Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Although I hate to challenge his skepticism and my own, I say, “I developed his photographs. Look at this one.” I take a duplicate print out of my satchel.

  Barrett and Dr. Phillips purse their lips as they scrutinize the pale figure assaulting Charles Firth.

  “I think it’s a person,” Barrett says.

  “I agree,” Dr. Phillips says. “The blurriness makes it appear to be a ghost.”

  But they don’t sound entirely confident. I say, “The Daily World is going to publish this photograph tomorrow, with the headline ‘Murder by a Ghost?’ ”

  “Get ready for trouble,” Barrett says. “Remember the panic during the Ripper murders? People were seeing him on every street corner and going mad with fear.”

  “I attended the Elizabeth Stride murder scene and performed the autopsy.” Memory clouds Dr. Phillips’s expression.

  I was the first to discover her body. That’s one of my secrets related to the Ripper case. “Heaven help us if people start thinking they see ghosts.”

  “It behooves us to prove that this is not a case of supernatural crime,” Dr. Phillips says. “I can tell you that aside from the circumstances, this murder was a simple stabbing. The weapon was a sharp blade approximately half an inch wide. Nothing the least otherworldly about that.”

  “Many people already think the Ripper is a ghost because he committed six murders and escaped without being seen.” Even if I were to tell them his identity, they would probably disbelieve me and cling to their superstition.

  “Is there any way to rule out a ghost?” Barrett says.

  “Let us take a closer look.” Dr. Phillips examines Charles Firth’s stiff hands. “No wounds. He didn’t try to defend himself. He must have been taken by surprise.” Walking slowly around the table, Dr. Phillips examines the clothed body from head to toe. He pauses to touch a gloved finger to the sleeves and lapels of the black jacket.

  “Have you found something?” Barrett says.

  The bright lights in the morgue reveal what the darkness in the crypt concealed—traces of a pale, greenish substance, a dried slime. Dr. Phillips leans close to the slime on Firth’s jacket, sniffs, makes a face, and draws back.

  “It has a strange odor. Foul, but with an aromatic tinge.”

  “What is it?” Barrett says.

  “It could be mucus or vomit. Although I’ve never encountered any with that odor.” The doctor probes Mr. Firth’s nostrils and open mouth with a cotton-tipped stick. “Hmm, none in there. It doesn’t seem to be his.”

  “I didn’t notice any at the scene,” Barrett says. “Did you, Sarah?”

  “No. But if it didn’t come from Mr. Firth, then where did it come from, and how did it get on his clothes?”

  “I’d better have another look around the crypt later,” Barrett says.

  Dr. Phillips uses scissors to cut slimy patches from Mr. Firth’s clothes and puts the bits of fabric in a small glass jar. “I’ll send these to a chemist for testing.”

  An unwelcome thought occurs to me. “Could it be … No, it’s impossible.”

  “Impossible to be what?” Barrett says.

  The thought is like a feather stuck in my lung, and I have to cough it out. “Ectoplasm.”

  “Ah—the supernatural substance with which ghosts supposedly take physical form,” Dr. Phillips says. “It makes them visible to humans and allows them to do things they can’t when they’re mere disembodied energy.”

  “I heard about a séance where ectoplasm came out of the medium’s mouth.” Barrett speaks hesitantly, as if afraid to sound foolish. “It took the shape of a devil with wings and flew around the room howling.”

  I muffle an unladylike snort of disgust.

  “Most certainly a hoax,” Dr. Phillips says.

  I think of the hoax that was once played on me. Soon after my mother told me my father was dead, I took the money she gave me to buy groceries and spent it on a medium. The fat old woman lit candles, burned incense, moaned, and went into a trance. As her body trembled and her eyelids fluttered, she said that my father was in heaven, he sent me his love, and he promised me that we would be together again someday. That the prediction came true and we actually have reunited doesn’t make up for the fact that she couldn’t have received a message from his spirit because he wasn’t dead. She tricked a bereaved child. Now I hate to add more credence to the mistaken idea that a ghost killed Charles Firth.

  “Do we have to tell anyone about this?” I point at the glass jar of samples. It repels me as though it contains a genie that will whip London into a panic. I picture Barrett and me so busy chasing nonexistent ghosts that we haven’t time to catch the real, mortal killer.

