Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  When I stagger out of the tunnel, the sudden glare of light dazzles my eyes. I blink, look down the corridor, and see perhaps twenty people gathered in the middle, near the wall. They’re all gazing down at something on the floor. Nat Quayle and his friends are nowhere in sight, to my fervent relief. One woman presses her hands against her cheeks and screams repeatedly, shrill as a train’s whistle. Everyone else seems too stunned to move or speak.

  Instinct born of calls to scenes of crimes, accidents, and natural disasters takes over. I hurry to the crowd, elbow my way through it, and see a man crumpled on the floor, his legs bent, his arms flung wide. At first I think he’s wearing a red shirt under his black coat, but then I notice the blood puddle spreading from under his body. His top hat lies near his head, his silvery hair gleams, and his bony face is slack. It’s Richard Trevelyan. His vacant eyes stare up at the ceiling, and his mouth gapes open, his large, yellowish teeth half submerged in blood like stones around a red pond.

  But I just saw him, alive and well, less than half an hour ago. He can’t be dead!

  Someone is kneeling beside him. My surprise at his death is nothing to my shock when I recognize Mick.

  Mick cringes, as though from guns pointed at him. Eyes blank with fright, he holds up his hands, which are red with blood.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Mick! What happened?” I say.

  He rubs his eyes as if to wake himself from a bad dream; blood from his hands smears his face. “I don’t know.”

  Leonora Firth appears beside me, gasps, and moans. “Richard! Oh, no.” Her knees buckle, and the women from her séance circle hold her up. “He must have been killed by the same spirit who murdered Charles.”

  The crowd makes way for Dr. Lodge and Anjali. The girl covers her mouth with her hands as she stares at Mick. Dr. Lodge speaks with a mixture of consternation and excitement. “I did detect a strong magnetic field that indicated a supernatural presence.”

  His words provoke scornful exclamations from Jean Ritchie and Diana Kelly. “Nonsense,” Jean says. “There’s the killer, right under your nose.” She points at Mick.

  As the other spectators murmur in agreement, Anjali utters a cry of protest.

  “It weren’t me!” Mick says.

  I’m horrified, because although I know Mick can’t be the killer, I see how this must look to everyone else. To me he looks young and helpless, as much a victim as Richard Trevelyan, but the crowd jeers. Photographers crowd around him with their cameras, and flashes explode. He winces and recoils; the blood on his face and hands gleams red in the bright lights.

  “I knew something bad was going to happen,” Anjali says mournfully.

  I tug at the photographers’ arms. “Get away from him!” Mick has never seemed so vulnerable, or so precious to me, and I don’t want his picture on the front pages of the newspapers. I shove their cameras and knock one onto the floor.

  Its owner swats my cheek. “Bitch!”

  “Nab the little rotter before he runs away!” someone shouts.

  The stupid idiots have jumped to the conclusion that Mick is guilty, based on nothing but happenstance. A mob rushes toward him, pushing aside the photographers, trampling my feet. I hear Barrett yell my name, and suddenly he and Sally are beside me. We struggle to reach Mick.

  He’s on the ground, kicking and punching the men who are trying to capture him. “Get yer hands off me!”

  A shrill, deafening whistle blares, echoing through the tunnels. The police are coming, and I’m not relieved; their arrival can only make things worse. The heavy tread of booted feet accompanies beams of light that sear my eyes. The crowd scatters like bats at daybreak as police constables invade the scene, shouting, “Break it up!” Mick, Barrett, Sally, and I are stranded with Richard Trevelyan’s body in the merciless glare of the lanterns the constables aim at us.

  Inspector Reid steps forward from the ranks of the police. “What have we here?”

  He’s always been the last person I wanted to see, but never more so than now. He halts a few paces from the body and looks down at it, frowning in surprise. His gaze moves to Mick, who jumps to his feet and braces himself. Barrett, Sally, and I step closer to him as Reid notices us. Reid smiles as if he’s been given a present.

