A Fatal Likeness Read Free Page B

several previous incidents of the like shameful nature. Rogues and charlatans who have attempted to abuse her gentle nature, and exploit her absolute devotion to the Dear Departed for their own mercenary ends.”
    Charles looks up from the paper, struck as much by her portentous tone as by what she says. Evidently both the dead poet and his wife are only to be spoken of in Capital Letters, and Charles knows now whose idea that shrine on the table was, and who—in this house—is both literal and metaphorical keeper of the flame.
    He clears his throat. “These notes will be most useful as an aide-memoire, Lady Shelley, but perhaps you could start by giving me an account—in your own words—of the predicament you mentioned. If you would be so good?”
    Lady Shelley glances at her husband, and then turns to Charles.
    “Well,” she commences. “You may know that in the early years of her marriage Madre spent a good deal of time travelling on the Continent, and also lived in a number of different houses in England. It was unfortunate therefore, but perhaps inevitable, that papers would sometimes go astray, or be left behind, and some of these have since fallen into unscrupulous hands.”
    Charles nods, perceiving that some reaction is necessary, and she takes a breath and plunges on.
    “In recent years, as the reputation of the Dear Departed has grown and the world is finally coming to appreciate the exalted quality of his Genius, certain individuals have come forward claiming to be in possession of those missing papers.”
    This is all starting to sound suspiciously like a prepared speech. Charles wonders for a moment how many others of his calling have sat here and heard it.
    “Some of these papers,” she continues, “have proved to be genuine, and most of these Madre has purchased. Others have been the most infamous impostures.”
    Charles glances down at the notes. “I take it you are referring to the incident mentioned here—concerning George Byron?”
    Lady Shelley snorts with disdain. “He called himself that and claimed the descent, even if illegitimately, but believe me he is no more Lord Byron’s son than I am”—she looks around, seemingly in need of an even more outrageous and unbelievable comparison—“or you are.”
    Charles is irrationally piqued by this observation, and there is perhaps just the slightest sharpness in his reply. “Legitimate or not, it appears from these notes that the man did indeed possess some of Mrs Shelley’s papers.”
    Lady Shelley lifts her nose, as if troubled by a bad smell. “Some were genuine, yes. We never did discover how that scoundrel laid hands upon them. But most of those he tried to sell poor dear Madre were outright forgeries. ”
    “I see,” says Charles. “And the second case? The memoir?”
    There is a sudden rattle as the wind hurls at the window and the candle burning beneath the portrait dips and wavers, throwing ghastly shadows up over the poet’s face. Lady Shelley is on her feet in an instant, rushing to the table and holding her hand close about the flame until it straightens and gathers strength. “The servants are under strict instructions,” she says, as she returns to the sopha. “The candle is never to be allowed to die.”
    “You were saying, Lady Shelley? About the memoir?”
    Her face darkens, and she purses her thin lips. “That was of a rather different order. A cousin of the Poet’s, one Thomas Medwin, sought to make money from their slight connection when mere boys, by publishing what he impudently termed a ‘Life.’ It was nothing but a base attempt at villainous extortion.”
    Charles frowns. “I’m not sure I follow—how could Thomas Medwin use such a memoir to extract money?”
    “By offering not to publish it, of course!” retorts Lady Shelley, somewhat shrilly. “He told Madre she could prevent it appearing if she paid him two hundred fifty pounds. Which she did not have, and would not have paid, even if she