Pale as the Dead

by Fiona Mountain

  ‘My dad smiled at me, and what surprised me was that he didn’t seem to see anything different. He didn’t notice that I’d stopped being his little girl.’

  In the silence, familiar objects became peculiarly vivid, the big kitchen clock on which she’d learnt to tell the time, the flowered curtains, the rope swing in the garden through the window.

  Her mother, who was not her mother at all, looked at her through a thin veil of steam and said nothing. Steven came over to her and put his arms around her. She wanted to shrug him off but she couldn’t seem to summon the energy.

  ‘We were going to tell you. When you were twenty-one,’ Steven said, as if the secrecy of the thing was the only issue.

  Over his shoulder Natasha saw Abigail. Her sister smiled, not understanding. A stranger. Who had always been her parents’ favourite. Now it made sense.

  Then it sprang into her mind, a lifeline to cling to, the pink and blue book in the library. There had been pages, several chapters even, devoted to tracing missing parents.

  ‘I loved my mother. My adoptive mother. I still love her. But she never tired of telling me, how when I was a baby I cried at night for hours on end. But I kicked and screamed louder when she picked me up, would never let her hold me, had rejected her affection ever since. I’d always thought it was the other way around.’

  But her real mother would be different.

  Then Steven had ripped that away too. He’d taken her out of the warmth of the kitchen into Ann’s cool pale blue drawing room. They sat opposite one another on chintz chairs.

  ‘When she walked out of the hospital, searches and appeals for information had been made, the police and authorities had been involved. But she had never come forward. Ann and Steven applied to adopt me in January and I was handed over, the papers signed two months later, on 12 March. My parents never made a big fuss of my birthday, in December. Too near to Christmas they said. I checked back over my diaries. We always did something special on 12 March, went out for a meal, to the movies. They never said what we were celebrating.’

  ‘The day we brought you home…’ Steven had said. ‘We both said it was the happiest day of our lives.’

  Later, Natasha found out that they adopted her because they thought they couldn’t have children of their own.

  ‘What’s your worst fear?’ Adam’s voice was almost too quiet to hear.

  She stared into the lens. ‘What I might be capable of. What I carry in my blood, that I can never know about.’

  He lowered the camera, just a fraction, so she knew he wasn’t looking at her through it any more, was keeping it there to let her talk. ‘That’s what makes you keep such a tight rein on yourself.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Do you ever let your guard down?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. When I’ve had a few drinks maybe.’

  ‘There’s better ways than that you know.’

  Now, face to face with him, she couldn’t believe what she’d told him. She stood up, felt strangely light and floaty. The robe felt peculiar on her. It was completely dry now, brushed against her skin.

  She took the camera from Adam’s hand, lifted it to her eyes, focused on him and clicked.

  Then his hand came forward against the lens and there was blackness. He took it off her, set it down, his eyes never leaving hers.

  It was as if she was so used to having the camera in front of him he forgot that it was disconcerting to be gazed at so directly for minutes on end. It was as though he was challenging her. Who would be the first to look away?

  She lost, intentionally. But it felt like she’d won something.

  * * *

  She went back into the dark room to change. She stripped off the robe and fastened her bra. As she bent down to pull on her tights her eye caught something in the bin. Photographic prints and negatives. The black and whites of Bethany as Ophelia. The ones Adam had said were no good. Slowly, she lifted them out.

  That eerie soft focus again. But this time something even more eerie, something that sent through Natasha’s body a shock of coldness.

  The shadow Adam had spoken of. It took the form of a luminous outline of a figure, what looked very much like a girl with long hair, lying alongside Bethany in the water, partially concealed by her, indistinct but identifiable. Like an after image, an aura. Like a ghost, invisible to the naked eye, but captured somehow by the photographic process. Was that really what she was seeing? Bethany’s ghost? Or the ghost of someone else?

