The Cyanide Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 6)

by Linda Stratmann

  Mina’s first thought was that this new endeavour would keep Mr Hope in Brighton for still longer. She wished he would go away. She wished she knew if he was planning some new scheme to discredit her. Now that Mr Beckler had lost his other business and was completely beholden to his patron, what dreadful demands would he be obliged to undertake?

  Mina’s great comfort was that she was not alone; she was not without friends: good, kind, sensible friends. Dr Hamid was always her most reliable support, and he knew more of her concerns than most people. And there was Mr Merridew, who would be in Brighton again very soon. She would tell him everything, and she knew she would have his sympathy.

  One thing she knew she must never do. Whatever the temptation, however burning her curiosity, she must not under any circumstances attend the talk Mr Hope was planning to give to the Brighton Photographic Society. Having very firmly and irrevocably made up her mind on that point, Mina opened a letter from Mr Merridew.

  Dear Miss Scarletti,

  What a joy it is after such a long time spent going about the Sussex coast to be back home in Brighton, which must be the prettiest and freshest town in the world. I have stories to tell of the thrills of the stage, our wonderful audiences and the great acclaim that was heaped upon us, which would take almost as long as my absence to describe.

  But we must leave that for another day. At your instigation I hastened to Ship Street, where I saw in the window the astonishing portrait of the buxom young lady and the figure in profile of the female she owns as the very image of her mother. My amazement at this sight may only be imagined.

  I entered the shop and had the most fascinating discussion with Mr Beckler concerning the provenance of the wonderful spirit picture. He has assured me, and I believe him, that it was something which occurred without any intention or artifice on his part.

  There was a large card in the window and another inside, saying that Mr Arthur Wallace Hope will be delivering a talk at the Town Hall tomorrow at 6 p.m., under the auspices of the Brighton Photographic Society. All are welcome to attend. I shall certainly be there. It would be my very great pleasure to escort you to this event, which I am convinced will be one of the highlights of the Brighton summer season.

  Yours respectfully,

  Marcus Merridew

  A year ago, Mr Arthur Wallace Hope had been the lion of Brighton. He had arrived to give a series of lectures on his travels in Africa, although all his talks whatever the subject always tended to veer into his great crusade on behalf of spiritualism. Mina was perfectly content for him to have his own opinions but found it distasteful when he insulted his critics. She could understand a natural eagerness to convert others to his views, and a certain vigorous exhortation was usual in such things, but she could not approve of his trying to bully or bribe or threaten.

  He liked to deliver his Brighton talks in the Town Hall, a solid and serviceable building which, while not having the beauty of the Royal Pavilion or the Dome, nevertheless played more than one vital role in the life of the town. On the ground floor and basement, it housed the police offices, magistrates’ courts, and cells, while on the first floor in rather more decorative surroundings, there were meeting rooms for societies and public lectures. Mr Hope had, as he had done previously, engaged the largest room available in anticipation of a large attendance.

  Last year, the room had been packed with impressionable young men who fancied themselves adventurers in the making, and impressionable ladies who liked the look of Mr Hope. As Mina entered in the company of Mr Merridew, she could see that there were fewer seats taken than before, and fewer and smaller clusters of persons about the room gathered in conversation. Mr Hope was less of a novelty, and worse than that, his reputation was such that many gentlemen were averse to their wives so much as being seen in the same room as he. It had been said that he was a hunter by nature and that young married ladies were his preferred sport. There were, Mina observed, no married ladies present under the age of fifty.

  There was a platform at one end of the hall, with a long table and two chairs. An official of the Town Hall was busily overseeing the arrangements to ensure that everything was in order. Mr Beckler appeared, bringing with him something that looked like a large picture frame wrapped in a cloth, and a wooden display easel. He placed the easel carefully on the table facing the audience, and positioned the cloth-wrapped item on it, but did not reveal it to view. The official had brought in an album and some books and documents, which he laid on the table, and Mr Beckler arranged them to his liking and then stepped back to check the display. Quite suddenly, he lifted his eyes to glance at Mina and Mr Merridew, then he puffed a little exhalation, compressed his lips and looked away.

