Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Lookin’ for Dr. Lodge?” She’s stout, her face like an unbaked pie—pasty skin, eyes and mouth like slits cut to let out the steam.

  “Yes,” I say, “and his daughter.”

  A dirty smile turns her from plain to ugly. “The girl ain’t really his daughter, you know.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Her ma was a pupil at the college. She got knocked up by a Hindoo who was studying there. He went back to India and left her with the little brown brat. She came to live yonder.” The maid points at the Home for Deserted Mothers. “She started workin’ for Dr. Lodge as his charwoman. One thing led to another—he married her and adopted the brat. It didn’t turn out so well for them, though. Her family disowned her, and his disowned him, and then she died of consumption.” Gathering up her rag and tin of polish, the maid regards me with the sly satisfaction of a servant who’s secretly spit in a guest’s teacup. She says, “Good day, mum,” and goes inside her employer’s house.

  I’m shocked because I thought Dr. Lodge’s wife was Indian, but it seems she was English, and he’s not Anjali’s blood father. When he spoke of Anjali’s mother, he gave no hint that she was dead. If the maid is telling the truth, Anjali is half an orphan, like me.

  I knock on Dr. Lodge’s door. The man himself promptly answers. With his bony face drawn from fatigue, he looks more than ever like a medieval saint. “Mrs. Barrett,” he says, clearly displeased to see me. “What brings you here?”

  For a moment I’m speechless as my opinion of him changes. This stiff, pedantic man married a woman who had an illegitimate child and sacrificed his familial ties. He’s raising his half-Indian stepchild as his own, and I think he truly loves Anjali.

  “I want to speak to you about last night,” I say.

  The displeasure on his stern face deepens. “I’ve nothing to say to the press.”

  He starts to close the door, and I hesitate for an instant before I use my foot to jam it open. He’s a murder suspect, but he and Anjali comprise a pair that’s not unlike my own father and me—in danger of being ripped apart by the law.

  “I’m not here as a newspaper reporter,” I say. “I’m investigating the murder because my friend Mick O’Reilly has been arrested for it. He’s innocent, and I’m trying to find out who really killed Richard Trevelyan.”

  “I don’t know, so I can’t help you,” Dr. Lodge says.

  For Anjali’s sake, I don’t want him to be the killer. I’m reluctant to pressure him, but even as we speak, Mick must be in police court. “Would you rather I publish a newspaper story that says you refused to talk to me and hints that you’re hiding something? Other reporters will be after you. So will the police.”

  His gaze turns icy with hostility. “Publish this in your paper: I didn’t kill Richard Trevelyan. It’s illogical that I would have, because we were friends. And, from a practical standpoint, he was the publisher of my monographs. Now I’ll have to find another publisher, which won’t be easy or inexpensive. Are you satisfied?”

  “A few more questions. Where were you before Mr. Trevelyan was found dead?”

  “With Anjali. You saw us together.”

  “In the octagon room, yes. But she sneaked out with Mick.”

  “I was demonstrating the magnetometer. My fellow members of the Society can vouch for me. Furthermore, there were thousands of people in the tunnels. Any of them could have killed Richard, perhaps during a robbery gone wrong.”

  I can’t deny the possibility, but I still think the murder is connected to Charles Firth’s. “If Mr. Trevelyan was your friend, then why did you leave when the police showed up? Why not try to help them solve his murder?”

  Dr. Lodge’s lips thin to a tight, angry line. “Anjali was upset. I took her home.”

  “I’d like to speak with Anjali.”

  “That’s not possible. She’s indisposed.”

  I wonder if he doesn’t want her talking to me because he’s afraid of what she might say. “Then perhaps I could speak with her mother.” I want to verify the maid’s story, if only to satisfy my curiosity.

  Pain fills Dr. Lodge’s bloodshot eyes. “Anjali’s mother is deceased. Good-bye, Mrs. Barrett.” He pushes the door hard against my foot.

