“Your heart will beat faster.”
Although I’m rarely sure I’ve captured the truth in a photograph, I realize Hugh is right. I’ve learned to trust my heart, and it’s beating faster. “But I don’t know where to start looking.”
“Yes, you do,” Hugh says gently.
#
I’m seated in an armchair in the parlor. Light from the lamp on the table shimmers in the glass of brandy that Hugh poured for me. The only sound is the ticking of the clock. Hugh, Mick, and Fitzmorris are asleep. My hands tremble as I untie the white strings around the brown cardboard letter case in my lap and remove the contents—folded sheets of lined paper, yellow with age. They’re from my father’s police file, obtained several months ago. Since then, they’ve been entombed in the back of a drawer. I’ve tried to forget them, but while I’m asleep, they flutter through my dreams like ghostly birds.
Once I know what’s in the papers, I can never return to a state of ignorance. I unfold them, draw a deep breath, and look at the first page.
METROPOLITAN POLICE is printed above the handwritten date “23 April 1866” and the title “Murder of Ellen Casey, age 14, Clerkenwell.” The text below, written in the same hand, reads,
The body of a girl was found on Gough Street at 7 AM by Lewis Morton, a laborer. 7:45 AM: Body examined by Dr. Philips, who pronounced life extinct and estimated that she had been dead 18 hours. Bruises on her neck indicated death by strangulation. Blood on her undergarments and thighs suggested rape.
I’m puzzled because this report doesn’t mention my father. Then my mouth drops in astonishment. I remember Ellen Casey! She lived on my street, a freckle-faced girl with red braids. I vaguely recollect that she died. I didn’t know exactly how; my parents wouldn’t tell me, and people talking about it always stopped when I came near. Now my heart begins to pound an ominous cadence as I turn to the next report. It’s dated 29 April 1866 and titled, “Rape and Murder of Ellen Casey. Interview with Benjamin Bain.”
Suspect was the last person to see Ellen Casey alive. PC Oliver and I (PC Evans) interrogated him in his home at 21 Clerkenwell Close. Suspect admitted that he photographed Ellen in his studio the day she disappeared. He claims she went home afterward and he did not see her again. He claims he has no knowledge about her death. We searched his house and found no incriminating evidence.
Horror deluges me in a black, nauseating flood. Suspect. Rape. Murder. The words pound in my head like an iron mallet striking an anvil. It can’t be! My father was a good, kind, decent man who never harmed anyone. He never spanked me or raised his voice in anger. At the protest demonstrations he organized, he tried to keep order and prevent brawls when the workers marched through the streets carrying effigies, signs, and burning torches. He couldn’t have killed Ellen Casey. But I also remember the day the police came to our house; it must have been the occasion described in the report. My mother and I hid in the bedroom and clung to each other as the police shouted at my father and his loud protests weakened into frightened whimpers. My mother said they were scolding him because he tried to help poor people, and I believed her. It’s as though for twenty-four years I’ve been looking at a photograph that was taken from one angle, and now I’ve been shown another photograph of the same scene taken from a different angle that tells a new, terrible story.
There’s a bad taste in my mouth, as if I’m going to vomit. I gulp brandy, and the strong, sweet liquor burns down my throat. I read the other pages, desperate to find something to indicate that my father was wrongly accused. Three reports, dated from 1864 to 1865, detail Benjamin Bain’s arrests at demonstrations. My father was a rabble-rouser; the police must have wanted to quash him. Why not frame him for a murder? I feel better until I read this report:
7 May 1866. Interrogation of Benjamin Bain, primary suspect in the murder of Ellen Casey. Arrested 8:35 PM and brought to Newgate Prison. Interrogated by PC Evans and PC Oliver. Suspect persisted in his claim that he is innocent. He was released for lack of evidence on 8 May at 9:50 AM and ordered not to leave the vicinity.
A cruel light shines into my memory of a time when my father was gone overnight and came home the next morning bruised and bloody. My mother said he’d been to a march, a riot had started, and he’d been beaten by the police. But now it seems he was in jail while the police tried to make him admit he’d killed Ellen Casey. In spite of his denials, they considered him their prime suspect. I, ten years old at the time, had no idea.