  ‘What a curious fellow he is, to be sure,’ said Mr Merridew.

  Mina said nothing. She was glad to see Dr Hamid arrive. She had written to him asking if he would attend the talk as she had decided to go, and he had immediately agreed. He came to greet them at once. Mina had previously been unsure as to whether the two gentlemen had ever met. She had learned, however, that Mr Merridew on her recommendation had been visiting the baths to refresh himself in exotic vapours and restore his energies with invigorating massage, and they had struck up an acquaintance.

  ‘Do you think this is wise?’ asked Dr Hamid, but he was smiling.

  ‘Most unwise,’ said Mina.

  Richard arrived, burdened with a box of glass plates, the camera in its case, and its tripod, which he helped Mr Beckler place on display. He had not been assigned any further part in the event and took a seat on the front row. Mina was pleased to notice the arrival of Miss Hartop, who looked well, if a little paler and thinner than before, in the company of her father. Mr Hartop made a polite little bow in Mina’s direction, and also to Richard, but as had been promised, the two families made no move to speak with each other. Mr Clover was also there, accompanied by a young woman who stared about her in a very unsettled manner. ‘That is his cousin, Miss Samprey,’ said Richard. ‘I expect Clover has brought her here for the opportunity of introducing her to Mr Hope.’

  As he spoke, Charles Samprey arrived in a hurry, looking very annoyed. He glanced quickly about him, and seeing Mr Clover and his sister he strode up to them in a very determined manner. Mina edged closer to hear what was being said.

  ‘What do you think you are you doing, Septimus? What madness is this?’ Charles hissed. ‘I am only glad Clarissa told me about your foolish plan.’

  ‘Who is that angry fellow?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Charles Samprey, Miss Samprey’s brother,’ said Mina.

  ‘I see nothing wrong in advancing Clarissa’s abilities,’ Mr Clover protested.

  ‘No? You want to place my innocent sister under the influence of Viscount Hope? The man has a reputation! She should be respectably married, not disgraced! Just showing her in this room could ruin her!’

  ‘I want Mortimer!’ announced Miss Samprey. ‘Where is Mortimer?’

  ‘One of us has to mind the office!’ snapped Charles. ‘Come, Clarissa, I’m taking you home!’ He made an attempt to remove his sister from the hall, but she struggled against him and squealed, her arms flailing. One hand caught his spectacles and knocked them from his face. They bounced on the ground, and Richard quickly darted forward and rescued them, or they might have been trampled underfoot. He handed them back to Samprey, who was looking about him in confusion, then as he grasped the spectacles, he thanked Richard gruffly and put them on.

  Meanwhile, Mr Clover had conducted his cousin to a seat and placed himself beside her. Charles Samprey, faced with the very firmly seated Clarissa, was obliged to give up the attempt to remove her, which might have caused an even bigger disturbance than had already taken place. Finally, he sat down on the other side of her in a thoroughly aggrieved manner.

  Mina was interested to see Mr Mayall arrive. She didn’t know if Mr Hope recognised the premier photographer of Brighton, but saw that other people did, as he was greeted very warmly by a number
of gentlemen. ‘I think you might take this opportunity to be introduced to Mr Mayall,’ Mina told Richard, but his attention appeared to be elsewhere. For once her brother was not glancing about the assembly to see if there were any fine ladies to gaze upon, but merely looked puzzled and thoughtful.

  Mina was about to ask what the matter was, when the supervising official mounted the stage and requested everyone to be seated as the lecture was about to begin. He retired to the side of the room, and Mr Hope entered and stepped up onto the stage to be greeted with polite applause. Mr Beckler simply sat down. He looked nervous and unhappy. Mina guessed that addressing a large audience, some of whom would be more expert than himself, was something new to him. He was doubtless anxious not to disappoint his wealthy patron on whom all his fortunes now depended.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Mr Hope, ‘believers and unbelievers. I am about to tell you about the most important discovery in the history of the science of photography. A discovery that will change forever our understanding of the world we live in. Yes, there are sceptics, but it is my opinion that the evidence I will show you today is so strong that scepticism will soon fade away to be replaced universally by the great joy of unreserved belief.

