Murder in Charles Dickens’

Por Francisco Torres Vidal.

It was either late at night, or too early in the morning, nobody could tell, with the chilling Dover’s fog veiling the scene. The air was a thick mixture of just-baked-bread and sea salt hovering all over the shore, as sea gulls glided over the port’s deck. The same happened with the view, strong shadowy and dark colours coalesced in a very strange combination that had nothing to do with the boreal dawn but still, caused the same shocking impact of warm oranges with deep purples and cold greens together with the black starry sky.

One little fellow slided, by mounting on his bike, a safe and clever way to travel through this blurry outlook. No other movement distressed the picture but confusion and nostalgia. The boy was little in every possible way. A stranger to this town, nobody knew or cared about his identity. Apparently he didn’t have much to be talked about. He didn’t bothered to draw anyone’s attention, anyway. He just showed up one day, with his backpack overflowing with books and pulled in at a rent room next to the port. He had come with the single purpose of doing research to complete his thesis, and spent most of his time immersed in his notes inside Charles Dickens library. Not even there did he divert his attention to chat with the librarian, kwon by everyone as the town’s gossiper. He seemed uninterested in being spotlighted.

There it was, just in front of him… waiting for him. Inside this huge, imposing establishment he consumed most of his hours. The material in iy was invaluable and certainly the most complete at its specialization.

He was astonished. It had been built 150 years ago under strict neoclassical rules, most of the construction’s materials had been imported, including its nails. The front was whitely immaculate and polished so intently that the moonlight crashed on its surface with a blinding silver glitter.

Once inside, he little one hesitated in front of the stairs, wondering whether those steps would be slippery. The boy clenched the balustrade in search of this confidence he lacked. When he reached the porch of the main reading room, he gaped at the gigantic chandelier that dangled from the ceiling. It had once belonged to a certain Louis of France.

On the tall attic where the fat, librarian resided, every step the little fellow mad seemed to echo over a creaky wooden floor. The noise wakened owls and bats which where in their cock-vigilant spots. They glared with peering interest at the passing newcomer. The rooms where enlightened by never-ending windows that presented a barren landscape of harvested fields. The whole place seemed utterly lonesome and barren.

The fellow’s nose was suddenly padded by a combination of wet ink and the warm scent exuded by wooden bookshelves. He had plunged into the perfect academic atmosphere. Only then he did recall he was supposed to get his missing information in the west wing of the building. He prowled through the exhaustingly long corridors, as a loud silence hushed his shuffled paces. The harp absence of noise made the guy uneasy to the bones and drops of sweat began to damped his young complexion like red alerting alarms for danger. All of a sudden a yellowish light blinded his gaze without a warning as he craved to know who could be there besides him. He had never made contact with any of the villagers since his arrival to Dover, let alone seen any of them entering the library. His look fixed immediately upon a wooden door in front of him. The tricky essence of temptation swirled softly under his nose, dragging his whole being towards the keyhole. He could not soothe his desire to peep through it and find out what happened on the other side. Fear increased as his eye pumped. His most eerie thoughts were coldly surpassed by a sea of blood streaming out of the door. He let out an unconscious shriek as the door opened slowly and a body slumped to the floor.

“Run little fellow, ride your bike and leave Charles Dickens” chanted a zombie-like voice from behind those thick time-worn wall.