The last report concerns the disappearance of Benjamin Bain. It lists places where the police looked for him in vain and possible sightings by witnesses. The last sighting was on 11 May 1866 near the London docks. The police speculated that he had left the country.
I stuff the pages in the letter case and tie the strings. Numb from shock, I finish the brandy and realize that my father’s police file has raised more questions than it answered.
Was my father a murderer?
What really happened in 1866?
If my father is alive, where has he been for twenty-four years, and was he the man in the dinosaur park?
I wrap my arms around myself as the landscape of my past becomes unrecognizable alien territory.
3
Troubled and sleepless, I lie awake in bed until I hear the morning sounds of carriage wheels outside and Fitzmorris lugging coal up from the cellar, filling the teakettle, and clattering pans. My head aches and my eyes burn, but I can’t leave all the work to him. I force myself to get up, wash, and dress, then open Mick’s door.
“Mick, time to get up.”
The blanket-covered lump in the bed stirs. I go downstairs and help Fitzmorris prepare toast, eggs, bacon, and tea. Hugh comes down in his dressing gown, unshaven and yawning. While he and Mick and Fitzmorris eat, I only sip tea; I’ve no appetite.
When we’re done, Fitzmorris carries dishes to the kitchen, and Hugh says to me, “We’ll deliver the photos to Mrs. Vaughn today.”
“Can I come with you?” Mick asks.
“No, you’re going to school,” I say.
“He can start tomorrow,” Hugh says.
Hugh and I need to have a talk. Tired, distressed by what I’ve learned about my father, and in no mood for argument, I snap at Mick, “We had a deal. You’re going to school, and you’re going today.”
Mick and Hugh exchange glances. I’m usually sedate, but I have a temper, and they know to beware when it surfaces. Mick says, “I better go get ready,” and leaves the room.
Hugh bends his perceptive scrutiny on me. “Did you find something disturbing in your father’s police file?”
When I tell him, his eyes darken with compassion. “I’m so sorry. But the police were wrong about your father. He didn’t do it.”
“How do you know? You never met him.”
“I know you, Sarah. You’re not the daughter of a man who would kill a little girl.”
I appreciate Hugh’s confidence, but he’s hardly objective. “I keep remembering things. After the night my father spent in jail, my mother and I suddenly lost all our friends. I never understood why. But now . . .” Now that I’ve learned my father was accused of rape and murder, it makes perfect sense that they thought him guilty and ostracized his family.
“We both know the police aren’t above railroading an innocent man,” Hugh says, “and people believe things that aren’t true. They believe Jack the Ripper is still at large.”
I’m still torn between my desire to believe my father is innocent and my fear that he’s guilty. Hugh says, “The police reports are one side of the story. You need to hear the other before you make up your mind.”
I knew that reading his police file would be only the first step in my search for the truth about my father. My mother died fifteen years ago, so he’s the only person who can tell me the other side of his story. “After I enroll Mick at school and we deliver the pictures to Mrs. Vaughn, I’ll go back to the Crystal Palace and look for the man I photographed.”
“No, I’ll e
nroll Mick at school and deliver the pictures. You go back to the Crystal Palace now, before your father’s trail gets any colder.”
#
The Crystal Palace shines atop the hill like a diamond in the rays of sunshine that pierce the clouds. People flock to the terraces, enjoying the first warm spring day. In the vast grounds, crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils have bloomed overnight. I weave through strolling crowds along the avenue toward the dinosaur park. My satchel contains my miniature camera and the photograph of the man. Maybe my father wants to photograph the dinosaurs and didn’t bring his camera yesterday because the weather was bad. I’m afraid as well as hopeful that he’s there now. Do I really want to know whether he killed Ellen Casey? Didn’t he love me enough to tell me why he disappeared, no matter how much it might hurt?
Maybe the man in the photograph isn’t my father after all and I’m hunting a stranger.
At first, I’m too preoccupied to notice that all the other folks are hurrying in the same direction as me. They crane their necks, chattering excitedly. Police constables block the path to the dinosaur park and hold back a crowd. I’m dismayed because something must have happened inside the park and I won’t be allowed to enter.
