Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Sarah, I’ll take photos and develop ’em,” Mick says. “You two can go.”

  Barrett and I exchange a glance, reading each other’s thoughts: a murder investigation wasn’t how we expected to begin our marriage, but he doesn’t want to hand off a case that cropped up during his own wedding, and I can’t abandon a victim to whom I owe much more than my career. Life’s big and small events are connected by fragile threads of happenstance. If not for Charles Firth, I wouldn’t be a photographer; I wouldn’t have met Barrett and wouldn’t have married him today. The least I can do for Charles Firth is that which I’ve had the honor of doing for other people who have died by violence—deliver his killer to justice.

  “Reverend Thornton, can you tell the guests to go on to the wedding breakfast?” Barrett says. “Sarah and I will be there in a moment.”

  Sir Gerald and Sally leave with the vicar. With everyone gone but Barrett, Mick, and me, the crypt is quiet. As Mick takes photographs, the shutter clicks seem unnaturally loud. The blasts of light and falling sparks fill the room, and the acrid smoke from the flash powder joins the sweet, meaty, iron smell of blood. I was too nervous to eat anything today, and nausea turns my empty stomach. To distract myself from it, I survey the floor and see a thin, scuffed-up coat of dusty grime.

  “If the killer left any footprints, they’ve been trampled over,” I say.

  “No signs of a struggle,” Mick says, inserting a fresh negative plate into my camera.

  Barrett crouches by the body, careful not to step in the blood and soil his black patent-leather boots. He gently presses his fingers against Charles Firth’s cheek. “I think he died sometime last night. The surgeon will have a better estimate.”

  I think of the first time I saw Charles Firth, when I went into his shop. He bowed, smiled, and said, “What can I do for you, miss?”

  His manner was gallant, flirtatious. I was even shier with strangers than I am now, and I closed up like a wounded clam. I was about to run out the door when an expression of sympathetic understanding came into Firth’s eyes. He said, “Look around as much as you like. If you need help, just ask,” and withdrew to the back of the shop.

  I studied the cameras, relieved to be left alone. Other customers came, and he flirted with the women, joked with the men, and discussed technical aspects of his merchandise. He had a talent for adapting himself to other people’s needs, and he’d sensed that I wished to avoid attention. That he also noticed my poverty and my pride became obvious when he saw me linger at a particular camera and said, “That one’s damaged. I’ll give you thirty percent off.”

  The damage was merely a few nicks on the case. I couldn’t afford to say no, but I was afraid he would demand something from me in exchange. But he didn’t. Whenever I returned to his shop, he greeted me with a smile, let me browse to my heart’s content, and marked down his prices for me. We never talked about anything except photography; on a personal level, we never got past introductions. Some twenty years older than I, he treated me as a teacher would a pupil. The last time I saw him, he said he was moving his shop to a different location and invited me to come by if I needed anything. I never went. For various reasons, I was afraid that it would make us friends. Now I regret not going.

  Barrett is searching Charles Firth’s pockets. He removes a leather card case, takes out a card, and reads out two addresses in Islington.

  “I recognize the address on Upper Street,” I say. “That’s his shop.”

  Mick repositions my camera at a different angle. “At least we know where to start askin’ questions.”

  I examine Mr. Firth’s cameras. They’re professional grade, high quality but not new, their mahogany box cases scratched, their leather bellows supple from use. I open the cameras one by one and remove the glass negative plates in their protective cases. “I’ll develop his photographs. Maybe they’ll provide some answers.”

  Footsteps echo down the passage outside the room. Reverend Thornton enters and says, “I’ve discovered something important. You’d better come with me.”

  CHAPTER 2

  While Mick finishes taking photographs, Barrett and I go upstairs with the vicar. In the vestry we fetch my leather satchel and our outdoor garments—Barrett his black coat and top hat, I my plain gray coat that covers my wedding dress. I remove my veil and don my gray felt hat.

  The parish clerk is waiting inside the door of the empty sanctuary. “Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Barrett, you need to sign the parish registry.”

