A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Now!” Hugh whispers.

  They passionately kiss. I aim my camera, center them in the viewfinder, and take a photograph before they stroll down the path. “I’m afraid it’ll be too dark.”

  Sometimes I think there’s a mischievous god who delights in thwarting photographers. Today everything goes wrong. Exposures are too short; while changing glass negative plates, I drop and break two; rain spatters the camera’s lens. Soon we’re drenched, defeated, and miserable.

  “God, this is sordid,” Hugh says.

  “And we’re not even good at it,” I say. We’re both remembering that we solved the Jack the Ripper case via a combination of mishaps, wild ideas, and luck. So much for our daydreams of solving other murders or rescuing a famous kidnapped baby. Our glory days are over.

  “Mrs. Vaughn will have to take our word for it that her husband is cheating,” I say.

  “Our word’s not enough,” Hugh says. “We need proof.”

  We glumly watch Vaughn and his lady pick their way through mud and weeds to the largest dinosaur model, about thirty feet from where we’re hiding behind a pine tree. The scaly green creature, more than ten feet high with jagged hackles on its back, resembles a fat dragon with a horn on its nose. Its glass eyes glare. A big hole in its side reveals a hollow interior and the bricks and iron skeleton from which it’s constructed. Nearby, a wooden scaffold, buckets, and a wheelbarrow full of tools indicate that the dinosaur is undergoing renovation. Vaughn boosts his lady into the hole as she giggles.

  “Are they doing what I think they’re doing?” Hugh asks.

  Moans emanating from within the dinosaur are our answer. A blush heats my cheeks. I’m not a prude; rather, I’m thinking of the things I’ve done that no respectable unmarried woman does. The memory is arousing and guilt-inducing.

  “Much as I hate to be a voyeur, we need this photo,” Hugh says. “Shall I?”

  “Yes, please.” I would be mortified if anyone photographed me during my most private, uninhibited moments. I hand Hugh the camera.

  Hugh tiptoes to the dinosaur, aims the camera inside the hole, and opens the shutter. Praying that the lovers don’t see him or move too vigorously, I count off the seconds. Hugh turns to look at me, and I nod. He closes the shutter and hurries toward me with a triumphant grin. I sigh in relief. Then his foot catches on an exposed tree root. He trips, flails his arms in an attempt to regain his balance. The camera drops; Hugh sprawls on hands and knees. I gasp.

  “Damn!” Hugh says.

  The moans within the dinosaur abruptly stop. Vaughn puts his head out of the hole and sees Hugh scrambling to his feet, grabbing the camera. “Hey! Are you spying on us?”

  As Hugh and I run, Vaughn shouts, “Peeping Tom! Pervert!”

  2

  Three hours later, Hugh and I trudge from St. Pancras station through Bloomsbury. The afternoon fades into a premature twilight as smoke from the trains blends with the thickening fog. Men are lighting the gas lamps along the streets that surround the central garden in Argyle Square. Horse-drawn carriages rattle past the terraced brick houses that repose behind black iron fences. Machinery in nearby factories pounds and clangs.

  “What a day,” Hugh says. “I need a drink.”

  I need a cup of hot tea and a hot bath. The rain has stopped, but my clothes are still damp from our adventure at the dinosaur park, and I shiver in the chill.

  “I’m sorry I dropped your camera,” Hugh apologizes for the tenth time. He knows my cameras are my dearest possessions.

  “Never mind; it wasn’t broken, and neither was the negative plate. Let’s just hope the photograph turns out all right.”

  We come upon our next-door neighbor, a lawyer. He nods a cold, silent greeting as he enters his gate. None of the neighbors like us. They know who Hugh is; they’re aware he’s a homosexual. It seems that virtually everyone in London is aware. He was exposed in a newspaper story that ignited a blaze of scandal. Our neighbors erroneously think I’m a former prostitute he took in. I know this because I’ve overheard them gossiping. That we’re not welcome here is all the more reason we wish our private inquiry service to be a success—so we can move. But I fear there’s nowhere we could go that Hugh’s reputation won’t follow and our secret won’t catch up with us someday.

