That I came away empty-handed isn’t the only thing that troubles me about my experience in Tottenham. A vague notion pokes at me, as if from someone stealing up to me on a dark street and nudging my ribs with his elbow, and I can’t see who he is or understand why he wants my attention.
After exiting the train at Richmond, I cross the vast park in which the Kew Observatory is located. I’ve never been here before, and I feel as much a stranger in alien territory now as I did every time my mother and I moved. The park seems deserted, as if everyone in the world has vanished. Mist obscures the tops of trees from which most of the leaves have fallen, sodden grass drenches my shoes, and the breeze from the river chills me. The observatory comes into view, a grand structure built in the Italianate style of the previous century. With its white stucco walls and white balustrades that surround the domed cupola on the flat roof, it resembles a wedding cake. Lights shine through the mullioned windows. I climb the steps to the main floor, and when I enter, I find myself in a cold, drafty, octagonal room. Grecian columns support an upper gallery, and a crystal chandelier hangs over the people sitting in rows of chairs that face a man behind a podium. As I walk toward the assembly, my shoes clatter on the marble floor, and people turn to see the noisy, unwelcome arrival.
“Hey. Sarah!” Mick whispers, beckoning me from a middle row.
My relief is all out of proportion to the occasion. He’s a friend among strangers, my family, and a reminder that I’m not alone anymore. I gratefully slip into the empty seat beside Mick. He’s brought photography equipment—the small, lightweight camera, tripod, and case of supplies—and placed it on the chair on his other side. I look around. On the walls, glass-fronted cases contain shelves of books and scientific instruments—antique clocks, telescopes, thermometers, sextants, and others I can’t identify. The people are conservatively well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, not a magician or fortune-teller visible among them. Everything seems illuminated by the broad daylight of reason.
The man at the podium speaks in a resonant, upper-class voice. “Welcome to the meeting of the Society for Psychical Studies. I’m Dr. Everard Lodge, president. I’m a professor at University College and a research physicist here at the observatory.” Tall and spare, in his fifties, he has short gray hair and the bony, ascetic features of medieval statues of saints. He wears a physician’s white coat over his white shirt and dark tie. “On today’s agenda is our field expedition scheduled for Tuesday, October twenty-eighth. Anjali, would you please distribute the programs?”
A small, slim girl moves along the rows, handing out brochures. She’s about fourteen years old, dressed in a severe dark-blue frock with a white collar and cuffs, like a governess. Her piquant face is the color of coffee with a little cream, and she looks Indian. Her manner is demure, her gaze modestly downcast, her shiny black hair neat in a long braid that hangs down her back. When she reaches our row, she smiles at Mick and me. Her white teeth flash; her black, lustrous eyes gleam with lively curiosity before she lowers them and moves on. Mick cranes his neck to watch her. I look at the brochure; it’s titled “Spirit Detection Expedition, Clerkenwell House of Detention.”
I remember that jail from my childhood. My teachers used it to threaten the class into obedience, saying that if we misbehaved, we would end up there.
“The jail was demolished recently,” Dr. Lodge says, “but its underground structure is still intact. I encourage all of you to attend our expedition. Many spirits have been sighted at the jail. This is our chance to document their presence, and I’m happy to announce that my new magnetometer is ready for a field test.”
Amid a smattering of applause, men wheel in two carts. On one, wires coil around a pack of large glass disks arranged side by side on their edges and attached to brass levers, gears, and a rubber-handled crank. Black cables connect this contraption to another on the second cart—a long, horizontal brass pipe with a square wooden box built around the middle, mounted on a circular brass plate. A glass tube and a thermometer jut perpendicularly from the box’s lid. Metal screws and gears are fixed to one end of the pipe; from the other protrudes a thinner brass tube like a rifle barrel. More cables attach the device to a drum wrapped in paper that’s marked with a grid. The magnetometer looks like some newfangled, dangerous weapon.
Anjali seems unafraid, standing beside Dr. Lodge while he says, “I need a volunteer from the audience.”
Mick raises his hand. Before I can warn him that he doesn’t know what he’s getting into, Dr. Lodge points to him. “What’s your name?”
