Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “I saw them too, but we need witnesses we can identify,” I say.

  “A lady in a red hat. With a guy who was smokin’ a pipe. And an old tramp in a patched coat.” Frustrated, Mick rubs his head. “I been goin’ over and over it, and it’s mostly a blur.”

  “Did you see Jean Ritchie and her friends, or Mrs. Firth?” I can’t mention Dr. Lodge due to Anjali’s presence.

  “No. That I’m sure of.”

  I turn to Anjali. “Can you describe any people who were around you after you and Mick left the octagon room?”

  She responds with an embarrassed smile. “I wasn’t paying attention to anyone except …” She glances at Mick. “I’m sorry.”

  I hope she doesn’t realize that her father could be the killer, or that if Mick is convicted of the murder, Dr. Lodge will be safe. In my own case, at least my mother is dead and pinning Ellen Casey’s murder on her will exonerate my father without hurting her.

  Mick glances at me, then Anjali, then me again. I think my failure to mention Dr. Lodge hasn’t escaped his notice. His silence tells me how reluctant he is to save his own life at Anjali’s father’s expense.

  “Maybe I can help.” Anjali places her palm between the iron bars of the cage. “Mick, if I can touch you, I might have a vision.”

  I can’t deny that her premonition last night proved sadly true. Mick says, “Can’t hurt to try,” and presses his palm against Anjali’s.

  The two times I saw her have a vision, it seemed easy and spontaneous, but now she squints as if trying to see in the dark, and her whole body strains with her effort to capture an image from the ether. I feel none of the skepticism or exasperation that Leonora Firth’s automatic writing and Dr. Lodge’s magnetometer provoked in me. Mick’s attention is riveted on Anjali. I sense his hope, his wish to believe in her. My nerves tingle with the intuition that I’m in the presence of something beyond rational understanding and therefore frightening.

  Anjali drops her hand. Perspiration shines like crystal beads on her face. Gasping, she says, “I saw the tunnels under the jail. There was someone—a girl or a woman, wearing a white dress. She was crying. I think she’s the ghost that people have seen at the jail. I think she knows who the murderer is.”

  I feel let down, because I think Anjali made up this story—not to deceive us, but out of a sincere desire to help. Perhaps she isn’t even aware that she made it up. I also feel foolish because I was ready to believe in her. I try to catch Mick’s eye, but he avoids mine.

  “The vision ended there.” Anjali’s shoulders droop.

  My skepticism returns, albeit not as firm as before. I can’t help wishing Anjali had seen something that would help Mick. His disappointment is written on his face, but he humors her with gentle kindness. “That’s a good clue.”

  I don’t voice my critical thoughts about Anjali; I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Instead I say, “Thank you for your help.”

  “I should go back inside the tunnel and find the ghost, and then she can tell me what happened,” Anjali says.

  “You better not go back,” Mick says. “Someone’s already been killed there. It’s too dangerous.”

  He’s protective of her at his own expense, a sign that their flirtation has developed very quickly into something more. I tell him about Sally’s article in the Daily World and say hopefully, “Witnesses are bound to come forward.”

  If they don’t, I may need to incriminate Dr. Lodge—no matter what it will do to Anjali and whether Mick and I like it or not.

  CHAPTER 23

  The bells at St. Botolph’s Church toll six o’clock as I hurry out of Whitechapel station. After taking Anjali home and reporting in at the Daily World headquarters, I’m about to be late to meet Barrett to go to his parents’ house for dinner.

  Shouts blare from the alley that runs between my house and the Angel pub. Whistles shrill as police constables barge into the crowd that overflows the alley. Disturbances aren’t rare in Whitechapel, but this one so close to home draws my attention, so I jostle my way through the melee. Amid yells and protests, the constables send the crowd scattering onto the high street and emerge with three captives in handcuffs. I recognize the two older men from the neighborhood, a shop clerk and a slaughterhouse worker. I can’t tell if I know the third, a mere boy. His nose has bled all over his face and onto the white sheet draped around his shoulders. One of the other captives says to him, “That’ll teach you to play ghost and scare everybody to death.”

