Darwin turned towards the footsteps and discovered a middle aged man standing beneath the glass roof, studying a fern.
He wore a dark coat that covered most of his body, with a high velvet collar. He cradled a slender book tied in sanguine leather under his arm.
His hair was thin but plenty.
The man paused a few paces away, keeping his body oriented toward Darwin while his head remained turned aside.
Without raising his eyes, he spoke in a dry baritone: "Mr. Gabriel… I wasn't sure you'd come."
Seconds passed in silence before the stranger straightened up and inclined his head.
"Oh—my mistake," he said, awkwardly smiling.
He sounded almost amused as he said, "I only stole a glance while your eyes were closed, from some distance. Yet even from there, you bear the face of an old acquaintance of mine."
Clearing his throat, he muttered under his breath a single word: "Remarkable."
'What was so remarkable about mere resemblance? Twins separated by fate were rare, but not impossible; doppelgängers were the stuff of superstition, not polite conversation.'
This was the first time he had ever heard someone address him with a name not his own, and though it should have been nothing more than a simple mistake, he found himself unexpectedly skeptical.
Still, he gave a small nod and answered evenly, "It is a common mistake, I assure you. I am merely the lesser-known, though perhaps more fortunate cousin of Mr. Gabriel."
"Interesting…" he murmured. "So you are a blood relation, then? But Gabriel has mentioned he has no living kin. And if you look so much like him, why has he never spoken of you?" His tone was tinted with confusion, as if Darwin had proposed something impossible.
Darwin masked the half-smile tugging at his lips by turning his gaze toward a cluster of ferns at his elbow.
'Clearly this stranger knew far more about Gabriel's life than I had anticipated.'
Darwin recovered his composure and allowed that smile to linger, though his mind worked frantically.
Adjusting his cuffs, he said calmly, "Perhaps my cousin's pride is such that he would never deign to speak of someone as accomplished, or as curious, as I apparently am."
The stranger cleared his throat.
"Pardon me," he said after a moment. "You may be right. Gabriel hardly seems the arrogant sort. But you, having known him perhaps better than any of us, surely have insight into his nature."
Darwin offered no more than a neutral hum in return.
The man continued as though musing aloud: "I can assure you it was not merely your resemblance that confused me. Gabriel comes here, you see, though not usually on Sundays," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
For a moment, Darwin felt a bit relieved, as if the admission proved that him and Gabriel had met by coincidence rather than intentionally
He permitted himself to relax fractionally, leaning back on the wooden bench and stretching out his legs casually.
The man's words showed he knew not just Gabriel's face, but also his habits, which meant this encounter was no mere fluke.
Darwin inclined his head in a small, deliberate gesture and let a thin smile form at the corner of his lips.
'If he truly knew Gabriel as well as he claimed, perhaps I could learn something.'
"Since you claim such familiarity," he said quietly, "Perhaps you could satisfy a question that has been nagging at me. Has Gabriel ever spoken to you of his profession? Or offered you any… opportunities of a peculiar nature?"
The gentleman's lips had been sealed for a moment, and Darwin suspected he was choosing his words carefully.
"I do not believe Gabriel himself ever extended me a formal proposal," the stranger confessed.
"But to my knowledge, he is a gentleman writer of some renown. I have been acquainted with his work. In fact, I used to pore over his manuscripts by post, offering commentary before they were sent to the printers."
Suspense swept across Darwin's thoughts as he absorbed this information.
'An author? Gabriel had never mentioned such an occupation. Could the nightly affairs that he mentioned be related to some literary commission? Had he come to me under false pretenses when in truth he was devoted to weaving tales?'
He furrowed his brows in brief ponderance.
The stranger watched him with discreet patience.
"I was aware, of course," he finally managed. "I know his name already, naturally… It is the nature of the stories themselves that stays with me."
"That is quite understandable," he said. "Gabriel's chosen themes have long captured the attention of discerning readers. He does not shy away from darkness. Indeed, in these modern times, few dare to write of murder and blood with such frank artistry. His candour in describing violence as if it were an art form has made him rather notorious."
He chuckled softly, as though pleased by the notion.
Leaning forward slightly, Darwin asked in a low tone, "He writes of murder, you say?"
The stranger inclined his head.
"Indeed," he replied. "Quite uniquely, I must admit. Some of his pieces, I dare say, verge on madness. But perhaps that is what certain readers find compelling."
Darwin felt very surprised by this. 'How coincidental is it that our own writings have dealt in gloomy spectres and violence as well?'
He nodded slowly, feeling the temperature around them growing cooler as twilight approached.
Whatever Gabriel's motives had been, this revelation only deepened the mystery.
Before Darwin could speak again, the stranger let out a small sigh of regret.
"I'm afraid I must cut our conversation short," he said politely.
"I came here merely to pass a little time before returning to my own affairs. If you ever find yourself here again, perhaps we can resume this talk. I quite enjoy hearing your perspective."
He bid Darwin a polite farewell.
"Oh, and please call me Doctor."
"I am Darwin," he responded composedly.
. . .
The twilight had deepened into a watery dusk by the time Darwin had drifted into the streets.
He was approaching an old newspaper kiosk with a window that appeared mottled from condensation.
Now and then, when he passed a street newsstand, he found himself drawn to read bits of the day's happenings and pieces of news he rarely heard elsewhere.
Once he had slowed down in front of the stack of newsprint, he read the headline that was furthest to the left in bold type:
"Young Woman Found Dead in Locked Flat; Authorities Claim Suicide."
The capital letters stood out against the dense columns of small serif text.
But in the subheading, printed in the same black ink, was a name spelled out in uppercase that seized Darwin's attention.
"Sylvie March…"
Darwin's heart thumped as his hand clenched on the wood of the kiosk's frame.
Sylvie March was not just an ordinary name to him; it was a name he had given to a character in a fevered story he had written one sleepless night.
He remembered the frantic scratching of quill on paper, blotting ink, and desperate haste as he penned the tale: a woman murdered by her own sister, who staged her death as a suicide.
The leather notebook that contained it had been stashed deep in a trunk for years.
He had never shown it to another, and on the week he prepared to move, he threw the only copy onto the hearth's flame.
Even at present, the acrid scent of burning paper and ink lingered in his memory, as if that night had only just passed.
He stood very close to the kiosk now, as though proximity would grant him clarity.
The damp light of evening illuminated his anxious face, and he slowly lifted the folded newspaper open on the counter.
His eyes raced over the small print, taking in the details and observations, as inscrutable to the layman as a detective's cipher.
A sudden chill fanned across his spine.
The crime scene described in the article was unnervingly familiar: a lace scarf looped and tied around a bedpost secured into a knot that was not a knot, exactly the kind he remembered from ink and nightmare.
Beside a tarnished mirror, a shattered rose perfume bottle lay spilling on the floor.
On the wooden frame of that mirror was a single scratch, long and thin, angled just so, as though someone had tried to gouge away their own reflection.
His pulse continued to thump harder in his throat.
'What is this…!'
The crime scene on the printed page was a retelling of his own invention, though it wasn't entirely identical; they were far too alike to disregard.
Without warning, Darwin turned and walked away from the kiosk.
To be continued…