by Emma Jameson
“I didn’t see her at first.” Lady Maggart said. “But this was before the blackout, so the room wasn’t completely dark. There was another crash, a little one, then another. She was flinging my cosmetics about, smashing them on the floor and hurling them against the wall. Perfume, pots of rouge. A tin of talc broke open and powder went everywhere. Then I saw her—a woman in a mantle.”
“What happened next?”
“I screamed. Screamed like a madwoman. Then….” She shrugged. “I suppose I fainted. When I came round, all the lights were burning. Collins, Kitty, and half the maids were clustered around the bed. Even poor Dudley climbed the stairs to see what had happened. Collins tried to say I’d been sleepwalking and done it myself. Mrs. Grundy sent for Dr. Egan, in Birdswing, but he never came. We learned the next day he was dead.” She stared hard into Ben’s eyes, as if gauging his trustworthiness, just as he’d gauged her truthfulness. “I still wonder if it’s connected, just as I wonder if our two hauntings are connected.”
“I understand that, too,” he said sincerely. “Once we factor in the supernatural, even innocuous facts can look like signs. But that doesn’t mean they are connected. In the interest of seeing justice done, would you permit me to ask a personal question, Lady Maggart?”
“Am I being interrogated? Should I seek counsel?” she asked suspiciously. “Collins said a woman from Birdswing was arrested. Isn’t that an end to it, at least from your point of view?”
“Not necessarily. Were you having a love affair with Bobby Archer?”
“How can you ask? I’ve told you, I didn’t even know him!”
“What about Father Rummage?”
“Now you’re just being insulting.”
She didn’t seem particularly outraged by either question. That might mean he was far off the mark—or that her finishing school had prepared her for difficult questions, as Clarion Academy had prepared Penny.
“Forgive me, my lady. I’ve intruded unnecessarily on your peace.” As Ben turned to go, he noticed something: a circular mark on the inner room’s fitted carpet.
“Hang on.” Eagerly, he knelt beside the blemish, but it wasn’t a bloodstain. It was a deep depression—one of four.
Rising, he checked the bed’s placement. It was off-center compared to the wall sconces, giving the impression the room was crowded with furniture. “I see you’ve recently moved things.”
“Yes.”
“Why? If you’ll forgive me for asking, Lady Maggart.”
“To conceal a huge blood stain, of course,” she snapped. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No doubt that woman you associate with has painted me as a monster, but the truth is rather more mundane. Even after the new mirror was mounted, the mere sight of my vanity reminded me of that terrible night. So I banished it. Now my boudoir is out of balance, no matter how Mrs. Grundy and I shift the furniture about.”
Ben nodded, but his gaze roved the room, searching for anything—a cut-out section of carpet, a curiously hung painting—that might indeed conceal a blood stain.
“That chest of drawers is quite heavy,” Lady Maggart said coolly, returning to her seat by the fireplace and pointedly reopening her book. “Perhaps you should look behind it?”
He did. It wasn’t snug against the wall; there was about half an inch of daylight between the chest and the gold-and-peach wallpaper. It was unblemished, either by blood or the sort of powerful chemical, like Borax, needed to blot it away.
“I meant that as a cutting rebuke, not an invitation,” Lady Maggart said. “But if you’re going to behave like a Keystone Kop, by all means, inspect the carpet under the bed, too.”
The indignity of being caught sniffing around Bobby’s corpse for Sous le Vent returned to Ben, but he couldn’t let it deter him. Not when Lady Maggart’s bed could so easily hide the bloodstain he sought.
He was down on all fours, running his fingertips over carpet fibers he couldn’t thoroughly examine without a torch, when he heard footsteps.
“Milady, what’s all this?” a woman asked. “Should I ring for Collins?”
“Oh dear, Mrs. Grundy, we thought you were my husband.” Lady Maggart sounded overjoyed. “My lover is hiding under the bed.”
That got Ben to his feet in a hurry. “I’ve no idea how you got your reputation as a moral crusader.”
