A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  As we surround Olivia, Mick says, “The jig’s up.”

  “Come along like a good girl, or we’ll have to get rough,” Hugh says.

  I feel a sense of completion, for although delivering Olivia to justice won’t resurrect Robin, Tabitha, or Pierce, and we’ll live with our mistakes forever, our investigation is finally concluded. While Raphael DeQuincey may serve prison time for the ransom hoax, he won’t hang.

  “You won’t tell. Because I won’t let you!” Olivia scrambles up, holding the gun that she found near Pierce’s body.

  How badly I misinterpreted her actions, underestimated her determination to avoid the consequences of her crimes. Alarmed, I cry, “Look out!”

  As Hugh, Mick, and I reel backward, Tristan shouts, “Olivia! No!”

  “If we get rid of them, everything will be all right.” Olivia fires at us.

  Hugh and Tristan lunge at the same moment that the gun discharges with a flash of light from its muzzle and a bang that reverberates through the forest. Hugh puts himself in front of Mick and me. Tristan shoves Hugh to the ground.

  Terror stabs me, and I shout Hugh’s name, but I haven’t time to find out whether he’s been shot. Mick yells, “Sarah, run!” and pushes me.

  I hurtle toward the woods. Through the haze of pungent smoke from her first shot, I see Olivia take aim at Mick. He zigs and zags like a boxer avoiding punches. Olivia jerks the weapon from side to side, tracking his movements while she advances on him. Mick pivots to run, trips, and sprawls flat on the ground. Olivia stops inches from him, pointing the gun straight down at his back.

  “Mick!” I stumble as I change direction and rush to him. I hear Tristan’s urgent voice, but Hugh is dreadfully silent. My momentum sends me crashing into Olivia.

  The gun fires. Olivia shrieks as I knock her sideways. I snatch for the gun, but she swings it up and hits my forehead. The explosion of pain is blinding. My vision is a dark haze webbed with white veins. My hands scrabble at Olivia. It’s like fighting an invisible cat the size of a human. She’s all shrieks and howls, flying hair and wiry, twisting body. Her fingernails claw my face. I swat her, and she screams. I grab at her hair in my futile attempt to find the gun. Her kicks thump my shins. I don’t know what’s become of Mick and Hugh. I sob because I’m afraid they’re dead. All I can do is hold onto Olivia, so that if they’re still alive, she can’t kill them. Now I feel the gun’s hard barrel thrust against my ribs.

  Shouts and whistles blare nearby. The police are coming too late.

  Gunshots boom like thunder. I scream as the impacts jolt me off my feet. Warm, wet, viscous liquid drenches my face and neck. I fall to the ground, and Olivia lands on top of me. I can’t breathe. The sweet, salty, iron-tasting liquid fills my nose, my mouth. Panic and terror surge. I can’t move. I’ve been shot. I’m choking on my own blood. I’m dying.

  A confusion of running footsteps and loud, anxious voices surrounds me. Light flares. My vision is red from the blood in my eyes. Through the blood, I see someone standing over me. It’s Sir Gerald, holding a shotgun, his face a picture of grim, vindictive satisfaction. He extends his foot, and his boot prods Olivia. Her inert weight rolls off me. I turn my head toward her, and what I see is so terrible that my consciousness blurs at the edges. Half of Olivia’s face and neck are a mass of blood, mangled flesh, and shattered bone. Her remaining eye stares at me. Through my nausea and horror, I hear Mick’s voice, shrill with excitement.

  “He shot her! He musta heard everything she said. He shot her!”

  My hands frantically scramble over my chest, my stomach. There’s no pain, no wound; the blood on me is Olivia’s, not mine. Hugh and Mick are kneeling beside me. I croak out their names, and they moan, “Thank God, thank God.”

  I’m so glad to see them safe that tears rinse Olivia’s blood from my eyes. Then Hugh and Mick are gone, and someone pulls me into his lap and cradles me in his arms. It’s Barrett.

  “Sarah! No!” His howl of protest echoes to the sky. His face, bent over me, is contorted with grief, his eyes streaming with tears. “You can’t die. Come back. Sarah!” He presses my face to his chest, his cheek against my hair, and weeps.

  He doesn’t know what happened; he didn’t notice Olivia. He thinks the blood is mine and I was mortally wounded.