“Mick O’Reilly. Sir.”
“Come up, Mr. O’Reilly.”
Mick rises, tugs his lapels, and grins, an incorrigible daredevil. He strides up to the front of the room to stand by Anjali. It’s obvious that she’s caught his fancy.
“Anjali, please start the generator,” Dr. Lodge says.
She turns the crank attached to the glass disks. They spin, sparks crackle from the wires, and the paper-wrapped drum slowly revolves. A pen attached to the drum draws a straight horizontal line on the gridded paper. Dr. Lodge hands a small object to Mick. “Hold this magnet there.” He points to the end of the barrel. As Mick complies, Dr. Lodge adjusts the screws on the brass tube. The pen scribbles black spikes. Dr. Lodge tells Mick to walk around with the magnet. He swivels the tube, and the pen leaps when Mick is closer to the barrel, drops down when he’s farther away. The audience claps; apparently, the test is successful.
“How is this thingumajig gonna help you find ghosts?” Mick says, then looks embarrassed, speaking with his Cockney accent in front of an upper-class crowd.
“Spirits give off magnetic fields,” Dr. Lodge says. “If a spirit is present, the magnetometer can measure exactly where and how powerful it is, and provide a written record.” He points to the scribbles on the paper. “The expedition is our opportunity to demonstrate the magnetometer. It should be a groundbreaking event in the history of spiritualism.” He speaks with the fervor of a saint making a prophecy.
I think of the Reverend Thornton. How odd that a man of the church, steeped in mystical religious tradition, doesn’t believe in ghosts, while this man of science claims he can measure them as if they were a pound of sugar. While he launches into a long, technical discourse about magnetism, the construction and operation of his device, and past research, I think that his theories are horse manure cloaked in science, but when he’s finished, the other people applaud enthusiastically. They crowd around the magnetometer and admire it as if it were a sacred relic and pepper him with questions. Mick is enjoying his role as assistant, exchanging smiles with Anjali. I, the only one still seated, am left to wonder how to broach the subject of Charles Firth’s murder.
Dr. Lodge adjourns the meeting, says, “Luncheon will be served in the dining room,” and walks over to me. “Would you please sign the attendance book? If you would like to join our society, write down your address, and I’ll mail you an application blank, Miss …”
In an irritable mood, I say, “Sarah Bain—I mean, Mrs. Barrett.” I forgot that I’m married. “No thank you. My friend Mr. O’Reilly and I are photographers and investigators for the Daily World.”
Dr. Lodge takes a moment to consider the information as seriously as if it were a scientific test result. “I hope your story will cover the scientific aspects of our work and not lump us in with the lunatic fringe of the spiritualist community just to sell papers.”
I bristle at his implication that I’m more interested in creating a sensation than in the truth, but I mind my manners because I need information from him. I gather that there are factions within the spiritualist community and that not all is harmonious between them. “I’ll do my best. May I photograph the magnetometer?”
“Of course.”
As the crowd departs for lunch, Anjali remains, watching Mick and me set up the camera. I insert a negative plate and say to Dr. Lodge, “We’re investigating the murder of Charles Firth. Did you know him?”
Ano
ther moment passes before Dr. Lodge replies. It seems to be his habit, not a sign that he’s alarmed by the direction in which I’ve steered the conversation. “He was a member of the Society.” His somber, thoughtful expression doesn’t change, but I hear displeasure in his tone.
“A member who wasn’t in good standing?” I suggest.
This time Dr. Lodge’s hesitation lasts a little longer. Mick is loading powder into the flashlamp, explaining to Anjali, “This is magnesium and potassium chlorate. It makes light for the picture.” She listens raptly.
“Charles Firth was a bit at odds with the Society,” Dr. Lodge says.
I think he doesn’t want to speak ill of a murdered man but also doesn’t like to compromise his integrity by lying. “At odds in what way?”
“The Society takes a scientific approach to supernatural phenomena. We investigate serious matters, such as what happens to the human soul at the moment the physical body dies, and we document instances of encounters with spirits. But Mr. Firth was worse than the lunatic fringe I mentioned—those amateur ghost chasers whose antics are fit for the penny dreadful theater. He was one of the many profiteers who take advantage of the gullible public. He gave spiritualism a bad name and damaged the Society’s reputation.”