  It appears that a Halloween trick has gone wrong. Then I see, in the alley, a man helping a woman to her feet. The man is Barrett; the woman is Sally. I rush to them, calling, “Sally, what happened?”

  “Oh, hello, Sarah.” Sally picks up her hat from the ground. Her face is streaked with mud, but she smiles brightly. “I heard a rumor that the ghost from St. Peter’s was stalking Whitechapel, so I came to report on the story. I got here right when those two men were chasing the ghost.”

  “She was knocked down by the mob.” Barrett’s frown encompasses both Sally and me.

  “I’m quite all right,” Sally assures us. “I have to get back to work.” She hurries after the constables and their captives, calling, “Excuse me, I’m a reporter from the Daily World.”

  “You’re not the only one who should be more careful,” Barrett says.

  I’m horrified, and not only because the murder and the publicity have caused the unrest I feared. Sally, following in my footsteps, could have been killed.

  Barrett doesn’t press the issue; he knows I’ve gotten the message. “We’d better get over to my parents’ house.”

  “I have to see if Hugh is back.”

  “He’s not, and Fitzmorris isn’t home. I checked. Let’s go.”

  My hair is disheveled, wisps escaping from my braided coronet; my clothes smell of smoke from Leonora Firth’s bonfire. But if I freshen up, we’ll be late to the family dinner. We board an omnibus and take seats on top. With the fog swirling around our heads, obscuring the traffic and pedestrians below us, it’s like riding through clouds. I tell Barrett what happened today.

  “I’ll talk to Mrs. Firth, Jean Ritchie, and Dr. Lodge tomorrow,” he says. “Maybe I can get something out of them. And I’ll start a search for Diana Kelly.”

  “Inspector Reid will be furious if he catches you interfering with his investigation.”

  “There is no investigation. Reid closed the Richard Trevelyan murder case.”

  I’m dismayed, because I know what that means. “He’s sure Mick will be convicted.”

  “Yes. And he’s not considering other suspects because he doesn’t want to find out that the killer is someone else.”

  Such irresponsibility, such corruption, is beyond belief, despite my long history of distrusting policemen—with the exception of Barrett. I never imagined that one would go so far to satisfy a personal grudge. The officers who persecuted my father at least believed him truly guilty. “Was Reid always this bad?”

  “He used to have a reputation for leaving no stone unturned during investigations and being a stickler for getting the right man. The Ripper case changed him.” Sadness laces Barrett’s disapproval.

  The Ripper case changed many of the people involved, including me. “That doesn’t excuse Reid’s behavior.”

  “You can say that again. By the way, I went back to the Clerkenwell jail. The entrances to the tunnels are barricaded. I couldn’t get in.”

  Meaning, unfortunately, that any clues at the crime scene are inaccessible to us.

  “I walked the neighborhood and found lots of people who were down there last night,” Barrett says. “Some saw Mick shortly before the murder, but that’s not an alibi. And nobody I talked to actually saw the murder or remembers anyone except Mick near the scene.”

  “When I visited Mick at Newgate, he said he remembered a tramp in a patched coat, and a lady in a red hat with a gentleman smoking a pipe.”

  “Some of my witnesses saw that couple too,” Barr
ett says. “Some also mentioned tramps. Apparently, a lot of tramps have been taking shelter in the tunnels. The local constables flushed them out before putting up the barricades. I’ll try to find the one Mick saw. In the meantime, there’s a bit of good news—the murder weapon is still missing.”

  Tentative hope cheers me. “Even the police can’t deny the possibility that someone else killed Richard Trevelyan and took the weapon away.”

  The omnibus stops. We climb down the stairs and walk hand in hand down Bethnal Green Road. We exchange smiles, remembering last night’s lovemaking, and our united strength seems more than enough to cope with whatever the world throws at us. Ahead looms St. Peter’s Church. With its windows dark, its foundation immersed in shadows, and the spire on top of the tower hidden by the fog, I could almost believe it’s haunted. Under a gas lamp on the corner, two hazy figures stand facing each other.

  The shorter one holds out his palm. “That ain’t enough. I want five more shillings.”

  “Forget it,” says the taller, heavyset one. “We already shook on the deal.”