  “I’ll have to mention it in my autopsy report,” Dr. Phillips says.

  “Can we keep it quiet until the test results come in?” Barrett says.

  “A wise idea,” Dr. Phillips says.

  “I won’t tell Sir Gerald yet,” I add.

  “If he finds out later that you withheld information, he’ll be angry,” Barrett says.

  Sir Gerald might fire me, which would please Barrett’s mother. “But if I tell him, his next headline will say, ‘Ectoplasm Found on Murdered Spirit Photographer.’ ”

  “All the more reason to solve the case fast,” Barrett says.

  * * *

  The Savoy Hotel towers nine stories high above the Strand. The wind from the river ripples the flags on its roof, and its domed turrets dissolve in the fog. Its glazed white brick walls and the lights in its countless windows shimmer, mirage-like, amid the dark city.

  The cab lets Barrett and me off in the courtyard. The tinkling of the fountain in the center greets us. We’ve traveled three miles from morgue to palace, from the lowest depth to which humankind can sink to the heights of its worldly aspiration.

  “We should have gone someplace cheaper,” I say, afraid the hotel is too fine for our budget and the likes of me.

  “My bride deserves the best.” Barrett’s smile says he’s willing to put aside our differences so that we can enjoy our wedding night. He tells the uniformed doorman that we’ve booked a room for the night.

  The doorman ushers us into the hotel, bows, and says, “Enjoy your stay, sir and madam.”

  I’m impressed because Barrett seems as confident as if he’s at home. But of course he’s a policeman, accustomed to barging in wherever he chooses, whether he’s welcome or not.

  In the lobby, our footsteps echo from the black-and-white marble floor throughout a vast space decorated with potted palms and fresh flower arrangements. Square white pillars that look to be twenty feet high, crowned with gilded capitals, support a white coffered ceiling from which hangs a giant crystal chandelier. A clock somewhere chimes ten times. At this late hour, few other guests are coming or going.

  The suave clerk at the desk says, “Ah, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Barrett. Your room is waiting, and the baggage you sent has arrived safely. I see that you reserved a table for dinner. I’m sorry to say the restaurant is closed.”

  “That’s all right,” I say. The visit to the morgue has taken away my appetite.

  The clerk signals a bellhop, who escorts us to the lift. I’ve ridden in the one Sir Gerald installed at the Daily World building, but this is larger, with wood paneling, a mirror, carpet, and an upholstered settee. We glide up to the seventh floor and proceed down a wide, hushed corridor. When the bellhop opens the door to our room, the sweet scent of flowers welcomes us. He reaches inside and flicks a switch on the wall, illuminating the room.

  “The Savoy has electricity and central heating,” he says.

  The room is the warmest, coziest place I’ve been all day. My feet sink into thick, plush carpet. The canopied bed has a gold satin duvet, and tapestries and gold-framed landscape paintings decorate the walls. A bouquet of fresh gardenias and roses graces the mantel. The bellhop shows us a bathroom with porcelain fixtures and marble walls and floor, fit for a Roman emperor.

  “There’s hot and cold ru
nning water twenty-four hours a day.” He steps over to the window, which is festooned with gold-and-white brocade curtains. “You’ll have a fine view from your balcony in the morning.”

  Barrett and I exchange delighted smiles; we can’t believe this luxury is ours, even for just one night. Now I’m glad he splurged.

  “If you need anything, feel free to use the speaking tube.” The bellhop demonstrates how to operate the round metal mouthpiece on the wall, then wishes us good-night and departs.

  On the rare occasions when we have complete privacy, we usually plunge into immediate, frantic lovemaking. But tonight, a discomfort left over from the argument we had at the morgue inhibits us, as does the novelty of the situation. Barrett flicks the switches, chuckling as he turns the electric lights on and off. I turn on the tap in the bathroom sink; the water is steaming hot. Barrett skims the menu, talks into the speaking tube, and orders food. At last we turn to each other. He raises his eyebrow, and I blush as desire flares between us. We realize that there’s no hurry to finish making love before we’re interrupted, and our wedding night calls for a little more ceremony than usual.