  ‘I am talking of course of the new art of photographing the spirits of our departed loved ones, who still walk amongst us and watch over us. I have never doubted this, but the cavillers, the wilfully ignorant cannot, will not understand the great truth.

  ‘I am sure that many of you will have heard of the great American pioneer William Mumler, a man hounded and derided by fools, accused of crimes not one of which could be proven against him. There is a man called Hudson doing good work in London. He, like Mr Mumler, has attracted critics who accuse him of this and that without a single shred of proof. The fact remains that wherever in the world we see these spirit pictures appear, no one, even the most determined sceptic, even those who are experienced photographers, even the greatest scientists of our day, can convince anyone, much less a court of law, that their accusations have any foundation in fact. I am entirely confident,’ he added, staring hard at Mina, ‘that on seeing the evidence which I am about to place before you today, even the most determined of all sceptics will finally be convinced.

  ‘Here in Brighton, we are seeing the emergence of a new age, the coming to prominence of a new pioneer. I refer of course to my associate, Mr Beckler. Last year, he succeeded in taking his first ever spirit photograph. I pressed him to come to Brighton, where there is a strong focus of psychic power and where I knew his talent would grow. Only a few weeks ago he was engaged to take a portrait of Miss Hartop, a lady I see sitting here before you. And thus was brought to the attention of the world the first spirit photograph taken in this town. Mr Beckler has kindly made a larger copy of the picture, which will be displayed to you now, and he will answer any questions as to how it came about. Since then, Mr Beckler has refined his methods and has produced the most detailed, the most beautiful spirit pictures ever seen. There are copies in these albums which everyone here will be able to view very shortly.’

  Mr Hope gestured to Mr Beckler and withdrew to take a seat and give the stage to his associate. Mr Beckler appeared to take a short interval to steady his nerves, then he stood, bowed, and walked forward to the easel. He drew aside the cloth covering to show a larger size print of the Hartop spirit picture, which could clearly be seen by at the least the front two rows of the assembled audience.

  ‘This is the portrait I took of Miss Hartop,’ he said. ‘If anyone wishes to see it more closely, then once the talk is completed you may all feel free to examine it. The camera I used is the one you see before you. I also have here on display samples of the glass plates used, and the formulas I employ for collodion, the silver nitrate coating, the fixative, and all the other chemicals employed in my photographic practice.’

  He laid his fingertips on the top of the frame. His fingers were trembling a little, and he withdrew his hand and clenched it tightly before continuing. ‘When I took this picture in my studio, it was in full sunlight. Only Miss Hartop, her maid and I were present. The maid was seated at some distance from the subject, and it would have been quite impossible for her image to appear on the glass. She was in any case wearing a straw bonnet and not a large hat as you see here. I had not expected to see anything of a spirit nature on the image and was quite astonished by what I saw.

  ‘When Miss Hartop first saw the picture, she was struck by a powerful emotion and as you know, declared that the spirit was none other than that of her late mother. I have, however, since established without any doubt that the image was not that of Mrs Hartop at all.’ There were little vocalisations of surprise from the assembly, and Mr Hope’s jaw dropped in surprise. Mr Beckler drew himself to his full height, standing far straighter than was usual for him, and looked around the room. ‘In fact,’ he went on, speaking strongly and more clearly than before, ‘I am now of the firm belief that its appearance in the photograph was all due to a terrible mistake.’

  Mr Beckler stopped speaking. For several moments there was a profound silence in the room, which was followed by an explosion of startled chatter. Mina glanced at Mr Hartop and his daughter, but it was apparent from their expressions that this news was no surprise to them. If anything, it appeared that Mr Beckler’s announcement was affording them some amusement.

  Mr Hope was not amused. He gave a gasp of horrified astonishment then leapt from his chair, surged forward, took Mr Beckler roughly by the arm and pulled him around until they were face to face. ‘What is this, man? What do you mean? Whose is the picture?’

