Her house was close to where we are now, actually. It looked like a church in terms of its design. Perhaps it was a house that doubled as a church, or maybe it was the other way around. I'm not a particularly religious person, but I've always liked the serene atmosphere of places like these, of churches that manage to retain the true essence of faith. I've long since lost that, I'm afraid.
Julie Maupin was a gracious host, showing me in and treating me with kindness, but by that point I had no interest in wasting time with the niceties. I cut straight to the point as I asked, “I'm sure you've heard of what's happened. As a writer and human being, I'm interested in learning and understanding the truth. As such, I'd like you to answer some questions I have. Why was your husband angry at Mr Bennet all those years ago? Is it true that you had a lover?”
Looking back on it, I had no reason to be that harsh and uncourteous with her, but I suppose I was starting to get frustrated.
Julie Maupin gave me a dark smile as she said, “And why should I be so open with you, of all people? I know of your type. I was a fairly famous opera singer you know, before an accident forced me to step back from the stage. I know your type, reporters and such, lurking like vultures, seeing people as commodities, as stories, to be sold for profit with no regard for their well-being. I have nothing to say, least of all to you.”
I apologized for my rude manner and said, “I was rude there, but I promise I'm not the kind of person you imagine me to be. I simply seek the truth, to understand what happened then. I seek no profit from this, and swear not to publish anything you wish not to be published. Please, tell me.”
We looked into each other's eyes for a while, and then she finally gave in with a sigh. What's that? You think she gave in too quickly? Well I suppose she could feel my sincerity. Regardless, she began to share her story, as I listened in silence.
“I suppose I should begin at the beginning of my life here. As I said, I was forced to retire from the stage, and then my family pushed me into an arranged marriage with my then husband, Hofmann. And I can tell you, he was a terrible man. Cruel, vainglorious, jealous, and constantly under danger of boiling over with anger. And worst of all, he dared to ask for forgiveness after all his outbursts. No, it was not a happy marriage, and certainly is one I'm happy to get away from. His anger then was from another jealous outburst. He was strangely convinced that I'd had an affair with Mr Bennet, which I can tell you is nonsense. Regardless, he stormed off screaming for bloody murder, and that was the last I saw of him.”
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She took a sip of water and some deep breaths, and continued, “As for the affair… that's an interesting matter. I find it most curious how none of the various theories spouted by those who think I can't hear them have mentioned her. Says something about our society, I think. So, I'll ask you now. Who do you think it was?”
I considered the question. It seemed like the simple guesses weren't the answer. But what could it be? It wasn't as though I knew most people here. But since she was asking me despite that, perhaps I already did know. And then I was struck by the thought I didn't want to acknowledge.
My mouth felt dry as I said, “Was it with Amy Farrow?”
As she smiled with satisfaction, I felt somewhat frustrated by the truth I hadn't realized. She then said, “Indeed. In this hetero-centric society however, the thought of a ‘noble lady’ like myself doing such a thing with a woman was likely never even considered. Yes, I entered a relationship with Amy Farrow. We were in love, but I suppose this dreary world we live in wouldn't allow me that sliver of hoy she represented in my life. And so she was taken away from me. I'm sure you know the details. To be raped and then murdered is something nobody should go through, much less a wonderful person like her. I nearly took my own life then, and still do consider it every so often. But I have a reason to cling on.”
I knelt at her feet and clung to her hands, and there we sat in silence. I sought the truth, but what if it was too much to bear? As I got up and began to walk away, I couldn't help one last question.
“I heard that you were pregnant back when your husband died. What happened to those kids?”
She smiled enigmatically and said, “I wonder.”
The rest of the day was a blur to me, as I simply went through the motions. Perhaps I'm unwell. As you can see, my condition is not good, and I feel a little worn out. And by the time I woke up the next day, Mr Bailey had been shot dead in the head on his way back from the bar early in the morning. And then of course I met you here to report my findings. And that concludes that.