during the second half.
I wonder if they loved each other. I wonder if they managed to stay together throughout their lives, even hiding their secret. My little mushy, romantic heart hopes they did and is desperate to know for sure. I can’t wait to tell Danny—he’ll research the hell out of it.
Glancing at the time again, I’m getting a little worried now. Danny did tell me he was going to be late, but maybe I should?—
The front door of the flat opens and closes and a wave of relief rushes over me. I don’t know why I’m so on edge at the moment, but I’m glad he’s home.
“Hey, baby.” I smile as he walks into the living room.
Bounding across the room, I stand on tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck, then press my mouth to his. His arms slide around me, pulling me in closer as he tilts his head and opens his mouth.
I’m powerless against his kisses, especially these slow and thorough ones. His tongue slides lazily along mine as he tastes me and sets my head spinning. I can smell the remnants of his cologne, the barest hint of sweat, and something that is just uniquely Danny.
Finally, when I think I’m about to melt into a boneless heap on the carpet, he withdraws and pecks an affectionate kiss to the tip of my nose. “Well, that was a nice greeting.”
“I just missed you,” I murmur with a sigh of contentment.
“Missed you too.” He traces my jaw softly with his fingertips.
“You steamed up my glasses again.” I grin at him.
“Always my pleasure.” His voice rumbles and I can feel the vibrations of his chest against mine as he chuckles. “You seem happy.” He tucks a wayward curl behind my ear.
“I am.” I catch hold of his hand and drag him over to the table. “I’ve been going through the Crawshanks papers and I’ve started reassembling the damaged parts of the master copy. It’s probably going to take forever, but I read some of it. It’s part journal and you’ll never guess what—Cornelius Crawshanks had a male lover called Ichabod! Isn’t that a brilliant name?”
“Um-hm.” He nods and I can tell his mind is still somewhere else. Usually, he’s falling over himself to get his hands on documents this old.
“Is everything okay?” I frown in concern. “Where were you?”
“With Sam,” he says. “He managed to find out which hospital Viv gave birth to her son in.”
“Wow, okay.”
He nods and it’s getting a little easier to see him now that my foggy lenses are clearing. “We’ve also managed to find out the name of the doctor who delivered the baby.”
“Oh, do they still work there?” I frown again. “I can’t imagine they’d remember much—after all, it was over thirty years ago. I guess they’ve probably delivered loads of babies since then.”
“It was a he. His name was Dr Stanford.”