  In a moment I’ll tell him I’m not dead, but for now I don’t speak or move because I’m too breathless and the comfort of his embrace feels too good.

  32

  The Drill Hall Assembly Room in Hampstead overflows with the noisy crowd that has gathered for the coroner’s inquest into the deaths of John Pierce and Olivia Mariner. The audience occupies all the chairs behind the front row, where I sit between Hugh and Mick. The first row is reserved for witnesses who will testify. All the chairs in it except ours are empty. More spectators stand three deep against the walls. At the center of the front of the room is the witness box; to its right, twelve vacant seats for the jury. Two long tables with chairs face each other in the space between the audience and the witness box. Reporters with notebooks and artists with sketchpads sit at one table. The room buzzes with excited conversation.

  Hugh leans close to me and whispers, “This is our last chance to get our story straight.”

  We’ve gone over our story again and again during the two days since Olivia and Pierce died. We’ve boiled it down to a simple version of events that we hope will be accepted. But as I behold the witness box where each of us in turn will sit alone and testify, tremors of fear chill me. “I don’t think I can do it.” I’ve told many lies during my life, but lying to a court of law is perjury—a crime for which we could go to prison.

  “’Course you can.” Mick pats my hand and whispers in my ear, “Remember, when they asks you why we went to Mariner House, you say that DeQuincey sent the ransom note, and Pierce stole the money, and we wanted to tell Sir Gerald.”

  “Sir Gerald accused Pierce of murdering Robin and pulled a gun,” Hugh whispers. “Pierce took Tristan hostage and ran away. We caught up with them on the heath.”

  “Pierce was dead when we got there,” Mick whispers. “We didn’t see what happened. Olivia came out of nowhere and attacked you. We don’t know why.”

  “Sir Gerald turned up. He shot Olivia to save you.” Hugh whispers, “Simple as A, B, C.”

  When we received the summons to testify at the inquest, we hotly debated whether to tell the whole truth. Hugh said, “I don’t want to get Tristan in trouble for covering up Robin’s murder. He saved my life.” Mick said, “Me neither. He saved Lottie’s life too.” And I didn’t want to get Sir Gerald in trouble—he’d saved my life when he shot Olivia. In the end, we decided that Olivia and Pierce had both already received the justice they deserved, and nobody need be punished on their accounts. The true story of that night on the heath would be just another secret we would have to keep, along with our knowledge about the fate of Jack the Ripper.

  A stir of excitement ripples through the room as two groups of men file in. One group occupies the twelve chairs designated for the jury. The other men take seats at the empty table. Among them are Barrett and Inspector Reid; the others must be the coroner and government officials. The reporters open their notebooks, and the artists take up their pencils. Reid’s stern gaze sweeps the audience, then settles on us. A predatory smile flashes under his mustache.

  My stomach plunges.

  We’ve no idea how much Reid knows about the events of that night. Before he got to the scene, Sir Gerald sent Hugh, Mick, and me home with two of his guards as escorts. Until today, we’ve ventured outside our house only once—to call on Mrs. Vaughn and explain what happened to her husband. She grieved violently, but at least she knows that his killer has been delivered to justice, even though there will be no trial or legal retribution. Eventually we’ll track down and inform the family of Ethel Norris. For now, we’ve been living in seclusion, depending on the newspapers for information. London is rife with speculation and rumors, but the authorities have relea
sed no statement, presented no official version of the events. Sir Gerald has kept away the reporters and police who’ve demanded interviews with us. Now it’s obvious that Reid thinks we had a hand in Olivia’s and Pierce’s deaths and can’t wait to interrogate us.

  I steal a glance at Barrett, whom I haven’t seen since that night. His somber face betrays no awareness of me. My anxiety increases because he’s sure to testify, and we don’t know how much he saw or what he’ll say. I look at the empty chairs in our row—apparently, no one is coming to fill them. Sir Gerald, Tristan, and everybody else from Mariner House are absent. We and Barrett are the only witnesses, and if our story doesn’t agree with his, that will give Inspector Reid ammunition with which to destroy us. I feel a spate of anger at Sir Gerald. After everything we’ve been through because of him and his family, he’s left us to face the law by ourselves and take the consequences.