  As we walk up our front steps, the door opens, and a thin, lanky boy with red hair and freckles appears. “Thought you’d never get home.”

  Hugh smiles. “Hello, Mick. This is a nice surprise.”

  Mick is a former street urchin I befriended last autumn. He lived in a sewer tunnel and eked out a precarious existence by scavenging, working odd jobs, and stealing until I convinced him to go into St. Vincent’s orphanage. There, he’s fed, clothed, educated, and safe.

  In the foyer, as Hugh and I shed camera and umbrellas, wet hats and coats, I say, “Mick, why aren’t you at St. Vincent’s?”

  “I ran away.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Orphanages are for babies,” Mick says. “I’m thirteen.”

  Indeed, he’s grown two inches since we first met, his voice cracks, and many youths his age are working men. “But what are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I thought I could live here.”

  “That’s a capital idea!” Hugh loves company, and we have none except our few close friends. Although he was once among the most popular bachelors in town, his high-society acquaintances have dropped him. He’s lonely, and Mick doesn’t hold his homosexuality against him. I too would love to give Mick a home, but we can’t.

  Mick sees my frown and says, “I ain’t a freeloader. I’ll work for my keep. I could help you with investigations like I did before.”

  He helped us solve the Ripper case, but I’ve realized that we did Mick a disservice by letting him. It rendered him unfit for the orphanage, where he’s treated like an ordinary boy and strictly disciplined by the nuns. Hugh and I mustn’t expose him to more dangers.

  “Let’s talk about it at dinner,” Hugh says. “I’m starved.”

  “Me too.” Mick casts a beseeching glance at me, then accompanies Hugh to the dining room.

  The savory odor of food whets my own appetite, but I hesitate because I see Fitzmorris—the third member of our household—hovering in the passage. A thin, gray-haired, somber fellow, he wears a white apron, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. He’s officially Hugh’s valet, but he and I share the cooking, cleaning, and other housework.

  “The creditors are demanding payment again,” he says.

  We owe money to the grocer, the bakery, the launderer, the coal deliveryman, and everyone else who provides us goods or services. Hugh doesn’t know how to run a household on a tight budget, and Fitzmorris and I conspire to shield him from reality as much as possible.

  “Can’t you ask for another extension?” We’ve already used up my savings.

  “They can’t wait any longer, and unless we pay up, they’ll cut us off.” Fitzmorris doesn’t mention that he hasn’t been paid since January. “The biggest bill is the tailor’s.”

  Hugh has been overspending on clothes again, and I must curtail him. I dread the talk with Hugh. Despite his cheerful nature and his determination to make the best of bad circumstances, I know that losing his family, friends, and social status was a terrible blow, and he suffers spells of black depression. He once tried to commit suicide, and I’m afraid that any straw will be the last and that he’ll try again and succeed.

  “Hugh will have to ask his father to increase his allowance,” I say with great reluctance. He’s already done so twice, and on each occasion, his father lectured him about his spendthrift habits and moral laxness. Each occasion sent him into a black spell.

  Fitzmorris looks grave; he shares my concern about Hugh. “I overheard your conversation with Mick. I like the lad, but we can’t afford to feed another mouth.”

  The dilemma weighs heavily on me. “I know. I’ll have to tell him he can’t stay.”

  We go in to dinner. After Fi
tzmorris serves the soup, Hugh pours wine into our glasses. “Mick is going to live with us. Let’s drink a toast!”

  Mick beams. Hugh has given him permission to stay, and I can’t retract it. Fitzmorris and I try to hide our consternation as we clink glasses. After we finish the soup, I say to Hugh, “Help me fetch the next course.”

  In the kitchen, dishing up lamb stew, I say, “You shouldn’t have said yes.”

  “How could I not?” Hugh is chastened yet defiant. “After what he did for us?”

  If not for Mick, we would both be dead. “But if we take him in, we’ll have to put him out when the year is up, your allowance ends, and we have to leave this house. That would be cruel.” I don’t mention that I’ll be homeless too.