  “Well, well. I’ve finally got you.” Reid seems more delighted to find me than Mick at the scene of what’s obviously a crime.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Mick says. “I found him like this.”

  “Spare me the blarney. You’re literally red-handed.”

  “I tried to stop the bleeding,” Mick says, “but he were already dead when I got here.”

  Reid chuckles. “That’s what they all say.”

  Most of the locals in the crowd have disappeared; they’re leery of police who are looking for someone on whom to pin a crime. Most folks still present are the fashionably dressed outsiders. I see them nod, agreeing with Reid.

  Barrett points to Mr. Trevelyan’s chest. “See the hole in his shirt? He was stabbed. If Mick did it, where’s the weapon?”

  I look up and down the tunnel and see nothing on the floor. Reid says to a constable, “Search him.”

  During a brief tussle, the constable pulls picklocks, coins, and a pocketknife from Mick’s clothes. He unfolds the knife, looks at the blade, and says, “No blood on it, guv.”

  Reid seems unfazed. “He must have cleaned it. Or used a different one and hidden it. We’ll search later. Mick O’Reilly, you’re under arrest for murder.”

  Spectators cheer; a constable brandishes handcuffs. Mick’s chest swells with indignation. “I didn’t do it. You got the wrong guy again, you blunderbuss.”

  His bravado is heartbreaking. Reid’s expression darkens with anger at this reference to the time he arrested an innocent man for the Jack the Ripper murders. “Not this time.” Gloating satisfaction lights his eyes; he means to pay us all back for our role in the trouble he got into after his mistake.

  “You’d better do some investigating before you jump to conclusions again,” Barrett says.

  “This isn’t your case. Back off,” Reid says. He and Barrett glare at each other.

  “This murder resembles Charles Firth’s,” I say to Reid. “Two spiritualists murdered, each while hunting for ghosts in underground places. The two cases must be connected.”

  “The main thing I know they have in common is you and your friends,” Reid says.

  “The suspects from the first murder are all here tonight,” I say. “Richard Trevelyan is still a suspect in that case, even though he’s the victim in this one. And then there’s Leonora Firth, Dr. Lodge, and Jean Ritchie …” I look around and discover they’re gone. So are Diana and Anjali. Did they flee to protect themselves from the police? “You should question them.”

  “Oh, I’ll be questioning all the witnesses, eventually.” Reid’s emphasis makes it clear that that’s all he thinks the people I mentioned are.

  I’m outraged, because I’m sure he means to use any evidence that incriminates Mick and ignore any that doesn’t. “A little while ago, I saw Mr. Trevelyan with a woman. They were arguing.”

  Reid favors me with a pitying shake of his head. “Inventing a suspect to get your friend off the hook. Aren’t you smart enough to come up with a better trick?”

  “It’s not a trick! I think it was Diana Kelly.” I haven’t seen anyone else with such pale blond hair. “She’s a friend of Jean Ritchie.”

  “I saw them too,” Barrett says, stepping forward to put himself between Reid and me. “They went into a tunnel together.”

  I’m glad to have my statement corroborated but vexed at Barrett for trying to protect me when I don’t want protecting; I want to tear Reid’s head off. Reid rolls his eyes at Barrett; he thinks my husband is lying for me. He nods to the constable, who seizes Mick and yanks his hands behind his back.

  Mick struggles and yells, “Let go of me, you bastards!”

  It takes three more constables to hold Mick still. The metal
cuffs click around his wrists. The spectators applaud as the constables drag him away, with Reid leading the little parade like a general after a victory on the battlefield. I run after Reid and grab his arm.

  “Damn you! He’s innocent, and you know it!”

  “Unhand me, or I’ll arrest you as an accomplice.” Reid’s sly smile says that arresting me would be icing on the cake.

  I pull back my fist to punch Reid. Barrett pulls me away from him, and Sally says, “Sarah, go home. I’ll report in to the Daily World.”