“Don’t be ashamed, darling,” Lady Maggart said, flashing a predatory smile. “I won’t tell anyone you propositioned me. You aren’t the first man to corner me and make a fool of himself.”
There was nothing he could say to that which wouldn’t scorch the earth and get him barred from Fitchley Park forever, so Ben didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Mrs. Grundy and literally jumped. If scrambling up from the floor hadn’t set his knee on fire, that sudden jarring action would have done it, but for the moment, he felt nothing but mortification.
In the photograph he’d glimpsed in the Cow Hole, Mrs. Grundy had been looking down. Her face had appeared somewhat distorted, which Ben automatically dismissed as a lens artifact or trick of the light. Now he saw her face was indeed misshapen—not her lips or her eyes, but the bones of her skull. Her forehead bulged like the top of an hourglass, and her cheekbones were unusually prominent, connected to her nose by a thick ridge.
“Hello, Dr. Bones,” she said.
“In case no one’s ever told you, it’s rude to stare,” Lady Maggart said, clearly reveling in his discomfiture. “Unless gawping is your idea of what’s commonly called a bedside manner.”
“Please excuse me, Mrs. Grundy, if I seem to have misplaced my manners. The bones of my legs are tetchy after an accident.” He was looking at someone with a severe case of osteitis deformans, also known as Paget’s disease of bone, or simply Paget’s disease.
“If your bones ache, we share a common burden,” Mrs. Grundy replied with a slight smile. Something about her measured tone, her quiet dignity under scrutiny, allowed Ben to forget his own kneejerk rudeness. He admired anyone who could meet surprise and distaste with such forbearance, and even offer a second chance for him to redeem himself.
Lady Maggart, however, clearly had no interest in allowing that second chance to play out on her patch. “Mrs. Grundy, my guest has exhausted every possibility to humiliate himself above stairs. However, I said he could speak to you and the maid, and I’m a woman of my word. Take this young man down to the kitchen. Give him some biscuits and a glass of milk, and let him ask his questions. Nothing will come of it, I promise.”
The God-Botherer
Juliet’s loyalty to Birdswing was well-known, in no small part because she declared it aloud at every opportunity. A corollary to this loyalty was her disdain for Barking, which she also advertised without fail. But despite all this, she nurtured a secret passion for something in Barking, and that something was St. Gwinnodock’s church.
It was about the same size as St. Mark’s but felt larger due to the soaring vertical space and colorful rose window. Juliet loved to sit and contemplate the complex tracery, which reminded her of a mandala. She’d never learned to meditate, or at least never found serenity in the practice, because the chatter of her thoughts was too insistent. The worries, questions, and hopes never seemed to stop, and in fact increased whenever she tried to clear her mind. But in St. Gwinnodock’s cool interior, she gave herself permission to relax and enjoy the beauty. It seemed to chase out of her head those worries and questions, and even the hopes, which were sometimes more vexing than fears. No effort was required. Only to sit down, breathe in that “churchy” odor comprised of old wood, older stone, and stale incense, and fix her eyes on the window’s central rosette of Madonna and child.
In the interest of justice (a phrase Dirk Diamond employed frequently), Juliet began by visiting the rectory, a two-story stone cottage situated beside the cloister garth. Father Rummage’s private residence was upstairs; the ground floor contained his office, the church secretary’s office, and his darkroom.
“Hallo!” she called as she opened the door. Like
the previous day, she found an exasperated-looking young woman behind the secretary’s desk, which seemed to have vomited its contents on the surrounding floor. “Still at it, Mrs. Lobb?”
“It doesn’t end,” Mrs. Lobb replied. “When Thomas was called up, he told me he had a ‘highly individual’ system of tracking the church’s expenditures and contributions. I assumed that meant a system involving bits of paper with numbers written on them. I’m beginning to think the system exists only in his mind.” She pushed her spectacles onto the top of her head. “He used to come home every night complaining of exhaustion. I was worried sick about taking over for him. I thought perhaps I couldn’t measure up.” She laughed. “Now I have no idea what he did all day. But when he comes back, he’ll find this office shipshape and Bristol fashion.”