  Twenty-Six

  THERE WAS AN e-mail from Toby saying he’d had a ‘ferret’ around in the British Library’s Pre-Raphaelite papers. He suggested they meet for coffee on Wednesday.

  Steven was going to be in London for his sponsorship meetings on Wednesday. She could see him afterwards.

  Just after nine-thirty, Abby called from her new office to give Natasha her direct line.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Great fun. I’m organizing a celebrity tennis tournament.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘To promote cement.’

  Natasha didn’t even try to get her head around that one.

  The tournament was on Wednesday so Abby wasn’t free. They made hazy arrangements to meet up soon.

  Then Mary called, on her way back from Gloucester.

  ‘John Junior died in his forties. Left a will bequeathing all his worldly goods to his wife Helen. They had one daughter, also Helen, who married a chap called Davies, sadly. There’s millions of them. I’ll see if I can hit the jackpot, but I’m not promising.’

  ‘Thanks Mary. That’s brilliant.’

  ‘If I have no luck I’ll try Jeanette’s little sister, Eleanor. Had a quick scout for a birth certificate but no go I’m afraid.’

  ‘No need to be so thorough,’ Natasha said. ‘Just go straight for a marriage.’ Before her pregnancy Mary would have worked that out for herself, and come up with some useful suggestions of her own. Natasha despised herself for feeling annoyed and disappointed that Mary’s mind wasn’t totally on the job.

  ‘I popped round the night before last,’ Mary said. ‘You were out.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … nothing. Much. I agreed to pose, for Adam Mason.’

  Mary gave a squeal. ‘You agreed to what? No … hang on a minute. More important question, when you say pose…?’

  ‘As a Greek goddess. I lost my head. Not literally, as it turned out.’

  ‘About time too. And?’

  ‘Like I said. Nothing.’

  Mary gave an exaggerated sigh.

  Now, talking about it, Natasha was totally disapproving of herself. ‘He’s a client.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s employed me to find his girlfriend, remember?’

  ‘The ball’s in your court, then. You could be a little less conscientious than usual, couldn’t you? Tell him you’ve done your best.’

  ‘I might have no choice.’

  ‘Look, Nat, I know you always get wrapped up in your work but it’s more than that this time, isn’t it? Why are you letting it get to you so much?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You know you are.’

  Natasha pushed her fingers against her closed eyes. The true answer to Mary’s question? Because Bethany was a girl who had disappeared and this time Natasha was old enough to do something about it.

  ‘I suppose I’m used to dealing with people who died a long time ago. It’s much easier. You can’t have any influence on the past.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought that’s what you historians did all the time.’

  Natasha did some tidying round the house, then picked up Jeanette’s diary. Just in case there was anything else. She could use some of Jeanette’s straight talking anyway.

  I shall describe a charming gentleman we met in Hyde Park today. He’s a barrister. Over six foot and walks well, brown hair a little wavy and lighter moustache. Very nice blue-grey eyes. His nose
is not exactly perfect but the tout ensemble is really very pleasing, even if he does have the unromantic surname of Brown.

  There were more details of how Mr Brown’s path crossed those of the Marshalls on their Sunday walks, until Mrs Marshall took the step of telling him how to obtain a ticket for her husband’s Academy lectures and demonstrations. Brown was invited back to Savile Row for tea afterwards.

  Mama asked me today what I think of his attentions. I dare not yet commit myself to an opinion though he seemed very delighted to see me last night. But what is to be will be and it is no use worrying oneself about it.

  Little Eleanor in bed with a fever which passed by morning, thank the Lord.

  Natasha realised it was one of the few references Jeanette had made to her sister.

  All invited to an At Home at the Ford Maddox Browns. The flood of artistics in everything hideous in the way of costume was startling. The ladies sad and the gentlemen mad looking. Janey Morris and her daughters were there, the former looked very well I thought in cream crepe trimmed with old gold satin and made high to the throat, a white Indian shawl over her shoulders. When her face is quiet it is fine and fascinating, but when she speaks she is spoilt.

