Shadows of London: 2-15 The Unknown Painter

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Who is this painter named "Irad "? And what is his relationship with Caroline's mother?

Info

Style: Required: Poets' Corner Recommended: Poets' Corner, Henry VII Chapel Rewards: 3,000 , 600 , 3 , 1 , 1 , Blueprint: The Choir

The Choir

Transcript

Expand for script.

• Jack: Miss, it's so late. Do you really want to go out?

• Jack: The city isn't as safe as it used to be.

• You: I understand, but the matter is important.

• Jack: Alright then. Where do you want to go?

• You: The Ruby Opera House.

• Jack: The opera house? No one's watching shows anymore. Most of the actors have left, and it's been closed for several days now.

• You: It's okay, I'm not planning to watch a show.

• Jack nods hesitantly, and gets ready to harness the horse to the carriage.
• After taking two steps, he stops and hesitantly scratches his head before asking a question.
• Jack: Isn't it dangerous for someone to travel alone at night? Should I invite someone to accompany you?

• Jack: Just write a note, and I'll deliver it right away. It won't take much time at all!

• The genuine concern on his face makes me feel a little ashamed. If I don't accept his kindness, I'd feel like an ungrateful brat.
• You: Alright then. Could you do me a favor and go to the Barnets to deliver a message to Priscilla?

• Jack tips his hat, takes the hastily written note, and walks away with a charming smile.
• You: I'll take this opportunity to change into some warm clothes.

• When Jack returns, his expression is somewhat perplexed.
• Jack: Miss, I went to the Barnets. The housekeeper, Mrs. Dobson, said that Miss Priscilla is not in.

• You: Priscilla's not in?

• You: (I have to take a risk and travel at night because I urgently need to find someone, but why is Priscilla doing the same...)

• Jack: I gave your note to Mrs. Dobson, and she said she would deliver it to her young lady as soon as possible!

• Though Priscilla's disappearance concerns me, now is not the time to investigate.
• You: Let's not wait for her. Let's go to the opera house first, Jack.

• This is the most terrifying night I have ever experienced in London.
• There are no conversations between gentlemen and ladies, no street music, and no shop doorbells ringing as customers come and go.
• The endless cries of the beggars, thieves, and wanderers of the past, as well as the reprimands of the police officers, seem like a distant memory.
• London is split in half. The Eastern District has become a hellish place, while the Western District remains as eerily silent as death itself.
• Only the sound of hooves echoes on the empty street, clip-clopping onwards.

• Fortunately, as the carriage approaches the entrance of the Ruby Opera House, I am delighted to discover a faint glimmer of light inside.
• You: We're not too late!

• The gate is tightly locked. The place has clearly been closed for many days.
• I ask Jack to keep watch over the carriage at the front gate, while I hoist my skirt and make my way through a narrow pathway. I reach the back door and ring the doorbell.
• You: Is anyone there? I'm looking for Mr. Johnson!

• After a moment, someone opens the door for me with hurried footsteps.
• Mr. Johnson is holding a candle and recognizes me in the dim light, his expression filled with astonishment.
• George Johnson: Miss Rayes? Is that you?

• You: Yes! Sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Johnson. I have an urgent question I'd like to ask you.

• George Johnson: Oh! It's alright, Miss Rayes. Please come in.

• George Johnson: I cannot allow a lady like you to stand outside alone at this time of night.

• The back door leads directly to the exhibition room. Mr. Johnson welcomes me in and without wasting any time on pleasantries, I get straight to the point.
• You: Mr. Johnson, do you still remember the day you gave me a painting as a gift?

• George Johnson: Of course, of course. The painting of Desdemona - your mother's.

• You: Do you still remember the artist who painted the picture?

• Mr. Johnson looks somewhat puzzled and shakes his head.
• George Johnson: No, miss. I've never met him.

• You: What?

• You: But when you mentioned him to me that day, you said he was a young artist who admired my mother...

• George Johnson: Ah, well, you see, this painting was delivered directly backstage by a servant.

• George Johnson: I mentioned before that Lavinia unexpectedly took the stage and achieved tremendous success overnight.

• George Johnson: There were many fans who were obsessed with her Desdemona, and they would send flowers and gifts every day.

• George Johnson: Because they didn't know Lavinia's real name and address, they could only send their gifts to our theater.

• George Johnson: The workers were so busy that they had no idea who gave what.

• You: Is there really no information regarding that painter?

• Seeing how anxious I am, Mr. Johnson sets down the candlestick and begins to rack his memory.
• George Johnson: Let me think... an artist... why do I remember him as a young artist...

• George Johnson: Oh, that's right, there was a letter!

• You: What kind of letter?

• George Johnson: Along with that painting, there was also a letter.

• George Johnson: The contents of that letter made me think that it was from a young artist who admired Lavinia.

• I take a step forward involuntarily, my heart beating faster and faster.
• You: Do you still have that letter?

• Mr. Johnson reflects once more, then picks up the candlestick and surveys the room.
• I look around as well, following his gaze, and notice that the exhibition room seems rather empty compared to the last time I was here.
• I immediately figure out why.
• You: Mr. Johnson, have all the actors left London?

• George Johnson: Well, the theater is a place to watch plays. If everyone has left, who will be the audience?