  “I’ll get ready,” I say.

  In the armoire, I find my empty suitcase and my things neatly unpacked. I carry my nightgown and toiletries into the bathroom, run water in the tub, throw in pink bath salts from a jar on the shelf, and undress. Then I lie in the hot, rose-scented suds and revel in the most luxurious soak I’ve ever had. I contemplate the gold ring on my finger. This has been one of the strangest days in my life, and that’s saying a lot. When I climb out of the tub, I dry myself on a fluffy white towel, then put on my new nightgown. It’s daringly sleeveless, white satin trimmed with lace. I unbraid my hair and brush the long waves. Then I go out to the bedroom.

  “Thomas?” I say, feeling shy as I call him by his Christian name for the first time.

  He’s drawn back the duvet, and he’s lying on the bed in his shirt, trousers, and socks, fast asleep.

  He looks so peaceful that I don’t want to disturb him. I turn off the lights and lie down beside him, thinking I’ll just rest a while, and then I’ll wake him up, and …

  Drowsiness closes my eyes, and I’m asleep before I finish the thought.

  CHAPTER 7

  “What time is it?” Barrett exclaims, bolting upright in bed.

  I open my eyes to faint daylight and look out the window. Lights twinkle through the fog, from buildings and streetlamps by the river.

  Barrett glances at the clock and groans. “Six thirty! Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I fell asleep too.”

  We begin to laugh, vexed but amused because we wasted the night. Because both of us are due at work soon we hurriedly wash, dress, and pack. As we’re leaving, I see a covered tray in the hall—the food Barrett ordered last night. Whoever delivered it must have knocked but failed to rouse us.

  Downstairs, when we check out, the clerk says, “Did you enjoy your stay?”

  “Very much, thank you,” Barrett says with a wry smile.

  On the street, newsboys cry, “Man murdered by a ghost! Read all about it!” I buy a copy of the Daily World, whose front-page article has Sally’s byline and ends with a request for anyone with information about the murder to report it to the police. As we walk to the underground train station, I show Barrett our wedding photograph on the second page.

  “We’ll never look that sweet again,” he says.

  In the train, we’re mashed up against other passengers as we cling to the straps. We part ways at my studio, after he carries my baggage upstairs, and he says, “I’ll drop by tonight.”

  Mick and Fitzmorris are at the breakfast table, eggs and toast on their plates. “Lord Hugh went out last night and hasn’t come home,” Fitzmorris says.

  “Oh, no.”

  When Hugh is troubled, he roams the city, drinking too much. I fear that he’ll fall prey to cutpurses, or engage in intimate relations with shady characters, or be attacked by people who hate men of his kind. Worse, Tristan’s desertion could propel him into the same black depression that came upon him when he was exposed as a homosexual and disowned by his family. Back then, he tried to commit suicide and was rescued. If he tries again … I read the same unspeakable thought in Mick’s and Fitzmorris’s eyes. After all the times Hugh made bad jokes that brightened dark moments, all the times his optimism rallied us during crises, we can’t bear to lose him.

  The sounds of the bell on the front door jangling and footsteps on the stairs provoke sighs of relief from us. Hugh trudges into the dining room, his coat buttoned the wrong way, his eyes bleary, reeking of liquor. He collapses into a chair.

  “Don’t all look at me as if I’m something the cat dragged in.”

  “You all right?” Mick asks.

  “Never better.” Hugh smiles with a falsely jaunty air.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” Fitzmorris says.

  Hugh grimaces. “Ugh. I’ve got a bit of a hangover.”

  “I’ll bring your usual remedy.” Fitzmorris passes me a full plate and goes to the kitchen.

  I eat, hungry now that the immediate crisis has passed. “Why don’t you go to bed?” I say to Hugh.

  “At nine in the morning? Haven’t we a murder to investigate?”

  “Sarah and I can do it,” Mick says.

  “I mustn’t slack off while I’m on Sir Gerald’s payroll,” Hugh says. “He’s probably eager for an excuse to give me the boot. I think the victim’s home is a good place to start detecting. Did you find out where he lived?”

  “Yes.” I memorized the addresses on the card Barrett found in his pocket.