  The man in the center seat at the table pounds a gavel. The audience quiets. He introduces himself as Dr. Danford Thomas, Coroner for the Central Division of the County of London. He’s tall and lanky, bald and bespectacled. “I hereby open this inquest into the deaths of Miss Olivia Mariner and Mr. John Pierce.” His expression is pinched and bitter, as if he’s just swallowed foul-tasting medicine.

  My heart pounds, Hugh coughs into his handkerchief, and Mick jiggles his foot as we wait to hear who will testify first. Dr. Thomas says, “I shall forgo the usual procedure and rule on the case now.”

  The room erupts into a hubbub of confusion. Hugh and Mick and I look at one another, unsure whether this means reprieve or disaster for us. The reporters call out questions that jumble into cacophony. Barrett and the jurymen look perplexed. Spectators grumble, deprived of the show they expected.

  Inspector Reid, crimson with anger, faces Dr. Thomas. “You have to call witnesses. You have to let me question them and the jury hear their testimony. What gives you the right to disregard the law?”

  “The authority vested in me by the Crown.” Dr. Thomas’s voice is tight with disgust. Now I understand why he looks so bitter: he dislikes the situation as much as Reid does. He pounds his gavel, the audience quiets, and he announces, “Olivia Mariner kidnapped and murdered her half brother, Robin Mariner, because she was jealous of him. She poisoned Tabitha Jenkins and stabbed John Pierce because they knew and were blackmailing her. She died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, having committed suicide due to remorse. The case is hereby closed. The witnesses and jury are dismissed. The inquest is adjourned.”

  He rises and stalks out of the room, the puzzled jurymen trailing in his wake. The reporters chase him, calling, “How do you know that Olivia Mariner murdered Robin? What evidence says she committed suicide?”

  All three murders have been rightfully attributed to Olivia, even though her motives were partially misinterpreted. Hugh, Mick, and I are free to go, our secrets safe. But I barely have time to feel jubilant. As Mick and Hugh propel me from the room, through the mob of departing spectators, Inspector Reid comes charging toward us, his expression savage with fury.

  “What do you know about this?” he demands. “What really happened to Olivia Mariner and John Pierce?”

  Outside the building, the street is crowded with people awaiting the result of the inquest. Reporters mob Hugh, Mick, and me, yelling questions. Photographers snap our pictures; flash powder explodes around us. Reid grabs my arm and shouts into my face, “Did you kill them?”

  His hand is ripped away from me as four of Sir Gerald’s guards surround us, clear a path through the crowd, and escort us away. I’m afraid to find out where they’re taking us but thankful to escape Reid. I hear him yell, “Damn you!”

  The guards lead us down an alley. At the far end stands a large black carriage, whose door opens. Inside sits Sir Gerald.

  “Get in,” he says. Neatly groomed, wearing a black city overcoat and derby, he seems his normal, brisk self. “I’ll take you to the train station.”

  Although we’re loath to brave the crowds, the reporters, and Inspector Reid again, we hesitate. We haven’t forgotten the sight of Sir Gerald with his rifle, standing over Olivia’s corpse like an executioner inspecting his work. But we know more certainly than ever how dangerous it is to cross him. We climb into the carriage. I sit beside Sir Gerald, Hugh and Mick opposite us. As we ride through Hampstead village, I muster my courage and ask, “Did you rig the inquest?”

  Sir Gerald shrugs. “I had a drink with the prime minister.”

  I’m afraid to ask how he twisted the prime minister’s arm. We’re in no position to quibble.

  With an air of getting down to business, Sir Gerald says, “I wanted to thank you for helping me bring Robin’s killer to justice.”

  Hugh, Mick, and I exchange queasy looks. We’ve yet to resolve our mixed feelings about Olivia’s death. Sir Gerald’s shooting her was justice of the bloodiest sort, but perhaps no worse than turning her over to the law. I would rather die quickly by a bullet than endure the ordeal of the walk to the gallows, the noose around my throat, and the time to imagine the snap of my neck breaking. I wonder if Olivia knew that her father shot her. I hope not. If she had, she would have been devastated because he loved her so little that avenging Robin mattered more to him than her life. And I think she would rather have died than see, as I’m seeing now, his complete lack of remorse. I pity her despite the fact that she tried to kill me.

  “It was our pleasure,” Hugh says with a wince.