  I step backward so my toes won’t be crushed. After the door slams in my face, I pound on it a few times, in vain. Then I trudge down the street, intending to question the neighbors and test Dr. Lodge’s alibi for the night of Charles Firth’s murder. Maybe he wasn’t at home; maybe he left the house while Anjali was asleep and someone saw him. I can’t omit him from my investigation just because I would rather not find evidence that he’s guilty.

  From behind me, a high, girlish voice calls, “Mrs. Barrett, wait!”

  CHAPTER 22

  A breathless Anjali runs up to me, her open coat flapping like wings over her dark-blue skirt and white blouse.

  “Anjali, what are you doing?” I’m glad to see her, but I say, “If you’re ill, you shouldn’t be outside.”

  “I’m not ill. I told Father I was because I couldn’t bear to go to school.”

  But she looks peaked, her eyes red and swollen from crying. I choose between my need to question her and my fear for her health. “I’m taking you home.”

  She walks quickly along Burton Crescent, away from her house. “What’s happened to Mick? Father burned the newspapers before I could read them. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  I hurry to keep up with her. “Mick was arrested.”

  “Oh, no!” Anjali turns to me, her gaze filled with despair. “I knew something bad was going to happen to him, and when he wouldn’t leave, I should have made him stay by my father and the people from the Society. But I let him talk me into exploring the tunnels. I was so stupid!”

  I’ve often wondered whether I could have prevented Ellen Casey’s murder. Perhaps if I’d been home that day, it wouldn’t have happened. I feel sorry for Anjali; she can’t change the past any more than I can.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “When Mick sets his mind on doing something, he’s hard to stop.” I don’t mention that I think it was mere coincidence that Anjali’s vision preceded Richard Trevelyan’s murder; I don’t want to upset her by casting aspersions on her “talent.” Nor do I say it’s understandable that a girl with a crush on a boy will follow him anywhere. She feels bad enough without my rubbing it in.

  “Where is Mick?” she says.

  “Probably on his way to Newgate Prison.” I doubt that the magistrate dismissed the murder charge, and I don’t want to give Anjali false hope.

  “Oh, how I wish I could help him!”

  “Maybe you can. Tell me where you were and what you were doing between the time you left the octagon room and the time you showed up at the murder scene.”

  “Mick and I wandered around, and then we started playing tag. I ran, and he chased me. There was a big crowd, and we got separated. I should have stayed with Mick!”

  “It’s all right,” I say, although I too wish they’d stayed together and Anjali could give Mick an alibi. “What happened then?”

  “My father caught me. He scolded me for sneaking away. He was angry because I’d made him waste forty-five minutes looking for me when he should have been doing his experiment. On our way back to the big room, we heard screams and followed everybody to see what was wrong. That’s when we saw Mick with Mr. Trevelyan’s body.” She shudders.

  I feel a stirring of excitement: Dr. Lodge’s alibi has just weakened. According to his own words to his daughter, he’d had forty-five minutes on his own in the tunnels before he found her. That would have been ample time to encounter Mr. Trevelyan and stab him. And then Dr. Lodge could have shown up at the murder scene with Anjali and pretended he was seeing it for the first time. But I’m immediately heartsick, because I’ve led Anjali to incriminate her father. If the police had questioned me about Ellen Casey’s murder, what would I have told them? Did I possess information that I’ve since forgotten? Could a careless remark
from me, a ten-year-old, have sent my father to the gallows before he had time to run away?

  Anjali doesn’t seem to perceive the import of what she’s said. “Mick and I were separated for only a little while. He couldn’t have done it.”

  Now I feel even worse for her, because she’s a witness who can cast suspicion on both her father and Mick. “When I see Mick, maybe he can tell me something that will help clear his name.”

  “You’re going to see Mick?” Eagerness brightens Anjali’s face. “Can I go with you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Newgate is no place for a child.