I’d thought Dr. Lodge a cold fish, but the tight skin across his cheekbones reddens; his ire toward Charles Firth has heated his blood. I dislike that Charles Firth profited by duping his customers, but I also dislike the sanctimonious Dr. Lodge. “I’d have thought you would believe that ghost photographs are real.”
“I believe that some are.”
Mick continues to demonstrate how the camera works. “You turn this crank to adjust the focus. When you snap the shutter, the flashlamp goes off, and the negative plate inside the camera gets exposed, and just like magic, you got a photograph.”
“How do you see what you’re taking a picture of?” Anjali says. Her voice is high and sweet, her English crisp, unaccented, and upper class.
“You look through the viewfinder,” Mick says. Although he’s near Anjali’s age, he seems mature by comparison, because of experiences that made him grow up too soon. “It’s easier to see when it’s dark, so you get under this black cloth. Come on, I’ll show you.” They duck under the drape that hangs from the back of the camera. I hear whispers and giggles, and then Mick says, “Sarah, could you and the doc stand over there?” His hand motions us closer to the magnetometer.
We move. Mick holds up the flashlamp. The powder ignites in a loud white blast; sparks fly. Anjali squeals with delight. Blinking at the dark afterimage of the flash, I say to Dr. Lodge, “If you think some photographs are fake, doesn’t that call the authenticity of all of them into question? If any are genuine, why not Charles Firth’s as well?”
“I think it highly suspicious that Mr. Firth managed to photograph enough ghosts to fill three entire books.”
“So it’s the number of his photographs that made you doubt their authenticity.”
“Other spirit investigators have been lucky to photograph a few ghosts in their lifetimes. Whereas Mr. Firth did it for every single one of his many clients.” Disgust curls Dr. Lodge’s thin lips.
I’m aware that I’m defending what I consider indefensible, but Charles Firth was once my benefactor, and my antagonism toward Dr. Lodge increases. “I must say, I have my doubts that your contraption can really detect ghosts. All you have to do is hide a magnet somewhere near it, and it will give a positive reading.”
Flashes explode as Mick takes more photographs. Dr. Lodge seems unoffended by my insinuation that he’s as much a fraud as he thinks Charles Firth was. “I can understand your doubts. At one time, I myself was a nonbeliever. I thought spiritualists were the enemies of science in the war between superstition and reason. Then I met the woman who became my wife.” His tone warms with the same ardor that gripped him when he spoke of his magnetometer. “She had a psychic gift. When she touched people or objects or went to places, she could read them as if they were books. She obtained information that she couldn’t have known. Sometimes it pertained to events in the future.”
I think of gypsy fortune-tellers at carnivals. “Surely that’s not possible.”
“Anjali inherited her mother’s talent. Let’s see if she can change your mind.” Dr. Lodge calls, “Anjali, come here.”
Anjali and Mick emerge from under the black drape. They’re all smiles; his face is pink, her eyes bright.
I’m surprised to learn that Dr. Lodge and the girl are related. “She’s your daughter?”
“Yes.”
Mick winces, embarrassed that he’s been flirting with Anjali in front of her father.
“Mother died when I was very young.” Anjali’s manner is frank, untroubled.
“I’d like you to demonstrate your talent for Mrs. Barrett,” Dr. Lodge says.
I instinctively back away. Much as I scoff at mind reading, I can’t deny my fear that this girl could expose my secrets.
Anjali says to Mick, “Give me your hand.”
Mick glances at Dr. Lodge, then at me. When we nod, he lets Anjali clasp his hand. His blush deepens. I feel a surge of anger as I recall the medium I once consulted. These people are about to work the same trickery on my friend. But I stifle my protests. Let Anjali “read” some nonsense and prove that her “gift” is imaginary at best and deception at worst.
I expect her to fake a trance, with theatrical moans, convulsions, and eye rolling, but her manner is calm, alert. She says, “Deirdre.”
