“Run along back to school, now, Bridget,” she tells her daughter.
The girl obeys with a curious glance over her shoulder at me. Meg gestures toward my crutch. “How’d you hurt yourself, Sarah?”
“I fell.” Even if I were at liberty to reveal the circumstances, they would sound too fantastical to believe.
“Where’ve you been all these years?”
I can only shake my head. After my father disappeared, my mother and I moved from one cheap lodging to another; she must have wanted to prevent anyone from getting to know us and connecting us to my father’s alleged crimes.
“Why’d you come back?” Meg asks.
I have to say something. “I didn’t know about Ellen . . . about my father . . . until last week.”
Meg looks astonished, then knowing. “Ah. Your mother kept it from you.” She gazes after her daughter. “I ’spose I’d have done the same.”
My throat spasms as I swallow emotions.
“You’re as white as a ghost. I thought you were one at first.” Meg looks around the room. “We can’t be talking here. Folks have long memories.” Her tone softens; she was always kind. “You’d better come to my house.”
She speaks to the other serving woman, making some excuse to leave. Then she takes me to one of the new tenement blocks in Clerkenwell Close. The second-floor flat is small and cluttered yet pleasant. Meg talks while she makes tea in the kitchen. “I married Gerald Logan. Remember him? He works at the brewery. So do our two sons. Bridget’s our youngest.” She sets steaming cups on the table along with a plate of buttered bread and sits across from me.
I sip the hot, strong black tea and nibble the soda bread, whose taste is familiar; it’s her mother’s recipe. I remember it from visits to the Casey home.
“What about you, Sarah? You married? Any children?”
“No.” I think yearningly of Barrett. He too seems a part of a distant, unreal world.
“Where do you live?”
“In Bloomsbury.”
“What’ve you been doing with yourself?”
“I’m a photographer.” I decide not to tell Meg about Hugh and our private detective agency because my unconventional life might put her off.
Meg’s sandy eyebrows rise. “Your father was a photographer.”
There’s no avoiding the subject. “The police started investigating him again.” I don’t mention the circumstances, which would provoke questions that I mustn’t answer. “That’s how I found out.”
“You poor thing.” Meg regards me with genuine sympathy. “It must have been an awful shock.” Then she frowns, puzzled. “But if you didn’t know about Ellen at the time, then what did you think happened?”
I tell her my mother’s story about the riot in which my father supposedly died.
Meg nods. “She tried to protect you.” When I tell her that my mother is dead, she says, “I’m sorry,” then, “She wouldn’t have wanted you to come back. Why did you?”
To avoid telling her about the kidnapping investigation and breaking Sir Gerald’s confidentiality agreement, I divulge my personal reason. “I can’t believe my father is guilty. I was hoping to find something to show it wasn’t true.”
“I suppose that if it were my pa . . .”
But Meg’s sympathy is strained, like fragile lace stretched too tightly. I can’t blame her. The Caseys must have taken some comfort from thinking that they knew who had killed Ellen even if he’d gotten away with it, and now here I am, hoping they’re wrong.
“Does everyone think my father was guilty?” I ask.
She looks down at her teacup. “Nobody wanted to live in your house after you and your ma moved out. It was empty for years. Then it burned down.”
Maybe someone set fire to the house to exorcise the evil taint left by my father. I can’t help rising to his defense. “Just because he was the last to see Ellen alive, it doesn’t mean he killed her. The police were out to get him because he organized marches. They could have framed him.”
“That isn’t why we thought he’d done it.” Meg raises her eyes, which are filled with regret. “It was his pictures of Ellen.”
“So he photographed her. What does it matter? He took pictures of you and me too.”
A queasy look flickers across Meg’s face. “Not that kind of pictures. The others.”
“What others?”
She hesitates, then rises. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She leaves the kitchen. I hear her rummage in the bedroom, and she returns, holding something behind her back. She looks at once sad and defensive. “Ma kept this. I found it among her things after she died.” Meg lays an enlarged photograph on the table in front of me.