  We’re far from happy about our role in Olivia’s death but glad Sir Gerald didn’t protect Olivia and help her get away with murdering Robin and Tabitha. If he had, we would have been obligated to oppose him, which would have meant certain ruin for us. Furthermore, denouncing him as a vigilante who took the law into his own hands would be the pot calling the kettle black.

  “I’m going to offer you a permanent job,” Sir Gerald says. “You’ll be my personal investigators, on call whenever I need you.” He names a retainer fee that makes our jaws drop. “Effective immediately. The usual confidentiality agreement.”

  We look at each other, our ambivalence stronger than ever.

  “Well?” Sir Gerald says impatiently.

  We can’t afford not to consider his offer; our prospects are as bleak as before we met him. But although I was wrong about him when I suspected him of murdering Robin, he did kill his daughter in cold blood. I doubt that saving my life figured into his decision to shoot Olivia. He’s a monster after all—a monster who bends the law to his own purposes. If we accept the job, what might he expect us to do? What price failure? In retrospect, I see that we didn’t exactly solve the kidnapping case; it’s more that our mistakes paved the path to the solution.

  “Why do you want to hire us?” I ask.

  “You don’t give up,” Sir Gerald says. “I like that.”

  Now I realize that the minute we stepped into this carriage, we stepped back into his orbit, and the force of it is too mighty to resist. We look at one another, nod, and I answer for us. “We accept.”

  “Good.” Sir Gerald nods as if he too saw our acceptance as inevitable.

  He shakes hands with each of us. His grip on my fingers is gentle enough but hard with the strength of a steel trap that could spring at any moment.

  The carriage stops outside the train station. Sir Gerald says, “I’ll be in touch,” and we climb out. We watch him ride away, then exchange leery glances.

  “It’s like gettin’ in bed with the devil,” Mick says.

  “There’ll be hell to pay, sooner or later,” Hugh says.

  Then his head whips around as if some remarkable sight has caught his attention. I follow his gaze and see, by the village green, a priest. It’s Tristan Mariner, hurrying toward us, calling Hugh’s name.

  “Excuse me,” Hugh says, his face suddenly luminous.

  He walks toward Tristan. When they meet, they bow like businessmen at a town assembly. But even from a distance, I can see the flush on their cheeks and smiles trembling on thei
r lips and sense the longing they take pains to hide.

  “We might as well go home,” Mick says with a satisfied grin. “Hugh’ll be busy for a while.”

  My heart swells with joy for Hugh—and envy. He and Tristan are having the reunion that Barrett and I never will.

  #

  Mick and I arrive in Argyle Square to dense fog that drips with rain and reeks of tarry smoke from the factories. I’m glad to be back, but when we enter the house, tears fill my eyes, and I can barely see to hang up my coat. I’ve never felt lonelier.

  Mick runs to the kitchen to tell Fitzmorris what’s happened. I light the fire in the parlor, sit staring into the flames, and try to convince myself that things could be worse. Although I’ll always wish I could have prevented Tabitha’s death, Olivia Mariner and John Pierce will trouble the world no more. Thanks to Sir Gerald, Hugh and Mick and I have a new livelihood, and I can replace my photography equipment. But my illusions about my father are gone forever. Barrett is gone too. The aching emptiness of loss will never leave me.

  That evening after dinner, I’m sitting in the parlor again when Hugh comes home. His face still wears that luminous expression. I raise my eyebrows, asking questions that I’m too shy to voice.

  “Tristan will have to quit the priesthood if he wants to be with me.” Hugh warms his hands at the fire. “I told him the decision is up to him. I won’t ask him to make the sacrifice.” Hugh sounds tired, rueful, but at peace. “If he quits, he’ll also be giving up his mission. His ship to India sails next month. He’ll have to decide by then.”

  He’ll have to decide whether being with Hugh is worth risking exposure as a homosexual, arrest, and imprisonment.

  “He doesn’t want to leave me and go back to India, but he feels that he should because of Robin,” Hugh says. “He colluded with Olivia and covered up the death of an innocent child. He’s got a load of guilt to work off.”

  I can’t think of anything to say.

  Hugh’s smile flashes. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Sarah. Things are good with Tristan and me, for now. If he gets on that ship next month . . . well, ‘Better to have loved and lost,’ et cetera.”