  I’m startled to be addressed, for the first time, as Mrs. Barrett. My new husband and I look at each other, chagrined because we forgot this last bit of official wedding business. After we sign, Barrett says, “Sarah, you go on to the wedding breakfast. Our guests are waiting. At least one of us needs to be there.”

  “They can wait a little longer,” I say. “I need to find out what’s going on.”

  “Sir Gerald doesn’t expect you to cover the story,” Barrett says.

  “I know. But it’s personal, because I knew Charles Firth.” Unable to consider him a friend, I suppose I could call him my patron or benefactor.

  “Well.” A slight frown clouds Barrett’s expression. “All right.”

  It’s not rare for us to disagree and for me to do as I choose instead of yielding to his wishes, so I don’t understand why he seems more irritated than usual. We accompany the vicar outside. The autumn fog has set in, not to lift entirely until spring. The chill air smells of bitter coal smoke, fumes from the factories, and foul vapor from the River Thames, and it’s so misty that I can’t see the end of the short road that extends from the front of the church between terraces of brick houses. The same fog concealed Jack the Ripper and helped him evade capture while the police and my friends and I pursued him through the streets of Whitechapel two years ago. Now we have a new murder to solve.

  I’m brimful of questions, but the vicar looks sterner than ever, as if he’s angry about something. His jaw is tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead while he and Barrett and I walk along St. Peter Street. I glance back at the church. Romanesque in style, St. Peter’s is built of flint, stone, and brick, darkened by soot. Over the arched main entrance rises a square tower topped with an octagonal lantern and conical spire. Ravens perch on the eaves like gargoyles. Dark holly bushes crouch against the walls beneath the stained-glass windows. Within the black iron fence that encloses the churchyard, oak trees shed their brown leaves. We turn down a narrow lane and pass a schoolyard where girls are playing ring-around-the-rosy. One is wearing a disconcertingly sinister rabbit mask made of papier-mâché. Halloween is next week, and some children can’t wait to show off their costumes. The yard is enclosed on two sides by a brick compound with gables, mullioned Gothic windows set in stone arches, and many chimneys. St. Peter’s School occupies the large, three-story section. The smaller, two-story section is the vicarage, into which the Reverend Thornton leads Barrett and me.

  The foyer smells of smoke, mildew, and cooked cabbage, a miasma soaked into the scuffed wood of the floor and staircase and the dingy tan-painted plaster walls. The oppressive air is brightened by a toy sailboat in the corner and child-sized red rubber boots on the shoe rack beneath the coats hung on pegs. Gasps, wheezes, and cries issue from the parlor. It sounds like someone being strangled. Barrett and I exchange glances of alarm.

  The Reverend Thornton strides in ahead of us. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Thornton, hovers near a thin young man seated on a divan. His mouth is wide open one hand pressed to his concave chest as he struggles for breath, his white clerical collar loosened around his jerking Adam’s apple. His short brown hair recedes far back on the high, round dome of his scalp. When he sees the vicar, his eyes bulge with fright behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. His body spasms as he gasps.

  “This is Clyde Nugent, my curate,” the vicar says in a frosty tone. “When he heard about the murder, he became a bit distraught.”

  The ailing Mr. Nugent is obviously the cause of the vicar’s anger.
Mrs. Thornton says to him, “It’s all right, dear. Just try to relax.”

  Her voice is calm, soothing; during her years as a vicar’s wife, she must have tended to many distraught parishioners. Square and robust of figure, she has thin gray hair wound into a coil at the back of her head, with a short fringe in front. Her face is lined but rosy and healthy. A white apron covers the brown poplin frock she wore to my wedding. I like her because she’s been pleasant to me and hasn’t nagged me to attend her husband’s services.

  She offers a cup of tea to Mr. Nugent. “Drink this.”

  His hands shake so badly that she steadies them as he gulps the tea. He swallows, breathes easier, and lies back against the sofa. “Thank you.”