The image has the soft luminosity of the landscape pictures my father took when we went on photography expeditions. Ellen Casey sits in a chair; her back is arched, her left knee is raised. Her ankle rests on her right thigh, and her hands are clasped behind her head. Her eyes are eyes closed, her moistly shining lips parted. She’s dressed in a white blouse, dark skirt, and ribbed wool socks. The skirt is hiked a little too high; the blouse strains a little too tightly across her budding breasts. It’s a beautiful portrait of a girl becoming a woman. I’m filled with admiration for my father’s artistry and joy at seeing an example of his work that I didn’t know existed.
“It’s the only picture there is of Ellen,” Meg says. “That’s why Ma didn’t tear it up.”
It’s the last likeness taken of Ellen before mortality claimed her. My joy gives way to alarm, for I understand how this picture looked to everyone who saw it after Ellen was raped and murdered.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Meg says.
My father’s image of Ellen is innocent compared to the boudoir pictures that I myself once took of women in Whitechapel, but I’m horrified because it could mean that my father had an improper interest in young girls. My mind teems with questions. Why was there no mention of this photograph in the police reports? Wouldn’t the police have presented it as evidence of my father’s guilt?
Meg fidgets with her apron strings. “Sarah . . . did your father ever . . . touch you?”
He held my hands as he taught me how to use a camera, he hugged me often, and he kissed me when he tucked me into bed at night. That’s not what she means. “No!” It’s the truth, and I’m appalled by her suggestion.
“That’s good,” Meg says, relieved.
But the fact that my father never violated me isn’t proof that he didn’t rape and murder Ellen. I can’t bear to look at his photograph of her. I turn it over, then see the initials, B. B., penciled on the back. The picture is an original print made by my father, not a copy. “How did your mother get this?”
“My uncle was one of the coppers that searched your house,” Meg says. “He took them.”
I remember the police traipsing through our rooms. “You mean there were others like it?”
“The others were worse.” Meg doesn’t need to explain; I know she means Ellen was posed with some, perhaps all, of her clothing removed. “My uncle brought them to our house the day of Ellen’s funeral. The whole family was gathered ’round. When they saw the pictures, there was a big to-do. The others were thrown in the stove. This is the only one left.”
“So your uncle never turned in the photographs to his superiors.” That’s why none were in my father’s police file.
“My parents didn’t want anyone else seeing them. It would’ve ruined Ellen’s reputation.” Meg looks at the floor.
I experience a stab of premonition. “Meg, what haven’t you told me?” She starts to turn away, but I rise, grab her shoulders, and say, “What happened to my father? Do you know?”
Her staring eyes are like gray marbles rimmed with white, her freckles dark against her suddenly pale skin. She’s afraid of me; she’s no longer sure I’m not as evil as she thinks my father was. “My pa and my uncles swore to get revenge for Ellen. They went out that night,” she whispers. “The next day, it was
all over the neighborhood—your father was missing.”
Is that why my father left—not for fear of the police, but because the Casey men were after him? Did my mother know?
Meg pushes me away. “I don’t know if they did anything to him, and I can’t ask them because they’re dead.” She lifts her chin and says defiantly, “But if they killed him, it would’ve served him right.”
#
I find myself on the train bound for Hampstead with little recollection of how I got there. The carriage is cold, its swaying motion nauseates me, and I tremble as I gaze out the window at the foggy streets and relive my conversation with Meg. It’s little solace knowing that the Casey men didn’t, as Meg thinks, kill my father that night. The local people, not just the Caseys, believe he’s guilty, and I remember my mother crying as she tore up his photographs, burned them in the stove, and smashed negative plates with a poker while I begged her to stop. Did they include erotic ones that my father had taken of other young girls? I remove from my satchel the photograph I took in the dinosaur park, and I stare at the shadowy figure making a viewfinder with his hands.
Look for the truth . . .
Is the truth that my father didn’t like being photographed himself because the camera might have revealed the blackness in his soul? Am I the daughter of a monster?