  Fitzmorris returns and hands Hugh a cup that contains tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, vinegar, salt, pepper, and a raw egg. Hugh says, “Thank you,” gulps it, gags, and pants. “Ah, that’s better. I’ll be ready in a jiff.”

  He bounds up the stairs, and I hear him trip at the top. Soon he comes back neatly groomed, scented with bay rum shaving lotion, looking almost his usual, handsome self. But his impeccably tailored clothes are baggy; he’s lost weight. He’s chewing a peppermint to freshen his breath, and his smile can’t hide the dark shadows under his eyes.

  As he and Mick and I walk to the station, he says, “Sarah, I’m sorry I made a scene at your wedding breakfast.”

  “It’s all right.” I know how much effort it’s costing him to act like his normal, cheerful self, to be the trouper who doesn’t let his friends down. I don’t want to scold him and make him feel worse than he does.

  “No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t get in fights.”

  “The other guy started it,” Mick says.

  “Well, I took the bait,” Hugh says. “Sarah, please convey my apologies to Barrett and his family. Next time I’ll control myself.”

  Mick and I fill him in on what we’ve learned about the murder. Once we’re on the train, two young ladies make eyes at Hugh and giggle, and he strikes up a conversation with them. He’s not interested in women, but he flirts with them to disguise his true inclination, and I know he’s doing it now to prevent Mick and me from talking to him about his troubles. At St. Pancras station, he runs ahead of us to hire a cab, and during the ride he chatters about whether we should move to this pleasant northern district, away from the crowds, stench, and crime in the East End.

  In Lonsdale Square, elegant Gothic-style townhouses with steep, pointed gables, mullioned windows, and arched front doors surround a garden. Men are raking the fallen leaves on the grass, children laughing as they jump in the piles. The fresh, earthy smell reminds me of autumn days in the country with my father, taking photographs, when I was young. Two police constables stroll along, guarding the residents against buskers, beggars, streetwalkers, and cutpurses.

  “Spirit photography must be a lucrative business,” Hugh says.

  “Yeah, we should give it a try,” Mick says. “How about it, Sarah?”

  “No, thank you.”

  At the address I remember from the
card, I lift the brass knocker, rap on the door, and get no answer.

  “I saw the curtain move. Somebody’s in there,” Mick says.

  I knock harder. The door flies open, and a woman dressed in black says in a loud, ragged voice, “Don’t you know that when people ignore you, it means they don’t want to see you? Are you stupid?”

  She’s tall, her back slouched as if to minimize her height. A crocheted black snood covers her hair; only the gray-streaked brown fringe is visible. With steel-rimmed spectacles perched on a beaky nose, plus a jutting chin, her face is severe rather than pretty. She looks to be in her forties, her sallow complexion marred by age spots. Her frock is made of heavy black crape, its high collar adorned with a jet brooch in the shape of a woman’s hand holding a rose. She’s in mourning.

  “Mrs. Firth?” She’s not how I expected Charles Firth’s wife to look, but I didn’t know him well enough to predict his taste in women.

  “Yes?” Suspicion narrows her deep-set gray eyes, which are red and swollen from weeping. “Who are you?”

  I introduce myself and my friends. “We’re reporters for the Daily World—”

  “You’re vultures who feed on people’s misfortunes. Go away!”

  As Mrs. Firth tries to push the door shut, Mick and Hugh hold it open. I say, “I was a customer of your husband’s. His murder was discovered during my wedding.”

  She blinks as if startled, then silently lets us enter the house. The foyer is dim, the air hazy with smoke that smells of sweet, tarry incense. A staircase ascends to the darker second floor. Paintings hang on the walls. The two nearest me show men falling from a tower struck by lightning and a warrior driving a chariot. They’re images from tarot cards. I can’t picture Mr. Firth here. He seemed an open, cheerful man, and this place is so closed up and gloomy.

  “Is anyone else here?” Hugh says.

  “No,” Mrs. Firth says. “I need to be alone. So that Charles can come home.”

  Her words imply that she doesn’t know he’s dead, although her grief and her mourning garb say otherwise. I remember Barrett’s note. “Didn’t Detective Sergeant Barrett tell you …?”