  Pre-Raphaelite chroniclers would love to get their hands on this stuff. Bethany had some great material if she did write a biography of Lizzie.

  Papa, Mama and I were bid to visit Mr Rossetti’s studio. The paintings were different to any others I have seen and altogether I admired them very much. Though I cannot understand this fascination for murderous queens and witches and such like. The best was Proserpina. She is dark and Papa said a glorified portrait of Mrs Morris. The face is wonderfully painted but her figure is not nice; so long waisted. Mr Rossetti was very agreeable and talked very cheerfully and was very nice altogether, but he looks more baggy and untidy than ever, and a great deal older. If it were not for his eyes, which are very observant, one would never take him for a genius.

  After we left, Papa told me the astonishing news that Mr Rossetti wants to take my face for the head of Joan of Arc if Papa and I both consent. He is very much struck with my appearance, and evidently from the way Papa and Mama grin, said something very flattering which I have not been told. I should not have thought my style sufficiently melancholy.

  It was not to be, Jeanette wrote a few pages later.

  Mr R fell ill I am sorry to say. Papa accompanied Mr R’s brother, William, to Birchington and returned the next day. He told us Mr Rossetti was absolutely blue when he got there, dying from blood poisoning arising from congested kidneys. Papa packed him in wet sheets and in five hours brought him round, though doubts he will ever be fit for anything again. He is more plague than profit, poor creature.

  A telegram arrived informing Papa that Mr Rossetti is dead. Such a waste. It is very sad to think of. If he had led a good and proper life he might have flourished. Let us hope he is happy now.

  I was sufficiently idiotic to shed a few bitter tears of woe at being made to stay away from this evening’s lecture. The impropriety of hearing Papa describe the muscles of the trunk in Mr Brown’s presence is considered too awfully shocking.

  Natasha closed the book. No wonder Jeanette found the Pre-Raphaelite models so scandalous and exotic. Over a hundred years ago, they spent hours unchaperoned in artists’ studios, when regular courting couples had to be practically engaged before they were allowed to hold hands.

  She stared ahead. Her appointment programme was still open on the screen. Coffee with Toby highlighted for 10 January. Steven had said Marcus was flying out to Canada the first week in January. He wasn’t going to call her before he went.

  The phone rang. She let the answering machine take the call. She heard Adam’s voice.

  ‘There’s something I want you to see. Are you free this evening?’

  She snatched up the receiver. ‘I’m busy I’m afraid.’ A lie.

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘What is it you want to show me?’

  ‘A surprise.’

  ‘I hate surprises.’

  ‘So don’t come.’

  Twenty-Seven

  ADAM HAD TOLD her to meet him outside Exeter College at seven o’clock. She parked round the corner on Broad Street and walked up Turl Street to the main entrance, the towering, studded gateway in the stone wall. A cut-out door within the door was open onto the Front Quad.

  She’d only been there a second when Adam came through it, as if he’d been watching for her. In the dim light his ruffled hair seemed fairer than ever against his black clothes.

  ‘This had better be worth it.’

  ‘I hope you think it is.’

  They walked along the gravel path round the perfectly manicured lawn, the grass like velvet in the darkness, past the ivy clad, seventeenth-century terrace towards the French Gothic chapel then on to the castellated Hall. A small door led to a short flight of stone steps and onto a carpeted corridor. There was a pegboard with the heading ‘Meeting and Conference Rooms’, to the right of it a signpost pointing to ‘Morris Room’.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Adam said, just as he’d asked her at the studio.

  She let him guide her forward, then to the left, his hand on her arm. She took another step and felt him restrain her. She heard the creak of a door hinge. Light turned the insides of her eyelids rosy.

  ‘Open.’