If my father skipped town before the Casey men could get him, did they keep looking for years afterward? Is that why he disappeared on Sally and her mother as well—because they finally caught up with him? Is he dead—lying in an unmarked grave somewhere—or still a fugitive?
16
By the time I arrive at the gates of Mariner House in a hired cab, the fog has spread from London and engulfed the heath, as though I’ve brought it with me. The reporters, photographers, and gawkers outside the gates huddle in their mackintoshes. At the mansion, I see Lady Alexandra at luncheon in the dining room with her friends. I’m faint from hunger, but I need to tell Hugh what happened in Clerkenwell.
“Miss Bain,” Lady Alexandra calls. I pause, surprised that she’s speaking to me after she told me never to come near her again. “May I have a word?”
I’m still shaken by what I’ve learned about my father, but I mustn’t pass up an opportunity to further my acquaintance with one of the suspects in Robin’s kidnapping. When I approach Lady Alexandra, she says, “Please help yourself to some food first.”
I fill a plate with bread, cold ham, and cheese from the buffet. When I return to Lady Alexandra, her friends have left, and we’re alone. I lean my crutch against the table and cautiously seat myself opposite Lady Alexandra. Today, she’s regal in a periwinkle-blue frock that flatters her fair coloring but draws attention to the bluish shadows under her eyes. Her smile is strained.
“Please allow me to apologize for my deplorable behavior at the séance,” she says.
“Of course.”
Moments pass while she picks at a hard-boiled egg on her plate and I eat. “What progress have you made in your investigation?”
I’m surprised by her question because none of the other suspects have asked; either they don’t think we’ve found out anything that matters or they don’t care. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. You would have to ask your husband.”
“He won’t tell me anything.” She sighs with frustration. “He just says I mustn’t worry, he has everything under control.”
Although I wonder if she’s afraid we’ve dug up evidence against her, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. During the weeks when my father was first missing, I desperately wished for news of his whereabouts. It must be even worse to be a mother whose child is missing. But I can’t forget that Robin was secluded in the nursery for six months before his kidnapping and Lady Alexandra may be part of a conspiracy to hide the fact that he’s been dead all this time. And I see another reason not to take her at face value.
“If you’re so eager to find Robin, then why haven’t you told the police that you think John Pierce took him?” I ask.
Lady Alexandra reacts with the same shocked gasp as Tabitha did when I told her I’d seen her with Raphael DeQuincey. “How did you know?”
For the first time, the resemblance between the sisters is visible. It quickly vanishes because Lady Alexandra is angry instead of scared. “You spied on me! Are you really here to find Robin, or are you looking for dirt to sell to the newspapers?”
I’m angry too. My ankle hurts, Hugh has a gunshot wound, and I’ve just discovered new reasons to believe my father is guilty of rape and murder. Lady Alexandra’s accusation is insulting, and I refuse to be cowed. “If you’re trying to distract me from noticing that you haven’t answered my question, it’s not working. Why didn’t you tell the police about Mr. Pierce?”
Her anger yields to misery. “I couldn’t.” She lowers her eyes and her voice. “I—I still have feelings for John. If I’m wrong about him, I don’t want to get him in trouble. Even if I’m right, I don’t want him punished as long as I get Robin back safe and sound.” She raises her anxious gaze to me. “Are you going to tell Gerald?”
“I work for him. I can’t withhold information.” I’m uncomfortably aware that I haven’t told him about my father or my suspicion that Sir Gerald himself was responsible for Robin’s kidnapping.
“But if Gerald were to think John kidnapped Robin—if he knew how I feel about John . . .” Her face blanches; she seems too terrified to name the consequences. She reaches across the table and grasps my hand. Her hand is cold, delicate-boned, but strong. “Miss Bain, I must ask a favor of you.”
“What favor?” I pull my hand away and flex my fingers. Their tips are red from the pressure of Lady Alexandra’s grip.
“Find out if John has Robin. If he does, then tell me before you tell Gerald or the police.”