  “Maybe we won’t have to put him out. We’re just wrapping up our most lucrative case. Things are looking up.”

  “Things will have to look up a lot more if we’re to support Mick.” If they don’t, I’ll have to find work someplace and lodgings for myself. As much as it would upset me to give up photography and my dream of having my own studio again, leaving Hugh would be worse. He’s become my family. “And I’m not sure the orphanage will take Mick back later.”

  “Have a little faith, Sarah,” Hugh says with affectionate exasperation.

  We bring the stew to the table. As we eat, Hugh tells Mick about our surveillance at the dinosaur park. Mick laughs and says, “I wish I’d been there!”

  I contemplate what his living with us will involve. Although Mick thinks himself grown up, and Hugh and I have treated him as if he were, we must now act as parents. When dinner is over, I say, “I need to develop the photographs we took today. Mick, will you help?”

  My darkroom is on the ground floor, in a room off the kitchen intended for a maid, whose walls and window I painted black. My enlarger sits on a battered table I bought at a flea market, and an old cupboard holds my supplies. The room is cold, airless, and damp. My biggest camera and tripod are jammed in the corner, and there’s no running water. Mick mixes chemical solutions in the kitchen and pours them into trays. He’s learned how by watching me. I feel sad because he knows I have qualms about taking him in, and he’s trying to show me how useful he can be.

  “Mick, I’m glad to have you here,” I say, and it’s true. “But we need to set some conditions.”

  “Sure,” he says cheerfully.

  “First, no stealing or roaming the streets after dark.” I improvise as I go along. “No breaking and entering or fighting.” I wince because these are all things he’s done for my benefit in the past.

  Mick lifts an eyebrow at me; he hasn’t forgotten. “Sure.”

  “And you have to go to school.”

  “I had enough school already.” Mick hates sitting still in a classroom. “I know how to read and write and do my sums.”

  It isn’t enough. The world is changing fast—good jobs require more education, and Mick deserves better than manual labor that will wear him out before he’s forty. “Either you go to school, or you go back to St. Vincent’s.”

  “Well, if you put it that way . . .” Mick carries the trays to the darkroom.

  There, I lay out the flat cases containing the glass negative plates. Mick closes the door and stuffs rags under it to keep out the light. Working by touch in the pitch-black darkness, I slip a plate into the tray of developing solution.

  “You seen the Lipskys lately?” Mick asks.

  Mr. and Mrs. Lipsky are a Jewish butcher and his wife, our good friends. They too were involved in the events associated with the Ripper case. “Not since the Sabbath dinner we took you to at their house two weeks ago.”

  “What about Catherine?” Mick’s tone is deliberately nonchalant.

  “Not for a while.” Catherine Price, also a party to the events, is a beautiful, young fledgling actress. Aware that Mick has an unrequited crush on her, I reluctantly say, “She’s engaged to a man she met at the theater. He owns a factory.”

  “Oh.”

  I sense Mick’s hope that the engagement won’t last and he’ll grow up and Catherine will fall in love with him before she marries someone else. He’s silent for a moment, then he says, “You won’t be sorry you took me in, Miss Sarah. I promise.”

  #

  It’s ten thirty at night by the time the negatives are developed, the plates dried, and the photographs printed. Hugh, Mick, and I examine the enlarged prints hanging from clothes pegs on a string stretched above the kitchen sink.

  “They’re worse than I thought,” I say unhappily.

  The shot I took inside the Crystal Palace is an off-kilter view of strangers admiring the glass fountain. The others are underexposed, the couple dwarfed by trees and dinosaur models or blurred by motion. So much for my thirteen years as a professional photographer; these pictures look as if they were taken by an amateur.

  “They’re good enough,” Hugh says. “It’s obvious that Vaughn and the woman aren’t just friends. And this takes the whole sordid cake.” He indicates his photograph of them inside the dinosaur model.