  They were at the threshold of a long room at the end of which were tall narrow arched windows draped in dark red velvet. The walls were off white, and chairs stood in the corners, beautiful wrought-iron thrones with gothic arched backs, fleur de lis motifs and plush red velvet seats to match the drapes. Instead of the spotlights you’d expect in such a place, the gallery was lit only by candlelight. Wrought-iron candelabras were suspended from each end of the ceiling, tall ones stood haphazardly on the floor, arms twisting upwards. The whole effect was witchy, bordering on the macabre.

  The photographs were displayed in rows, the light flickering over them, emphasizing their mysterious, eerie quality.

  The pictures of Bethany took up half of one wall, photographs from both the files from the dark room, framed in simple silver frames. At the opposite side were the ones of Diana. Natasha recognized other pictures, the girl with a harp, the Lady of Shalott, Christine standing in the ring of fire.

  ‘What do you think?’

  She could feel his eyes on her. ‘It’s stunning.’ She turned to him. ‘I mean it. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  He took her by the shoulders, swivelled her slightly.

  She met her own eyes, midnight black, staring out from the photograph. The expression in them rapt, pensive, alarmingly seductive. Focused on Adam. The wet robe like a second skin.

  ‘It’s not finished yet. There are more pictures still to go up. Captions. But I wanted you to see it all first.’

  She looked at him. Found she was flattered and also unsettled.

  She walked away from him down the room, her footsteps loud and hollow, the candle flames dancing in her wake. There must be nearly a hundred of them. How long had it taken to light them all?

  Just a week now until the exhibition opened. Until it was a month since Bethany had disappeared.

  She turned round. ‘Where’s…?’

  Adam took a step back towards the door, closed it and leant back against it, as if barring her way.

  Natasha looked sideways, saw what she’d been searching for. Bethany as Ophelia. She was hidden behind the door. The print was enlarged to twice the size of the other pictures, the vibrant colours a contrast to the monochrome.

  ‘The idea is you see her only as you leave the room,’ Adam said.

  She still couldn’t work it out. Why would someone hide behind a false identity and at the same time allow themselves to be put on such public display? As she gazed at the photograph she remembered the way Bethany had mentioned the exhibition as if she’d rather not talk about it.

  Had she agreed just to please Adam, because she wanted to help his ca
reer? Because she loved him? She’d waited, hadn’t she? Not left until he’d completed his collection.

  Natasha looked around again. ‘Are the pictures all yours?’

  ‘No. Shall we go now?’

  She helped him extinguish the candles one by one, cupping her palm over them, the smoke wafting up, a potent smell that reminded her of bonfire night. Then they were standing in semi-darkness, just a taper of light from the corridor.

  On the way back down the stairs, Adam knocked at a door in the foyer that said Administration’. She heard him tell someone he was leaving. ‘Goodnight, Adam. See you tomorrow.’ The voice well spoken, young, female.

  As they walked out through the gateway Jake Romilly was coming in the opposite direction, his long coat open and flapping around him. He stalked past, ignoring them both.

  ‘Come for a drink with me,’ Adam said.

  They cut up Castle Street, into the broad boulevard of St Giles. Adam lit a cigarette, but it was so cold it looked as if they were both smoking, their breath transforming into white mist.

  Young groups loitered in doorways, sharing burgers and cans of coke, older couples sauntered hand in hand, peering into darkened estate agents’ windows.

  ‘Eagle and Child all right?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought something for you.’ Adam fished a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘You seemed strangely interested in my phone bill.’

  Natasha glanced at him, then took the bill as they walked. No more than three dozen numbers were listed.

  ‘I generally use the one at the office,’ Adam explained.

  ‘The long call Bethany made?’

  ‘Only one on 14 December. Half an hour.’

  Natasha recognized the number. The British Library.

  That piece of information was added to the other pieces which together were starting to make up a picture of Bethany over the days before she disappeared. Nearly drowning in a river in an antique gown. Calling the Public Record Office for information on Lizzie Siddal. Closeted in a bedroom on the phone to the British Library. To do with Lizzie again? What did it all add up to? What was the connection to the Marshalls?