  The vicar introduces Barrett and me and invites us to sit on the divan opposite the one occupied by Mr. Nugent. Our divan is upholstered in rose-patterned chintz, his in frayed brown horsehair. The whole room is furnished with mismatched items. Ornate modern chairs and tables clash with spindly antiques; the carpet is threadbare, the damask curtains faded. This is a poor parish that can’t afford luxuries for its vicarage, and the Thorntons either lack private resources or care little for material goods. The place is clean and comfortable enough, but cheerless.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Nugent says. “I get these attacks when I’m upset.”

  The Reverend Thornton responds with a notably impatient lack of sympathy. “Detective Sergeant Barrett is investigating the murder. Tell him what you told me.”

  Mr. Nugent cringes. “It was I who allowed Mr. Firth into the church last night. I lent him my key.”

  That’s one question answered. Barrett asks another: “Did you kill him?” He sounds as if he doesn’t believe it. I don’t either.

  Mr. Nugent’s eyes goggle. “No! But it’s my fault he was killed!” he wails. “I never should have let him in.”

  “You’re right.” Disgust twists the vicar’s mouth. “I’ve warned you about thieves, and you gave a stranger the run of the church. Thank God none of our parishioners were injured.”

  “Douglas, I’m sure Clyde didn’t mean any harm,” Mrs. Thornton says with mild reproach.

  The vicar frowns and paces the floor, hands clenched behind his back. I think that a murder in his church after the rules were broken is legitimate reason for him to be angry. Barrett asks the curate, “How did you know Mr. Firth?”

  “He came to a service two Sundays ago. Afterward, he introduced himself to me and asked if he could spend a night in the church.”

  I picture Mr. Firth sitting in a pew, eyeing the vicar and the curate. With his talent for reading people, he would have known which man to ask for such a dubious favor.

  “Why did he want to spend the night in the church?” Barrett says.

  “He said he was a spirit photographer and had heard that St. Peter’s is haunted. He wanted to take pictures of the ghosts.”

  This revelation disturbs me, although not because spirit photography is unusual. Even in our modern era, belief in the supernatural is widespread. Spiritualism is all the rage, and mediums, fortune-tellers, and all manner of other practitioners abound. Many folks think that although ghosts may be invisible to the eye, the camera can capture their images. Ghost photographs sell for high prices. But I am a skeptic who has never seen a ghost or heard convincing evidence that they exist. And I have reason to know that some spiritualists invent otherworldly manifestations to trick the gullible public. I’m appalled to learn that Mr. Firth was involved in a business that is rife with fraud.

  “All right, so the church has ghosts and Mr. Firth wanted their pictures.” Barrett sounds as if he’s skeptical too but suspending judgment in the interest of getting the whole story from Mr. Nugent. “That was all it took for you to give him the key and say, ‘Have at it’?”

  Even as Mr. Nugent flinches, he rallies to his own defense. “It may sound stupid to you, but St. Peter’s really is haunted—by the ghosts of people who died in 1832.”

  Reverend Thornton stops pacing. “Nonsense! St. Peter’s wasn’t even built until 1840, which you well know.”

  Shrinking from the vicar’s disapproval, Mr. Nugent explains to Barrett and me. “In 1832, there was a cholera epidemic in London. More than three thousand people died. There were so many bodies that needed to be buried quickly that the cemeteries couldn’t accommodate them all. They were buried together in pits. One of the cholera pits was on the future grounds of St. Peter’s. Ever since then, many people have sighted the ghosts of the dead, wandering in the church.”

  “You’re an educated man,” the vicar says. “You should know better than to believe that humbug!”

  “But I’ve seen the ghosts myself!” Mr. Nugent’s eyes blaze with sincerity. “A few months ago, I went to the church late at night to fetch a book I’d left there. I heard footsteps in the crypt, and when I went down to see who it was, I saw …” Recollected terror hushes his voice. “There were two of them—a dark man and a pale woman. The man was carrying the woman, like so.” He extends his arms, and I picture a limp, ethereal white form cradled in them. “It must have been the ghost of a resurrectionist with a corpse he’d stolen from the pit.”

  Resurrectionists were grave robbers who sold corpses to hospitals and medical schools for dissection. I shudder despite my scorn for the curate’s tale.