  Their voices are familiar, a confusing surprise. “Porter?” Barrett says, his voice rough with anger at the man who once betrayed him and more recently crashed our wedding breakfast.

  Porter turns, his eyes agleam like those of a fox exposed by a hunter’s lantern.

  “Mr. Coburn?” I say to the other man.

  The vagrant who set Mick and me after Nat Quayle looks aghast to recognize me.

  “What are you doing here?” Barrett asks Porter.

  “Just minding my own business,” Porter says with false nonchalance. “Why don’t you mind yours?”

  I look from Porter to Mr. Coburn. “You know each other?”

  “What of it?” Porter says.

  Mr. Coburn flutters his hands. “I never seen him before in my life.”

  Intuition turns my bewilderment into outrage at Porter. “You paid him to give me the tip about Nat Quayle.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Porter says.

  “You didn’t see Nat Quayle here the night of the murder, did you?” I tell Coburn.

  Barrett glares at Porter as comprehension dawns. “Your flunky here sent Sarah and Mick to the workhouse to be attacked!”

  Porter shrugs, faking innocence, but he can’t suppress his satisfied grin. “I heard they ran into a little trouble there. But don’t blame me. He’s the one who sent you on a wild-goose chase.” Porter points at Mr. Coburn.

  “Hey!” Stricken with alarm, Mr. Coburn says to Barrett, “It weren’t my idea. I just waited for her to come around and then told her what he said to tell her. I didn’t see Quayle, but it seemed like a good chance to get back at the bastard for robbing me. I never meant for nobody to get hurt.” He backs away, then turns and bolts.

  “Did Inspector Reid put you up to this?” Barrett asks Porter.

  Resentment distorts Porter’s grin. “You always thought I was too stupid to manage anything by myself.”

  I think he’s denying it because he wants credit for Reid’s scheme. I’m sure he detests Barrett not only because of past grievances but also out of envy. Barrett has youth, brains, and the rank of detective sergeant—the things Porter wants and lacks.

  “Well, fuck you.” Porter lumbers away.

  Barrett lunges after Porter. I seize him, and he says, “Damn it, Sarah, let go!”

  Porter’s mocking laughter drifts back to us through the fog. The fight goes out of Barrett, and he shakes his head, deploring his loss of self-control. If I’d let him get hold of Porter, the church would have seen another murder. I tuck my arm through his, and as we continue on our way, I feel him seething with anger.

  “At least now we know that Nat Quayle probably didn’t murder Charles Firth,” I say, trying to put the situation in a happier light. “And if the two crimes are connected, then he didn’t murder Richard Trevelyan either.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s one less suspect who never really was a suspect,” Barrett says in a surly voice. “Which doesn’t help Mick. And from now on, we’ll have to watch out for more trouble from Porter. As if we didn’t have enough problems already.”

  Too soon we arrive in Cambridge Heath, the relatively affluent area of Bethnal Green where Barrett’s parents live. Their street boasts clean, trim terraces of narrow, two-story brick houses. Welcoming lights shine in the windows, and the savory smell of cooking laces the smoke from the chimneys.

  “Where does Jane Lambert live?” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I want to snatch them back.

  Barrett stiffens and turns a pleading gaze on me. “Sarah.”

  I succumb to the jealous impulse that made me raise the issue at a bad time like this. “Which house?”

  Barrett sighs and points.

  The house looks just like the others. As we pass it, I wonder if Barrett ever made love to Jane there when her parents weren’t home. Then the door opens and a female voice calls, “Tommy!”

  Barrett freezes. We turn, he reluctantly, I with a mixture of dread and curiosity. A woman hurries toward us, tall and slender, her blond hair coiled in a simple knot. She wears a dark-blue frock and a tentative smile. Her face is attractive but too angular for beauty. I stare in dismay. At the wedding, I was too occupied with other matters to notice Jane, but now I discover that Barrett prefers a certain type of woman. I never asked him about her appearance, but I think he should have told me that she and I look alike. I turn an accusing gaze on him. He hunches his shoulders as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

  “Uh, Sarah, this is Jane Lambert,” he mumbles. “Jane, you remember Sarah—my wife.”

  “Yes! We met at the wedding breakfast!” Jane’s bright manner doesn’t hide the jealousy in her hazel eyes.