  It’s too dark with shadows, blurry, and devoid of context to show where the photograph was taken, but it’s obvious who they are and what they’re doing. The woman lies on her back, Vaughn on top of her, both fully clothed. Her skirts are up, her knees hugging his waist. Their profiles touch, eyes closed, mouths gaping.

  “Criminy!” Mick says.

  I experience more qualms about involving him in our work; it’s not fit for a thirteen-year-old. “Mick, time for bed.” Fitzmorris has prepared the guest room for him, and earlier I discovered that Mick brought his possessions with him from the orphanage. He correctly assumed he’d be staying. “You have to get up early for school tomorrow.”

  “Aw!” He starts to argue, then remembers the rules and goes.

  I take a last look at the pictures. Sometimes the camera captures things I don’t notice until after the photographs are developed. In one of the prints, the two lovers stroll along the path through the woods. The big dragon-like dinosaur looms in the background. I thought that and Hugh and I and the lovers were the only people in the park, but I was wrong.

  “What is it?” Hugh scrutinizes the photograph. “Oh, I see—there’s a man in the woods.”

  The old man stands between the dinosaur and the photograph’s right-hand edge, gazing at something outside the frame. He wears a mackintosh, his figure is stocky, and he has a white beard. His face, shaded by a brimmed cap, is too small to see clearly. His hands are raised, forefingers and thumbs extended with the tips pointing at each other to form a rectangle, the other fingers curled into his palms. An eerie sensation creeps through me.

  “What’s he doing?” Hugh asks.

  “He’s composing a photograph. He’s making a view-finder with his hands.” I’m suddenly breathless, thinking of the last time I saw that gesture. My vision goes dark at the edges, I sway, and Hugh grasps my arm, steadying me.

  “Sarah, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “My father used to do that.” As I imitate the gesture, I can feel my father’s hands arranging mine in position, showing me how to see the world as though I were a camera.

  Hugh looks startled; I’ve told him all about my father. “You think that’s your father in the picture?”

  “It could be!” I speak through a welter of hope, wonder, and confusion. It’s as if my thoughts of my father conjured him up from thin air. “He took me to the dinosaur park when I was a child. I just remembered today.”

  “But what are the chances that he would return there after twenty-four years on the very same day as you? Isn’t that a whopping coincidence?”

  “Yes, but if he’s alive . . .” I’m dizzy with exhilaration. My father’s resurrection from the ranks of the presumed dead was proof that miracles happen. Why shouldn’t a second miracle be possible?

  Hugh hesitates, reluctant to rain on my parade yet not wanting to encourage unrealistically high hopes. “Does the man look like him?”
>
  I fetch a magnifying glass, lay the damp print on the kitchen table, and hold the glass over it. The man’s face is just a larger blur. “My father didn’t have a beard. But of course he would look different now.” My exhilaration fades even as I make the excuse. “Of course it’s not him.” I sigh and drop into a chair. “It’s just wishful thinking.”

  Hugh’s eyes narrow in thought. “Maybe we shouldn’t rule out the possibility that the man is your father and the two of you did accidentally cross paths today. Stranger things have happened.” That we, aided by Mick, Catherine, and the Lipskys, dispatched Jack the Ripper is indeed stranger. Hugh taps the photograph. “Do you know what this means, Sarah?”

  I shake my head, but my heart begins to thud, pumping apprehension through my veins.

  “It means you have to look for your father.”

  Trepidation vies with my need to know his fate. If he’s in London, why has he never gotten in touch with me? I wouldn’t have been impossible to find. For ten years, I operated a studio that bore my father’s surname, and London is like a conglomeration of gossipy small towns; someone could have told him where I was. And when I moved in with Hugh five months ago, I left my forwarding address with the post office.

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Listen, Sarah.” Hugh sits beside me. “Until you look for the truth and find it, you’ll always be wondering. You’ll never have peace.”

  Look for the truth. It’s what my father often told me while he was teaching me photography. “Look for the truth under the surface of what’s before your eyes. It’s what makes a good picture.”

  “How do I know the truth when I see it?” I would ask.