  Wild with desperation and fury, I flail in Barrett’s grasp. “No! I can’t let him do this!”

  “Ouch!” Barrett says as I kick his shins. “Sarah, stop. There’s nothing you can do now.”

  As the police march him down the tunnel, Mick calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be all right, Sarah.” His voice rings with false confidence. “Take care o’ yourself.”

  * * *

  Whitechapel at two in the morning is deserted except for vagrants huddled in doorways and alleys. Rain slices through the fog, glittering in the yellow halos around the streetlamps. Barrett and I arrive at my house without my photography equipment, which we were unable to retrieve before the police cleared everyone out of the tunnels. I doubt I’ll ever get it back. The entire Clerkenwell House of Detention is now a crime scene. We’re drenched from the walk to the train station; people who left the tunnels ahead of us commandeered the few cabs available. I’m freezing, my hands so numb that I drop the key twice before I can fit it into the lock. We tiptoe upstairs. The house is empty, which can only mean that Hugh is still missing and Fitzmorris is out looking for him. I hoped to share the terrible news with Hugh, hoped we could band together to save Mick. The house is so quiet, so cold.

  “Shall I make tea?” Barrett says.

  I shake my head. My throat is parched, but in my exhaustion, all I want is to sleep, to have this night end, and to wake up to a brighter day tomorrow.

  In my room, Barrett builds a fire in the grate. I’m shivering so hard that my teeth chatter as I peel off my wet clothes. Lacking the strength to wash or put on my nightdress, I crawl into bed naked, curl up, and shiver under the blankets. My face is a frozen mask, my feet lumps of ice. Barrett undresses, climbs in with me, and molds his body against my back, his knees tucked behind mine and his arms around me. I’m thankful he’s here; he’s all I have left; but he’s barely warmer than I am.

  “I’ve friends at Clerkenwell police station,” he says. “They’ll look after Mick tonight.”

  It’s not the night in the station jail that worries me the most.

  “In the morning, I’ll go to police court and try to persuade the magistrate to dismiss the murder charge,” Barrett adds.

  “What if he won’t?”

  Barrett pauses; his breath stirs my hair. “Mick will be remanded to Newgate to await trial.”

  I moan in despair. How many defendants who’ve been found bloodstained at murder scenes have been acquitted?

  Barrett hugs me tighter. “We’ll catch the real killer before then. We’ll exonerate Mick.”

  Thus far I’ve failed to exonerate my father, so why should I expect success for Mick? His situation seems hopeless and Hugh’s return unlikely. Am I destined to lose everyone I love? I grip Barrett’s arm, pull him closer, as if fate will tear him from me too. Gradually the internal heat of our bodies spreads outward, the places where our skin touches grow warm, and I cease shivering. The space under the blankets is a safe, private world for the two of us. I feel Barrett’s manhood swell against my back.

  “I’m sorry.” He sounds ashamed; he pulls away from me. “I know this isn’t a good time.”

  My own body responds with an ache of desire so powerful that my eyes close, my mouth opens, and I almost swoon. It’s been such a long time since we’ve made love, and tonight’s experiences intensify my need. The terror when Nat Quayle and his henchmen chased me; the horror of Richard Trevelyan’s corpse; the Clerkenwell jail’s dark atmosphere of imprisonment, suffering, and mortality—these memories goad me to a blind, instinctive search for something good in life. I turn to Barrett, take him in my hand, and stroke.

  “You don’t have to,” he says, even as he moans and grows harder. He thinks I’m doing it just to please him. “We can wait.”

  I grab his hands, cup one around my breast and thrust the other between my legs. He caresses me with unusual gentleness, as if I’m so fragile that he’s afraid of hurting me. His touch is pleasure that drives me wild with impatience for more. This is our wedding night at last. I move against him, increasing the contact, the friction. Now his lust gives in to mine, and he kisses me. As our tongues and breath melt together, I’m struck by the notion that this is marriage at its most primal level. If we have nothing else in the world, at least there’s this physical coming together, a gift from heaven that’s soothed humans in times of trouble since time began. I want to make it last, to delay the moment when my troubles reclaim me, but I can’t wait.