Juliet smiled. If Mrs. Lobb kept up this habit of greeting her with a series of complaints, she’d be in danger of making a friend. “I, for one, think this country could use a greater influx of female influence. The men have been mucking about unsupervised for too long.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Mrs. Lobb said. She couldn’t have been much older than Juliet—twenty-six—but exhibited the self-possession of a more seasoned woman. “Do you know Father Rummage keeps no diary? His time is completely unaccounted for, except for services, of course, and when the Council pins him down for its weekly meeting. Since I took over for Thomas, I’ve had to go on numerous fishing expeditions. I usually find him at Fitchley Park or out taking pictures.”
“Dare I ask where he is now?”
“In the sacristy, I think. Unless he slipped out again.”
Juliet thanked Mrs. Lobb and crossed the churchyard. No Anderson shelter would be needed here; St. Gwinnodock’s crypt would serve as the shelter for Father Rummage and ten or more neighboring families. Not for the first time, Juliet was grateful that Belsham Manor had a wine cellar and was situated just far enough from the village proper that ARP Warden Gaston couldn’t critique the minutiae of their responses to air-raid drills. Waiting out an actual bombing in the wine cellar would be distressing, but at least she and her mother and the staff would all be together on familiar territory. She didn’t envy anyone obligated to dash out of their home into the night, coats buttoned over their pajamas or nightgowns, to squat for an undetermined time in some mass shelter like a church basement.
Entering St. Gwinnodock’s, she passed a row of candles, two of them burning. Using a taper, she lit another four—for Helen, Bobby, Caleb, and Micah. She pinched out the flame, then changed her mind and lit one more candle, for Lucy MacGregor. For many, the Fenton House ghost was a bit of fun or an agreeably spooky story. But she was real, and quite possibly suffering, trapped between this world and the next. Juliet thought it important not to let herself forget that.
Roughly in the center of the nave, a side chapel had been renovated into a sacristy. Juliet rapped on the door.
“I’m quite busy, sorry!”
“I do apologize. It’s Juliet Linton. If I could have just a moment of your—”
“Lady Juliet? Come in.”
She entered to find the portly little man surrounded by C of E essentials: vestments, hangings, altar linens, anointing oils, and white wax candles, bought in bulk. He sat on a stool, reading a magazine about photography. When her gaze lingered on the cover, he rolled up the magazine, hid it behind a box of candles, and gave her a sheepish smile.
“Forgive my little untruth,” he said. “But that Mrs. Lobb is always after me to do this or that. I haven’t had a moment’s peace since Thomas left. There’s a reason why married women don’t fit in the workforce.”
She must not have looked happy with his pronouncement, despite its near-universality, because he followed it up with, “Except of course when they work alongside other women, in a laundry or a kitchen.” He giggled.
“Yes, well, you’ll soon show Mrs. Lobb who’s boss,” Juliet said. “By retreating to your ecclesiastical foxhole while she takes charge of St. Gwinnodock’s records, finances, and other essentials, you’ve sent a clear message. But never mind all that. I don’t suppose you’ve found the time to develop those crime scene photographs?”
“I was just about to,” he said. “I was only waiting for Mrs. Lobb to go home for tea, so she wouldn’t pester me while I worked.”
Another caustic remark came to Juliet, but she chose not to deploy it. A new possibility had occurred to her. “I don’t suppose you’d let me watch? I haven’t the faintest idea how photos are printed.” This wasn’t true, but she’d only read about it, never seen it demonstrated, and as she expected, Father Rummage seized the chance to expound on his hobby.
“But of course!” he cried, giggling again.
Juliet willed her face into what she hoped was an amiable expression. She was genuinely interested in the process, and listening to his nervous laughter was the inescapable price of admission.
* * *
The two hours spent in Father Rummage’s darkroom proved worthwhile. Juliet learned the four stations, or metal pans filled with liquid, which were visited in the same order: developer, stop bath, fixer, and water rinse. She learned the process had to occur in a “light-tight” room, with no illumination except for the glow of a red bulb, or the film would be overexposed, and therefore ruined. She also learned that merely pointing the camera at the correct subject and safely getting the film out of the camera was only the beginning. In creating prints from negatives, timing was everything. Too much time could result in a washed-out image with no subtle details; too little time, a dark, confusing image.