  Anjali chews her lower lip; she nods as if she’s made a decision. “Then I’ll go by myself.” She breaks into a run.

  I hurry after her. “Anjali! Come back!” I feel responsible for her, and it’s dangerous for a girl to roam the city alone.

  On Euston Road, she bolts past cabs and omnibuses, into King’s Cross station. I’m a fast runner, but she’s faster. Inside the grand, palatial building, she buys a ticket and races down the stairs to the underground before I can catch her. I fumble in my pocketbook for coins, get my ticket, and chase her down to the platform. The train is there, passengers exiting. Anjali jumps aboard. I hurl myself through the door just before the conductor slams it shut. Dropping onto the bench beside Anjali as the train chugs down the track, I glare at her while I catch my breath.

  She smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry, but I really need to see Mick.”

  I haven’t the heart to talk her out of it, and I want to do something to make up for leading her to give evidence against her father. “I’ll take you, but I’m bringing you straight home afterward. And you have to promise me you’ll never do anything like this again.”

  “Oh, thank you!” More delighted than chastened, she says, “I promise.”

  * * *

  Newgate Prison gradually becomes visible through the fog as Anjali and I walk toward it. Details gain clarity, as if on a photographic negative plate in developing solution: first the granite blocks of the high walls, then the bricked-in ornamental windows at the second-story level and the chimneys puffing smoke. When we join the people waiting in a long line outside the visitors’ entrance, Anjali whispers, “Have very many people died in there?”

  I remember a visit to Dead Man’s Walk—the infamous passage between Newgate and the Old Bailey, beneath which hundreds of criminals executed at Newgate lie buried. Not wanting to upset Anjali with grisly tales, I say, “The prison is seven hundred years old. I suppose that many people have died in every building in London that’s of similar age.”

  “I can feel them,” Anjali says.

  The last thing I want now is more spiritualism. “I thought you only have visions from touching someone or something.”

  “When a presence is strong enough, I don’t need to touch.” Anjali casts her gaze up toward the dungeon, where the tops of barred windows show above the outer wall. Faint moans drift down to us. “Mama used to tell Father that I was better than his scientific instruments at detecting ghosts.” Anjali smiles, as if cheered by the memory.

  I seize the chance to learn the truth about her background. “How long has your mother been gone?”

  “Six years. She had consumption.” Sadness erases Anjali’s smile.

  Anjali must have been younger than I was when my father disappeared. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad for me, because I can still feel her as if she’s in the next room, and when I touch her things, I can see her. But I know Father misses her terribly. He’s lonely with just the two of us.”

  I feel bad for probing wounds from the past just to verify gossip. “Have you any relatives?”

  “Yes, but we never see them. My mother’s family disowned her when she had me. And my father’s family disowned him when he married my mother.” Anjali delivers these sad facts as calmly as if reciting a lesson from school.

  There are too many people who would shun the woman because she had an illegitimate, mixed-blood child and the man because he married her. Anjali and her father must have been as isolated as my mother and I were.

  Anjali sees my pity and says, “It’s all right. We have friends.”

  I’m glad she’s found people who accept her, as I found Hugh, Mick, and Barrett. But if her father were gone, who would take her in and support her? If I discover that he killed Charles Firth and Richard Trevelyan, I must expose him in order to save Mick.

  We reach the entrance to the prison, ascend a flight of steps, and walk down a dim passage. Anjali trails her fingers along the wall, then recoils as if it has burned her. “So many people have come this way,” she murmurs. “So much unhappiness.”

  I imagine legions of ghosts attired in costumes from past eras, walking beside us. When we emerge in a courtyard and the inmates yell and wave from barred windows in the buildings that rise around us, I can almost see pale, transparent wraiths among them. Superstition is too contagious. I shake my head to banish the illusion of more ghosts mingling with the folks gathered around the visiting box.