  “It’s nice to see you again.” My tone is polite, but my arm tightens possessively around Barrett’s.

  “I happened to see you walking by, and I thought I’d say hello.” Jane gazes at Barrett as if the two of them were alone.

  “We’re going to my mother’s for dinner,” Barrett says.

  “Is she making her roast lamb?” Jane says. “I remember it from all the wonderful Sunday dinners at your house.”

  I grit my teeth behind my smile. Barrett says, “Uh, we’d better be going.”

  Jane smiles at him. “Drop by for a visit next time you’re in the neighborhood.”

  As Barrett and I walk away down the street, I glance over my shoulder. Jane meets my eyes with a hard stare before she hurries into her house.

  “She wants you back, Tommy,” I say.

  “Don’t be silly,” Barrett says. “She knows it was over a long time ago.”

  I think that not even his marriage is enough to convince Jane to admit defeat. “Are you ever sorry you didn’t marry her?”

  We’ve arrived at his parents’ house, and Barrett sighs with relief because he can avoid answering my question. “Here we are.”

  His mother lets us in. The house is filled with a mouthwatering smell of roast lamb. “Welcome home, dears!” The gleam in her eyes when she looks at me says that despite our quarrel, she hasn’t given up on her plan to move Barrett and me into the house.

  We hang our coats and hats on the rack, and I smooth my messy hair. Mrs. Barrett kisses the air beside my cheek, wrinkles her nose, and says, “Where’s the fire?”

  “In Islington,” I say. “It was set by someone I went to interview about the murder last night.”

  Barrett grimaces; by mentioning my work, I’ve started the night off on the wrong note. Mrs. Barrett’s face darkens with disapproval before she pastes a smile on it. “I’ve a surprise for you.” She ushers us into the parlor. “Look who’s here!”

  There, beside Mr. Barrett, stands the Reverend Thornton. It is indeed a surprise, and not just for Barrett and me.

  “Good evening, Sarah.” Reverend Thornton looks just as disconcerted as I am that Mrs. Barrett has sprung us on each other. “How are you?”

&n
bsp; “Fine, and you?” I say politely. The air between us vibrates with tension from our argument at the church. I wonder what my mother-in-law is up to.

  “Hullo,” Mr. Barrett says, stepping backward, clearly not wanting to get involved in whatever happens next.

  Casually, as if unaware of the discomfort she’s caused, Mrs. Barrett says, “I invited the Reverend Thornton to join us for dinner.”

  “How nice,” Barrett says. As he greets and shakes hands with the vicar, his glance at me apologizes for his mother and begs me not to make trouble. I look away from him, still sore from our encounter with Jane.

  “Why don’t we all have some sherry?” Mr. Barrett fills glasses.

  “Sit here, dear.” Mrs. Barrett seats me on the flowered divan beside the vicar, motions her husband and son to the armchairs, and pulls up a needlepoint-covered bench for herself.

  We all drink. I desperately need the strong, sweet sherry to get me through the evening.

  “I was sorry to hear about your friend Mick,” Reverend Thornton says to me.

  I hurry to correct the erroneous impression that the newspapers have created. “Mick didn’t kill that man. He’s innocent.”

  “Well, he certainly looked guilty in the newspaper photograph,” Mrs. Barrett says. “And I’m not surprised he’s been arrested. The minute I met that boy, I knew he was trouble.”

  Her prejudice infuriates me. “You don’t know anything about Mick.”

  “Sarah,” Barrett says in a warning tone.

  “I know enough to recognize trouble when I see it,” Mrs. Barrett retorts. “You should be more careful about the company you keep—and I don’t just mean the street urchin.”

  I won’t let her bait me into an argument about Hugh. “I’m certain the murders at the prison and the church were committed by the same person, and it wasn’t Mick. That’s why it’s important to determine exactly what happened at the church. To get to the truth, exonerate Mick, and catch the real killer.”

  Mr. Barrett interrupts timidly. “Um, Mother doesn’t like shop talk.”

  I turn to the vicar. “I must speak with Daniel and Lucie. I need to know if they were in the church the night Charles Firth was killed, and if they saw or heard anything.”