Mick jerks as if she’s given him an electric shock.
“She’s been gone a long time, but you think of her every day,” Anjali says.
As Mick stares at Anjali, the blush drains from his cheeks and dismay fills his eyes.
“You wonder where she is and what she’s doing and if she ever thinks of you.”
He pulls his hand free, tucks it in his pocket as though it’s an object of shame, and stalks out the door.
Anjali turns her woebegone face to Dr. Lodge and me. “I didn’t mean to upset him. I’m sorry.”
She hurries after Mick, leaving me dumbfounded. I move to the window and see her chasing Mick across the lawn.
Dr. Lodge joins me. “Anjali’s readings often have that effect. She tends to open the book to the page one most wants to keep private.”
I watch Mick slow his steps, then halt and face Anjali. She catches up with him, gesturing as she talks. The mist partially conceals them, and I can’t see their faces. “She could have made a lucky guess. An Irish boy like Mick is bound to know somebody called Deirdre.”
Dr. Lodge responds with the superior smile that a member of an elite religious order would give an unenlightened outsider. “You seemed reluctant for her to read you. Why, if you’re so certain she’s a fraud?”
I avert my gaze from his shrewd perception. “You shouldn’t put a child up to such stunts.” I like Anjali, and I dislike her father for exploiting her to further his cause.
“She would do it with or without my permission. It’s her calling, as science is mine—or photography is yours.”
Indignant that he would equate my photography with his and his daughter’s pursuits, I say, “Aren’t you concerned about what will become of her? Chances are, someday she’ll say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“I’m very concerned. That’s one reason for my animosity toward Charles Firth and his kind. Their antics cast doubt on people like Anjali, who have a genuine gift. Those who don’t know her think she’s just another money-grubbing hoaxer.” Dr. Lodge adds, “Anjali and I never charge for her readings. I’ve taught her that her gift is to be shared with the world for free.”
I suppose that puts them a step above Charles Firth and his kind. I also see that Dr. Lodge had a personal as well as a philosophical reason to hate Mr. Firth.
“The Society’s board of directors was about to expel Mr. Firth,” Dr. Lodge says. “We’d planned to take the formal vote today.”
&nbs
p; “His murder saved you the trouble. Did you kill him?”
Dr. Lodge laughs, a rusty sound, as if mirth doesn’t come naturally to him. “Of course not. I prefer institutional means of censoring those whose behavior I find reprehensible. Besides, I didn’t know he was going to be in that church.”
I wonder if two excuses are enough to count as suspiciously too many. “Then where were you during the murder?”
“At home, with Anjali.”
I glance out the window. Anjali and Mick have moved farther from the observatory; they’re barely visible in the fog. She would probably lie for her father; heaven knows I’ve lied for mine. But I find myself reluctant to suspect Dr. Lodge or see him charged with Charles Firth’s murder. Regardless of whether Anjali is a genuine psychic, I don’t want her put in my position as the child of an accused criminal. I think of Mrs. Kirby and her granddaughter and great-grandson. Investigating this case as well as exonerating my father would be much easier if I had nothing in common with and no sympathy for the people involved.
“If you really want to find Charles Firth’s killer,” Dr. Lodge says, “you should look among his detractors. Such as the Ladies’ Society for Rational Thought. That band of harpies was out for his blood.”
“I have. The president, Jean Ritchie, told me to look among his colleagues.”
Dr. Lodge puckers his mouth as if he’s tasted something sour. “Jean Ritchie has too much nerve. I wouldn’t put murder past her.”
“Who else do you think could have killed Charles Firth? Did he have any other enemies?”
Dr. Lodge shakes his head, then pauses and holds up his finger, like a saint about to communicate a vision he’s just had. His hands are sturdy, calloused, and marked with old scars, perhaps from cutting metal to build his magnetometer. “There was a woman. She came to a meeting at our club in the city. To be precise, she loitered in the street until we were finished. When Charles came out, she accosted him. I saw them quarreling.”
I’m distrustful yet intrigued. “Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I’d never seen her before, and Charles didn’t introduce her.”
Portrait of Peril Page 12