To collude with Lady Alexandra behind Sir Gerald’s back would be unprofessional, and I distrust her motives. Does she really think Pierce has Robin, or is this an attempt to direct my suspicion onto him? Does she really care for him, or does she want him blamed for the kidnapping so that she won’t be? But I can’t help putting myself in her place. In the unlikely event that I thought Barrett had committed a crime, wouldn’t I want to be certain before delivering him into the hands of the law? And I’m protecting my father by not telling the police what I know about him.
“I’ll think about it—if you’ll answer a question.”
“Of course,” Lady Alexandra says eagerly. “What is it?”
“Have you been inside my room?”
Lady Alexandra frowns, perplexed. “No. Why do you ask?”
I can’t tell whether she’s lying and it was she who broke into my trunk. But I sway toward believing her, and not only because I can’t help sympathizing with her. She couldn’t have known I’d overheard her conversation with Pierce, and she couldn’t have planned in advance how to react when I confronted her about it, but her speech and manner were such as I would expect from an innocent woman. Unless Lady Alexandra is as good at script-writing on the spur of the moment as she is at acting, she was telling the truth.
#
Now I have even more to tell Hugh, but when I knock on his door, there’s no answer, and the door is locked. I experience a cold trickle of foreboding. I rush into my room and try the door that connects it with his. It opens.
“Hugh?” The room is dark, with a musky, sweaty, feverish smell. “Are you all right?” I grope my way to the window, find the curtain cord, and pull.
Light floods the Arabian Nights room. Two figures in the bed under the lattice arch bolt upright. One is Hugh. The other is Tristan Mariner. The gold-and-silver quilt falls away from their naked chests. They’re as horrified to see me as I am to see them together.
“Sarah,” Hugh says in a strained, hoarse voice. “Can you give us a moment?”
I retreat to my room, shut the door, and pace while I listen to scuffling noises and low, agitated voices from Hugh’s room. Hearing his door to the passage open, I hurry out my door ju
st in time to meet Tristan. He’s fully clothed, his black hair is tousled, and he looks mortified. He’s clutching something in his hand. It’s his white priest’s collar. Without a word, he stalks down the passage and disappears down the back stairs. I go in my room and knock on the connecting door to Hugh’s.
“Come in,” Hugh calls.
He’s dressed and groomed; the aroma of bay rum shaving lotion masks the smell of sex. Before I can speak, he raises his palms and says, “It’s not what you think.”
“How can it be anything else?”
“I mean, it wasn’t just an impulsive roll in the hay.” Hugh sinks onto the cushioned platform in the alcove, his gaze focused on some troubling inner vista. “There’ve been so many men, I’ve lost count—I don’t even remember all their names. But there’s never been anyone I felt close to, who I thought was worth the risk of seeing more than a few times.” Hugh looks up at me. “Do you understand what I mean?”
His face wears the same daft, starry-eyed expression that I see in my reflection in the mirror after I’ve been with Barrett. My heart plummets as I nod and sit beside him. “You’re in love with Tristan Mariner.”
Hugh’s cheeks color; elation swells his chest. “I never thought it would happen. I never thought I would find someone who actually makes me glad that I’m what I am.”
“Oh, Hugh.” I wish I could be happy for him, but he’s fallen in love with the wrong person at the worst time. “Tristan is not only a priest but a suspect in the kidnapping of his own brother,” I remind Hugh, “and he could also be a murderer.”
“I never thought he did it,” Hugh declares, “and now I know for sure that he’s incapable of hurting anyone.”
I’m too shy to speak bluntly and say that sex can trick you into thinking that you know a person and make you believe he’s good because you don’t want to think that someone who’s touched you intimately is evil. “There was the man he killed during the boxing match.”
“There was no boxing match. That’s just the official story. Here’s what really happened: When Tristan was in the army in India, he became friends with a fellow soldier. They weren’t lovers, but they were on the verge. The men in their regiment got wise to it. One night they attacked Tristan and his friend. They beat his friend almost to death before Tristan managed to fight them off. One of them died of his injuries—Tristan ruptured his kidney.” Hugh sounds proud, gratified. “It was self-defense.”
A Mortal Likeness Page 14