  I push Barrett onto his back and straddle him; I grasp his manhood and slide him into me. We’ve made love before, but this is something I’ve wanted to do and thought was too unladylike. My own audacity enflames my need. I ride him as if I’m on a horse. We yell as he holds my hips and bucks under me. All our differences, quarrels, and bad feelings fall away from us. We speed toward the pleasure that, when it comes, is the most incredible we’ve ever experienced together, and nothing else matters.

  CHAPTER 20

  In the morning, I cook breakfast for Barrett, the first time as his wife. We sit at the table together, cozily domestic. From the street drift the sounds of wagons rattling and voices calling, of Whitechapel waking up and coming to life. On the surface, this could be an ordinary morning before a day filled with ordinary problems and pleasures. But the sore emptiness lodged in my heart couldn’t be permanently banished by last night’s passionate lovemaking.

  Hugh is still gone, Fitzmorris hasn’t returned from hunting for him, and Mick is in jail. Mick and my father are both depending on me to clear their names, and I’m afraid I’ll let them down. From the street I hear cries from newsboys, and I can imagine what they’re saying: Murder at the haunted jail! Killer caught red-handed!

  Barrett finishes his burnt toast, runny eggs, and weak coffee. I’m an indifferent cook at best, and this meal wasn’t up to even my usual standard. “That was delicious.” He squeezes my hand and says, “We can fix this. Everything will be all right.”

  He leans across the table, and we kiss. A little of last night’s rapture comes back to warm me. Comforted, I manage a smile.

  Barrett pushes back his chair. “I’m off to Clerkenwell magistrate’s court. I’ll do my best for Mick. Shall I pick you up at six tonight?”

  “For what?” My brain is a mire of apprehension, and among the many things we have to do today, I can’t think of one that requires us to meet at an exact time.

  “Dinner with my parents,” Barrett says.

  “Oh, God. I forgot.”

  Barrett regards me with sympathy; he knows that the last thing I can bear to face is the prospect of more family discord. “You need to eat,” he points out.

  Neither of us wants to risk offending his mother and adding more troubles to our plate. “All right,” I say. “Six o’clock.”

  * * *

  The rain has stopped, but Fleet Street is awash in water sweeping garbage, grime, and horse manure into the drains. Moisture saturates the air, and the scene around me—the buildings, the wagons and cabs, and the hurrying pedestrians—is blurred, like an out-of-focus photograph. The droplets that wet my lips taste of bitter, poisonous chemicals. At the entrance to the Daily World headquarters, I pause, recalling the countless times I’ve come here with Hugh and Mick. Inside the building, I walk up the stairs to Sir Gerald’s office. I can’t bear to take the lift that Hugh and Mick think is so much fun. Their absence is more haunting than any ghost could be.

  When I show myself at his open door, S
ir Gerald stands up behind his desk and holds out a copy of the Chronicle for me to see. The front page has a big photograph of Mick. Kneeling in the tunnel, his bloodstained hands raised, his teeth bared, and his eyes wide in the stark light of the flash, he looks like a vampire interrupted while feeding. A jury that sees this photograph will surely believe Mick is guilty. I want to tear it up, but the newspapers are already all over the city. Instead, I address my new, lesser, but undeniable problem: the Daily World has been outdone by its biggest rival.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t take photographs last night,” I say, bracing myself for the reprimand. On top of everything else that’s happened, I’m sure to be fired.

  “Under the circumstances, I’m not going to hold it against you. And I’m sorry about Mick.” Sir Gerald folds the newspaper, says, “This is hogwash,” and throws it in the wastebasket. “I know Mick didn’t do it. I read the story that Sally gave the copy editor. Mick was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and Inspector Reid took advantage.”