  The visiting box is a big iron cage built against one wall. I avoid looking at the execution shed, a little house with wooden half doors like a stable, where convicted criminals are hanged. I hunt for Mick among the caged prisoners, hoping he’s not there because he’s been released. There are dozens of men, all dressed in gray uniforms. The visitors are mostly women. Now I spy Mick, a solitary figure slouched against the back of the cage. My heart lifts because I’m glad to see him alive, then sickens because his presence means he’s been indicted and sent here to await his trial. His uniform is too big for him; he looks smaller, younger. With his expression tense and his eyes shifting as he watches for threats, he seems reverted to the street urchin he was when we first met.

  Anjali waves to him, calling, “Mick!”

  A grin blooms on his face as he hurries up to us. “Hullo, Sarah. Thanks for comin’.” He turns to Anjali, blushes, and says in a gruff, tender voice, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  Anjali smiles and lowers her gaze, suddenly shy. “I was so worried about you, I made Mrs. Barrett bring me.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did.”

  I notice a dark-red bruise on Mick’s cheek, and his nose is swollen. “What happened to you?”

  “The police tried to get me to confess to the murder. They slapped me around a little.”

  “Oh, how terrible!” Anjali cries.

  Fury rises in my throat like hot acid. “Inspector Reid will pay for this.” I know Reid isn’t only eager to solve the murder case; Mick’s injuries are a message from Reid to me, telling me that he’ll seize every opportunity to hurt me through my friends.

  “Hey, don’t go lookin’ for trouble with him on my account,” Mick says. “It weren’t that bad. Is Hugh back yet?”

  “No.” That he can be concerned about Hugh and me at a time like this! I notice that his fellow prisoners are all older, bigger, and tougher looking than he. “How are you getting along with the other men?”

  “Just fine. They ain’t gonna mess with a cold-blooded killer.” Mick smiles proudly.

  Anjali frowns. “They think you did it?”

  Mick leans close to the cage bars and whispers, “Don’t tell ’em I didn’t. If they find out I’m a poor sap who got nicked for somebody else’s crime, I’ll be everybody’s punching bag.”

  I respect Mick for his ability to adapt to a bad situation, but I hate that he has to pretend he’s guilty. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Yeah. Food here’s disgustin’, but Barrett brought me some good stuff. Oh, and Sir Gerald sent over a guy who says he’s gonna help me when I go to court.”

  I’m thankful that Barrett and Sir Gerald are taking care of Mick.

  “Do you mean you’ll have to stand up before a judge and jury in Old Bailey?” Anjali says, solemn with worry.

  “No, he won’t,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “We’ll clear his name before it comes to that
.”

  “Any luck so far?” Mick’s feigned nonchalance tells me that he doesn’t want to pressure me by showing how much he’s depending on me.

  I don’t want to say in front of Anjali that Dr. Lodge hasn’t an alibi. I tell Mick about my talk with Jean Ritchie. “I think Diana Kelly did it. I’ll have Barrett mount a search for her.”

  Mick expels a breath of relief tinged with apprehension. “Hope she turns up.” We both remember that Inspector Reid didn’t believe me when I said I’d seen Diana with Richard Trevelyan, and it will be difficult to pin the crime on someone who’s missing while Reid has his favorite suspect behind bars.

  “But I also saw Nat Quayle last night, with two other men from the workhouse.” I describe how they chased me. “He had time to kill Richard Trevelyan while I was trapped in that dark tunnel.”

  “He’s a suspect in Charles Firth’s murder too,” Mick reminds me.

  But I can’t fathom what Quayle’s motive for either crime would be. “We need more evidence. Did you see anyone near Richard Trevelyan’s body right before you discovered it?”

  Mick frowns in an attempt to recall. “There were people all over.”

  “Can you describe any?” I say.

  Hope shines in Anjali’s eyes. “They might have seen the killer.”

  “Two boys,” Mick says. “They were playing ghost, wearing sheets over their heads.”