“I do hope Dr. Bones hasn’t given up on me,” she said as they waited for the last group of photos to dry. They hung behind Father Rummage, clipped to the same kind of retractable indoor clothesline ladies used to dry their unmentionables. “And I never thought darkroom photography would smell so much like making chutney.”
“That’s because I use common kitchen vinegar for fixer,” Father Rummage said. “You can buy an official preparation, of course, but there’s no real difference, so I save a few pence.”
“I see you also found a creative use for old news, too,” Juliet said, indicating the wads of paper the rector had used to block out light from under the door.
“It’s difficult to find a door hung so perfectly, or a floor so level, that light doesn’t penetrate,” Father Rummage said crisply. His habit of laughing nervously had disappeared. His mastery in the darkroom was obvious, and his enthusiasm proved contagious.
“My father gave me a Brownie when I was nine years old. That was forty years ago, when it cost five quid. It was a handsome gift, one I did my best to live up to,” he said. “It changed the way I see the world. Taught me to appreciate the subtleties of light and shadow. Not only how they commingle, but how my choices in the darkroom—exposing more, exposing less—transforms not only the print but a viewer’s perception of the original.”
“I’ve been guilty of saying the camera doesn’t lie,” Juliet admitted.
“A common refrain. The archdeacon said it once at a fête. I made the mistake of imagining he had some interest in photography and might like to hear more on the topic.” Father Rummage’s laugh sounded genuine for once. “I’d forgotten the archdeacon never likes to hear from me, on any topic. I mentioned the commingling of light and shadow, and how the photographer’s choices can change the objective to subjective. He said he hoped I understood our Christian faith better than I understood optics, which are ‘mathematically immutable,’ in his words.”
“In my opinion, some people are immune to art,” Juliet said. “I don’t mean they dislike it or consider it inconsequential. I think they’re simply insensible to its existence, just as humans are insensible to certain whistles any dog can hear. To them, a photo is just a picture of something or someone. A book is either full of information, if non-fiction, or full of lies, if fiction. They can see prettiness, I think, and ugliness. But art offers a portal to transcendence, and I don’t thi
nk they perceive the door. Perhaps your archdeacon may be numbered among such individuals.”
“Interesting point, Lady Juliet,” Father Rummage said. “I wonder….” There was a plaintive note to this last, and he did not continue.
Once the final batch of photos was ready, they exited the darkroom to review them. Mrs. Lobb was still unearthing, examining, and re-filing papers, a process that caused Father Rummage’s nervous laugh to rematerialize. Therefore, Juliet suggested they look over the pictures in the church, where he could focus on the matter without cringing every time Mrs. Lobb tutted.
“It’s so disappointing,” Juliet sighed after they’d gone over every picture twice. “They look exactly like I remember.”
“Well, yes. Dr. Bones did ask us to document the scene for posterity,” Father Rummage said. “We’ve done that quite well, I think.”
“Not we. You.”
“You created the last batch of prints,” the rector said generously. In truth, he had coached her every step of the way, mostly on the timing. “I suspect you’ve uncovered a hidden talent.”
Juliet liked the sound of that. It was another skill she could cultivate for future investigations, along with her correspondence lessons from Private Dick Academy. Perhaps, given the manipulation of light and shadow Father Rummage had mentioned, she could even find a way to make Belsham Manor look pretty. If not pretty—acceptable.
“The credit goes entirely to you. You’re a fine instructor. Do you ever….” She stopped, surprised at herself. The question she’d been poised to ask was completely inappropriate. “Well, I suppose I ought to gather these up and take them to Fitchley Park. I just hope Dr. Bones is having better luck.”
“Yes,” Father Rummage said, gazing up at the rose window. “I do.”
“What?”
“You were going to ask me if I wished I’d pursued photography as a vocation, rather than the priesthood,” he replied, not looking at her. “The answer is yes.”
