Scarecrow of 1889
Chapter 18: Wet footsteps

Chapter 18: Wet footsteps

Music Recommendation: What have we done to each other? Trent Reznor

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Sylvester’s hand trembled as a sense of foreboding crept over him. Hastily, he snatched his comb from the nightstand and clutched the burning lantern tightly as he followed the faint footprints out of his room.

"Who’s there? Show yourself!" Sylvester’s voice echoed through the apartment, competing with the relentless drumming of rain outside. His heart hammered in his chest as he traced the footsteps, leading him to the kitchen.

For the umpteenth time, his kitchen seemed to be the target. What was it about his pots and pans that attracted the intruder? But as Sylvester stepped into the kitchen, the footsteps abruptly ceased, sending a shiver down his spine. Was it really a ghost? With cautious steps, he combed through every corner, peering under tables and beds, but found no trace of an intruder. He prayed fervently that the unwelcome visitor had fled his home.

Returning to the living room, Sylvester reached for the telephone to alert the parish house, only to be startled by its sudden ringing. It was five in the morning, and he wondered who was calling him at this hour.

"Hello?" Sylvester’s voice quavered as he answered.

"Is this Sylvester Crowley?" The voice on the other end inquired.

"Yes, speaking."

"Mr. Crowley, this is the parish house." The man’s tone was somber, causing Sylvester’s brows to furrow in concern. "We have some unfortunate news."

"I do too," Sylvester replied, as he continued, "There is an intru—"

"I regret to inform you that your mother, Lady Delilah Swan, was found deceased in her residence last night," the parish house officer conveyed the grim news to him.

"—der in the..." Sylvester’s voice died down, with only the sound of rain continuing to numb every other sound. He stared at the wall before him, "What?"

"One of her neighbours reported a peculiar odour emanating from Lady Delilah’s apartment during the night. After multiple unsuccessful attempts to contact her, the door was forcibly opened, to find her lifeless body pooled in blood. Her remains have been transferred to the morgue, which will be arriving at Riddleford mortuary by morning for further examination," the man elaborated.

Sylvester was paralysed by shock, struggling to comprehend the grim reality that his mother was no more. "Mr. Crowley? Are you still on the line?" The officer’s voice cut through the haze of disbelief.

"Yes, I’m here," Sylvester managed to reply, his voice strained. He gathered his thoughts and inquired, "Have you contacted my sister, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Mr. Crowley. We reached out to her prior to contacting you. We found the names and numbers in the telephone diary and called people who might be useful because this is a case of murder," the officer said, before adding, "We will be waiting for you to arrive here so that we can discuss the same as we have some questions."

A click was heard from the other end of the phone while Sylvester stood frozen, and finally the earpiece slid away from his hand.

How could this happen? Sylvester questioned himself in horror.

He was supposed to travel to meet her over the weekend, as he had promised her on the phone. He had spoken to her on the phone even when he was in Corby.

"How are things going in Corby, Vester?" his mother inquired.

"It’s going well, Mother. How is your preparation for the new year going on?" Sylvester asked her.

"I received some very expensive bottles of wine from some of my fans, and they are quite tasty. I thought to ask the maid to get me food from the public place, as I didn’t want to cook, but Henritta called."

"She’s planning to celebrate the beginning of the year with you?"

"Not really," his mother laughed before she spoke, "She and Richard are planning on going to Oxford and want to leave little Thomas in someone’s care. I agreed to look after him, as they do live close by. I wouldn’t be able to spend my time with you, but with Thomas, it would be like us back in time."

Sylvester knew his mother missed him, but he had work to do. If his boss hadn’t approached him for his help, he could have prevented this from happening to her. He would have been there to protect her against the murderer.

For the rest of the night, Sylvester didn’t sleep. All this while, he had been worried about someone following him, breaking into his house, while he hadn’t paid attention to the safety of the other members of his family.

Early in the morning, Sylvester arrived at the morgue. After a couple of minutes, the carriage finally arrived before the building, and he felt his heart sink. The coachman got down, and so did the three men who were sitting inside the carriage. The coffin was tied above the carriage, which was slowly lowered, and then taken inside the building.

"Keep it here," one of the men ordered, and the coffin was lowered by the four men.

"Who are you?" asked one of the men in there.

"I’m Sylvester Crowley," Sylvester replied, his voice hard as they lifted the coffin lid to reveal his mother. His face drained of colour, he turned away, desperately searching for a sink to empty his churning stomach. With a wheeze, he succumbed to the nausea, unable to bear the sight of the horrors inflicted upon his mother.

As the deceased woman was placed on the cadaver table, the officers exchanged hushed whispers, their murmurs hinting at hidden tensions.

"Mr. Crowley?" One of the men approached, noting Sylvester’s pale complexion and trembling hands. "Could you please confirm her identity?"

"That’s... That’s my mother," Sylvester choked out the words, his eyes tightly shut, unable to face the harsh reality before him. Somewhere he had hoped this was all but a misunderstanding, but she was truly dead.

Upon returning to his mother’s side, Sylvester noticed how her eyes were brutally gouged out, and so was her heart. And on another table, a bloody scarecrow doll lay. His mother had turned into the scarecrow’s victim.

Sylvester sat outside the morgue room, his head buried in his hands, grappling with the unfathomable reality of his mother’s death. Regret gnawed at him as he replayed the could-have-beens in his mind, tears staining his cheeks as he mourned what could have been prevented.

"Mr. Crowley?" A voice interrupted his thoughts, prompting Sylvester to lift his gaze. Standing before him was Addison Jones, the detective assigned to his mother’s case. Despite his grief, Sylvester composed himself and rose to his feet. "I am sorry about your mother, but there are some things I would like to know. Do you have some time to answer some questions?"

"Yes, please, go ahead," Sylvester responded, his voice tinged with sorrow.

"Your mother, Delilah Swan, lived by herself?" Addison inquired.

"Yes, that is correct," Sylvester confirmed.

"Peterborough is quite far from London. She never thought of living here in Riddleford with you?" Addison probed further.

"Peterborough is where my grandparents, her parents, were from. She grew up there before moving to Dublin with my father," Sylvester explained. "She enjoyed traveling to different places, and I had my work here."

"Mm," Addison nodded thoughtfully, jotting down notes. "When was the last time you spoke to her? Did you leave town in the last five days?"