  ‘The lady in the picture is —’ Mr Beckler hesitated, then glanced at the audience. ‘I would like to ask Mr Marcus Merridew, to whom I am very greatly indebted, to explain.’

  Mr Merridew rose and came forward, then turned with his customary elegance and aplomb to address the company. ‘The lady in the photograph,’ he announced, ‘is none other than Dame Freda Fay, who has long been an ornament of the popular stage, and who I count as a very dear friend. I am so sorry that no one in Brighton recalls her. Fame can be so fleeting. Of course, she mainly played London, and the north of England, but she did do a season in Brighton some years ago. An artist of great refinement. Music and light comedy.’

  ‘Miss Hartop’s identification of the picture was an honest error,’ added Mr Beckler, who had managed to extricate himself from Mr Hope’s angry grasp, ‘and quite understandable, as the image is not very distinct and Dame Freda Fay and her mother had a very similar taste in hats. I wish to make it clear that I attach no blame whatsoever to Miss Hartop. It was a mistake born of a loving daughter’s great attachment to her late mother.’

  The audience made sympathetic noises.

  ‘Then this figure must be the ghost of Dame Freda Fay,’ said Mr Hope. He glanced at Mr Hartop. ‘Is she a relative of yours?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ said Mr Hartop, without a trace of regret.

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘We have never met.’

  ‘Then for reasons which I cannot as yet explain, this lady, who I am sure was excellent in every way, has appointed herself as Miss Hartop’s guardian angel and spirit guide.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I do not think that can be the case,’ interposed Mr Merridew. ‘You see, she is very much alive and is even now delighting audiences in Manchester. I had a telegram from her only this morning.’

  This drew a burst of laughter from the audience, bringing a flush of scarlet to Mr Hope’s already darkening face. Mina was well aware that for Mr Hope, who adored adulation and thrived on opposition, there was one thing he could not bear, and that was being an object of derision.

  ‘Then I would suggest,’ said Mr Hope, glaring at Mr Merridew with growing annoyance, ‘that it is you who are mistaken. After all, we have only your word that this is Dame Freda Fay. Where is your proof? You have none, sir, none!’

  Mr Merridew put his hand in his pocket. ‘I have it here,’ he said, cal
mly withdrawing a carte de visite.

  Mr Hope strode to the edge of the platform and reached out. But before he could snatch the item away, Mr Merridew made a graceful turn on the spot and offered it to Mr Mayall. ‘I think an independent witness would be in order, and Mr Mayall I am sure would meet with the approval of the assembly?’

  The assembly expressed its very strong approval.

  Mr Mayall rose from his seat and drew a magnifying glass from his pocket. Mina wondered if he always carried such an item with him or if he had been forewarned of this eventuality. He made a close examination of the portrait of Dame Freda Fay and then of the spirit picture, then addressed the assembly. ‘There is no doubt in my mind,’ he said at last. ‘The images are not merely of the same person; they are actually identical. One is a copy of the other. Perhaps Mr Beckler can make a suggestion as to how this occurred?’

  ‘I believe I can,’ said Mr Beckler. ‘The record books of my business show that Dame Freda Fay was a customer of my predecessor, Mr Simpson. On her last visit to Brighton some years ago, she sat for a number of portraits. Not all of the negatives were printed, and Mr Simpson kept the glass plates which could be cleaned and reused. It appears —’ he glanced briefly at Richard — ‘that they were not cleaned thoroughly, and some of the original image remained on the surface. When the plate was used to photograph Miss Hartop, the image appeared.’

  ‘I agree that that is the most likely explanation,’ said Mr Mayall.

  ‘Well, we will not waste any more time on this!’ exclaimed Mr Hope brusquely. ‘I will see to it that the best men in England will examine these pictures, and then I think we will have another story. But now I invite the company to see the pictures which Mr Beckler took in the Extra Mural Cemetery, which are altogether of a different order. The results are extraordinary, without precedent, and there can be no doubts in anyone’s mind as to the identity of the spirits portrayed.’ He went to open the album, but to his surprise Mr Beckler interposed himself and placed his hand flat on the cover to prevent it.