People from the crowd scatter and sneak into the park through the woods. “Stop!” the constables yell, chasing the trespassers.
My fear of the police is no match for the sudden gut conviction that I need to see what’s happened. I plunge into the woods, slipping on fallen leaves wet from yesterday’s rain. My satchel snags on a bush. As I yank it loose, more constables join the pursuit. I run and see the lake ahead. Voices drift from the distance. Men are talking beyond the point where the lake curves, hidden from my view by the islands and dinosaurs.
“Who are they?” The deep voice is gruff, as if from too much smoking.
“We don’t know, sir.” The second voice belongs to a younger man. “There’s no identification on them.”
My pace slows as I glimpse the men. They’re wearing civilian clothes, standing with three uniformed constables near the big dragon-dinosaur. I hide behind a bush. They’re gazing at a human figure that lies motionless on the ground. Alarm sucks in my breath so hard I almost choke. There’s been a murder. That’s why the police are here. A nightmarish sense of déjà vu washes through me. This isn’t my first murder scene. A previous one was Polly Nichols—the Ripper’s second victim last August. Is that why there are so many police—because they think the Ripper has struck again?
I could tell them he hasn’t and never will.
Bracing myself for the sight of death, I look at the body. It’s a woman, her legs crumpled under her skirts and dark-green coat, her arms bent. With her coppery red hair and the chartreuse feather trimming her black straw hat, she’s a bright splash of color. Her glassy blue eyes protrude; her made-up face is bloated, her tongue caught between her teeth. I see the round black mole on her cheek. A shock of recognition increases my horror.
It’s Noel Vaughn’s mistress.
“Bruises on her neck,” says the older plainclothes officer. He’s stout with a gray beard. He points at the purplish marks on the woman’s white skin. “She was strangled. Probably after he killed the man.”
Now I see, sprawled facedown near the woman, a body clad in Noel Vaughn’s gray wool coat. His black derby rests on the mud. The back of his head is a caved-in mass of hair, clotted blood, and pulp.
“That’s the murder weapon.” The younger officer, tall and fair, points at a crowbar lying on the grass, the end darkened. His gaze shifts to the tools by the dinosaur model. “It must’ve come from over there.”
My mind reels with disbelief and confusion. Yesterday I photographed Noel Vaughn and his lady; now they’re both dead. Why would two murders obviously unrelated to the Ripper case bring out the law in full force?
A police surgeon carrying a black medical bag approaches and greets the officers, then crouches to examine the bodies. “They’ve been dead for about twenty-four hours.”
I cover my mouth with my hand as fresh shock stuns me. They never left the park yesterday. They must have been killed soon after Hugh and I departed.
“The victims could be the kidnappers.” The younger officer sounds excited, hopeful.
I’m astonished that the murder case seems connected with the kidnapping of Robin Mariner. That’s why there are so many policemen. They must be the Special Kidnapping Squad.
“If they’re the kidnappers, where is the ransom money?” the older officer asks. “Sir Gerald said it was left in a briefcase inside that hollow tree, according to the instructions. It’s not there now, and it’s not with the victims.”
The Mariner family must have received a ransom note that said to leave money in exchange for Robin’s return. Unbeknown to Hugh and me yesterday, we were on a collision course with the police. And my search for my father has become entwined with the kidnapping investigation.
“Sir Gerald should have called us the minute he got the note,” the older officer says. “Now there’s no Robin, no directions to his whereabouts, and Sir Gerald is out a thousand pounds. That’s what he gets for cooperating with crooks.”
I surmise that the ransom note told the Mariners not to notify the police, and Sir Gerald did so only after something went wrong.
“If these two were the kidnappers, their deaths would explain why Robin hasn’t been returned,” says the younger officer. “Maybe this was a mugging—someone killed them and stole the money.”
But Hugh and I followed Noel Vaughn for two weeks and never saw any sign that he had possession of Robin Mariner. Nor did Vaughn and the woman seem to have any purpose here except lovemaking.
“The only thing we can be sure of is that there’s more to this than meets the eye,” the older officer says.
Much more happened here yesterday than met Hugh’s and my eyes. We didn’t see the man I hope is my father until after I developed the photographs. What else didn’t we see?