  A muffled cry turns everyone’s attention toward the doorway. There stand a boy and girl—the Thorntons’ grandchildren. The vicar introduced me to them the day Barrett and I met with him and explained that he and his wife are raising Daniel and Lucie because their parents are dead. They’re twins, and they’re twelve years old, but they don’t look it. Lucie is small, delicate, childish, and dark. Her hand is clamped over her mouth, and her black eyes are round with fright. Daniel is blond, rosy, and big for his age—almost a man. He puts his arm around Lucie and glowers at us, as if we’re a threat and he’s her protector.

  Mrs. Thornton hurries to them. “Daniel. Lucie. What are you doing here?”

  “We wanted to know what’s going on.” Daniel’s voice cracks—it’s changing already—but his face is still soft and boyish. He casts a wary glance at Barrett and me.

  “You’re supposed to be upstairs doing your lessons.” Flustered, Mrs. Thornton explains to us, “They don’t go to school. They have a tutor and study at home.” She turns on Mr. Nugent. “See what you’ve done—you’ve frightened Lucie with your talk of ghosts. Come, children.” She hustles them out of the room.

  It seems peculiar that they study at home when the church school is right next door. They seem an odd pair.

  Reverend Thornton takes up the conversation where it left off. “The bodies of the cholera victims were wrapped in cloth soaked with tar, then covered in lime, so they would be too decomposed for dissection,” he tells Mr. Nugent. “A resurrectionist wouldn’t have stolen from a cholera pit. That’s just one reason you didn’t see what you thought you saw.”

  “I did see it!” Mr. Nugent says. “And corpses covered with tar were known to show up in the dissecting rooms.”

  I wince at the thought of blackened, decomposed flesh.

  “Another reason is that the crypt was dark,” the vicar says. “It was probably a trick of the shadows and your imagination.”

  Mr. Nugent juts out his trembling chin. “I know what I saw. You can’t change my mind.”

  “Your mental state makes me wonder whether you belong here.”

  Dismay flares in Mr. Nugent’s eyes. “Do you mean to terminate my curacy?”

  “It may come to that. Perhaps you would be better suited to a different profession.”

  Although I don’t believe Mr. Nugent, I think the vicar is being too harsh on him. I feel sorry for Nugent because his convictions could cost him his career in the Church.

  Barrett hastens to smooth troubled waters. “The murder has been a shock to all of us. Let’s not make big decisions right now.” He speaks with the calm authority he’s learned during eleven years on the police force.
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  The vicar frowns but nods. Mr. Nugent’s concave chest swells and deflates with a sigh of tentative relief.

  “I’ve a few more questions,” Barrett says to Mr. Nugent. “Who else knew that Charles Firth was in the church last night?”

  “Nobody, as far as I know.” Mr. Nugent casts a guilty look at the vicar.

  “You should have told me,” the vicar says between clenched teeth.

  “I knew you wouldn’t approve. But I was hoping Mr. Firth would get photographs of the ghosts. I wanted proof to show everyone that what I’d seen was real.”

  “Mr. Firth might have told someone,” I say.

  “He might have let the killer in,” Barrett says.

  “The killer could be someone among his relatives, friends, or acquaintances.” Once again, I wish I’d known Mr. Firth better, so that I might have their names.

  “But the church door was locked this morning. Mr. Firth couldn’t have let the killer out and locked the door, because he was dead,” Barrett says.

  Mr. Nugent says timidly, “If the killer was a ghost, it wouldn’t have needed to be let out, or in.”

  As I picture a translucent wraith walking through the church wall, I begin to understand how people come to believe in ghosts. The imagination is powerful. I shake my head. The ghost angle is an unwelcome complication that could make the case harder to solve. A public uproar, false tips, and controversy could muddy the waters in which Barrett and I must fish for suspects.

  Reverend Thornton bends a warning look on Nugent. “The killer must have taken the key and locked the door when he departed. I’d better have the locks changed.”

  “Did you or Mrs. Thornton see or hear anything unusual last night?” I say.

  “No. We were asleep.”

  “What about Lucie and Daniel?” Barrett says.

  “They were asleep too.”