• George Johnson: If there are no customers, there is no income. If I don't sell some valuables, I won't even be able to pay the staff their salaries.

• You: Will you leave as well?

• George Johnson: Me? Haha, I'm just an old man. It would be the same wherever I go.

• George Johnson: The Ruby Opera House is my pride and joy, and the result of years of hard work. I'm staying right here.

• Mr. Johnson sighs, and approaches a cabinet to search its contents.
• I take the candlestick, and help shine some light for him.
• George Johnson: Found it. This is the letter.

My dearest Desdemona,

I watched your entire performance from the audience. You did not notice me, my love, so I allowed myself to gaze upon you with such sadness. You were dazzling and rightfully earned the applause of the entire crowd. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last.
To enter into a marriage with a man who is completely mismatched with you is the beginning of your tragic fate. He does not understand the real you, and he confines you with narrow-minded morals. He suppresses you.
You don't need to hide your true self in my presence. Yes, my love, I still exist, and I am afraid I shall continue to exist at your disposal.
But as you move away, would you remember me, a sad, insignificant painter, and a honest man, who can only watch you silently from afar? Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe.

• You: This letter..

.

• The ink on the old letter paper has faded slightly.
• The letter is not signed, but the handwriting matches the signature on the painting.
• You: (Irad...)

• You: Who could this person possibly be?

• George Johnson: Miss Rayes? Is there something wrong with this letter?

• Perhaps it was the expression on my face that startled Mr. Johnson. There is a tinge of worry in his voice.
• You: I find the contents of this letter rather peculiar. You see, the writer expresses strong emotions towards my mother...

• You: Especially this last part. It seems somewhat... threatening.

• I point my finger at the lines, "Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe." Mr. Johnson, however, smiles.
• George Johnson: Those are lines from "Othello", miss. They were spoken by Iago.

• George Johnson: The letter simply recounts the tragic fate of Othello and Desdemona.

• George Johnson: The writer quoted the play to express his emotions. There's no particular significance to it.

• You: (Mr. Johnson has no clue about my mother's true identity, and sees no issue interpreting it that way.)

• You: (If this letter is not referring to Othello and Desdemona, but to the marriage between a human and a member of the Blood Clan...)

• You: Mr. Johnson, did my mother have any reaction upon seeing this letter?

• George Johnson: Let me think... No, miss, I think Lavinia didn't read the letter.

• You: She didn't read it?

• George Johnson: There were so many gifts that Lavinia didn't have the energy to go through each one.

• George Johnson: Her physical condition was already a cause for concern. Her face was always pale, and she had a frail body.

• George Johnson: I pleaded with her to sign a formal contract with the theater, but she was always hesitant about it.

• You: Did she see this painting?

• George Johnson: She did. After all, such a large painting is quite conspicuous.

• George Johnson: But she only got to appreciate it briefly with everyone.

• George Johnson: She didn't feel well soon after, so she went home early and didn't have a chance to read that letter.

• George Johnson: Now that I think of it, that was the last time I saw Lavinia.

• I can't help gripping the letter tightly in my hand.
• If we combine Mr. Johnson's account with the information I have obtained, the true identity of this mysterious painter becomes almost palpable.
• You: Can you give me this letter, Mr. Johnson?

• George Johnson: Of course. You are Lavinia's daughter, so you have the right to keep the letters written to her.

• You: Thank you, sir.

• Mr. Johnson escorts me out through the back door. In the night before dawn, the narrow alley grows even quieter.
• I hear the sound of sewage flowing in the gutter by the roadside. I hold onto the letter, and a chill runs down my spine for some unknown reason.
• I see the carriage waiting at the gate after taking a short detour.
• You: Jack? Where are you?

• Strangely, Jack is not sitting in his usual seat as the coachman.
• The crescent moon shines from the east, and in the moonlight, I see the horse's ears constantly swiveling back and forth.
• No one responds to my soft calls.
• You: ...

• I stop in my tracks. Something is amiss—everything is amiss. Jack wouldn't just leave the carriage here. What happened?
• *creak*
• The carriage door gently opens. I see Jack, with his head lowered, sitting quietly inside.
• His head, moving extremely slowly and staring straight ahead...
• Turns slowly towards me—
• You: (Ah!)

• My screams get lodged in my throat. I transform my fear into energy, furiously propelling my legs.
• I've seen a similarly pale face and bleeding neck before.
• You: (Stay calm, Caroline... Give it your all and run!)

• Fear overwhelms everything, and the remnants of my sanity only allow me to ponder the whereabouts of the nearest police station.
• There will be plenty of time to grieve for Jack in the future, but not now.

• You: Help! Help me, officer! I am being followed! I need protection!

• I rush into the police station, gasping for breath, as I scream desperately.
• I startle a dozing police officer, who is slumped over with his head down, causing him to jolt up from his chair.
• You: My coachman was attacked at the Ruby Opera House. Please assign an officer immediately--

• ???: Who is making all that noise?

• A tired and irritable male voice, emanates from the depths of the sofa. I witness an inspector yawning and glaring at me as he pulls his coat aside.
• Dudley: Oh, it's you.

• It's Inspector Dudley of Scotland Yard.