“The chief should be here soon,” the older officer says. “We’d better start looking for witnesses. You and Jones go up to the Crystal Palace. Ask the employees to describe every visitor they saw.”
I’m a witness, and so is Hugh. I could aid the police by identifying Noel Vaughn and explaining what he and the woman were doing in the park, but we may have been the last people to see them alive, which would also make us suspects in the murders, and we’re already on bad terms with the police—one in particular. Seeking a quick escape, fighting panic, I steal through the woods. Constables are everywhere.
“Hey, you! No more playing nosey parker. Time to go.”
The irate, familiar voice stabs fear deep into my stomach. I bolt too late. Inspector Reid, the officer I wanted most to avoid, grabs my arm. According to the newspapers, he’s been removed from the Ripper case and appointed chief of the Special Kidnapping Squad. His nose is sharper than I remember; his hair, mustache, and beard are grayer than when I last saw him six months ago. New lines crinkle the skin around his cold, deep-set brown eyes. His hunt for the Ripper has aged him. As he recognizes me, his pink complexion turns red with anger.
“Sarah Bain, as I live and breathe.”
Reid has a grudge against me because he thinks I obstructed the Ripper investigation. He’s right. He thinks that I’m hiding something important I know about the Ripper and that I’m to blame for some trouble he got into with his superiors. He’s right on those scores too, and he’s sworn to get revenge.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Reid demands.
I’m afraid of him, but I’m angry too. Reid isn’t the only one with a grudge. He tried to send my friend Mr. Lipsky to the gallows. I wrench my arm free. My anger makes me bold, defiant.
“I’m taking photographs.” I open my satchel, remove my miniature camera, and aim the lens at him. “Shall I take yours?”
“Put that thing away, or I’ll break it.”
I shouldn’t provoke Reid. My precious miniature camera cost a fortune, and I
can’t afford to replace it, but fear and daring have always been intertwined for me. When confronted with someone or something dangerous, it’s as if I’ve come upon a sleeping wolf, and I feel an urge to poke it and wake it up. I suppose that’s one reason I’m looking for my father: the truth about him is another sleeping wolf I can’t let lie. As I tuck my camera inside my satchel, my fingers touch the photograph concealed there. Once again, I have something to hide from Reid.
“Here you are, smack in the middle of another high-profile investigation,” Reid says. “Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence.”
I’m already regretting my decision to look for my father. It’s put me back in Reid’s sights.
“What do you know about these murders?” Reid asks.
Although my nerves tighten with alarm, I look him in the eye. “Nothing.” It’s true that I don’t know who killed Noel Vaughn and his girlfriend or why.
Suspicion turns Reid’s gaze colder. “Were you here yesterday?”
“No.” But inside my satchel is proof that I was here, and proof that this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the victims.
Reid shakes his head; he doesn’t believe me. “How long have you been here?”
“A few minutes.”
“Long enough for you figure out that the murders are connected to the kidnapping of Robin Mariner.” Reid inflects his words as a statement, not a question.
I press my lips together. I know from experience that it’s best to say as little as possible to Reid, who will seize a mile when given an inch.
“Here’s the deal, Miss Bain,” Reid says. “This isn’t the time for whatever game you’re playing. There’s a child missing and a desperate family. If you withhold information, you’re helping the kidnapper avoid getting caught.”
I feel wretched because Reid’s points have hit home. Anything observed in the dinosaur park yesterday might provide a clue to the kidnapper’s identity and Robin’s whereabouts. Every day that Robin is gone must be agony for the Mariners and increases the risk that he’ll come to harm. But I didn’t observe anything relevant to the kidnapping, and I can’t tell Reid about yesterday. Hugh was with me, and I can’t expose him to the police. Last autumn, he was beaten by the police when the vice squad raided a party attended by homosexuals. He wasn’t caught in a lewd act, arrested, or convicted of any crime, but the story in the newspaper ruined his reputation and made him an outcast. The police wouldn’t treat him kindlier now, and Hugh isn’t the only other person I must protect. If the man in the photograph is my father, he’s wanted for Ellen Casey’s murder. I can’t let Reid find him and arrest him before I determine whether he’s guilty or innocent.
A Mortal Likeness Page 3
