Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Sally draws back, affronted. “Are you saying he lied?”

  “Not necessarily,” Barrett says. “But if he got one detail wrong, are the others accurate?”

  “Maybe not all of them, but the big, important details, yes.” Sally turns to me and sees the wretchedness in my expression. “Sarah …” Her expression begs me to quell her own dawning fear.

  I can’t pretend this mountain is a molehill. “I think Father didn’t tell us the truth. Not all of it. Maybe not any of it.” Speaking the words hurts, as if I’m gouging out pieces of my heart.

  “But Lucas’s father told you that your mother confessed to murdering Ellen,” Sally says. “That part must be true. Why would he lie?”

  “I didn’t think Mr. Cullen was lying, but I don’t know him well.” Although I hate to hurt Sally, honesty compels me to say, “How well do we really know Father?”

  Sally stammers, then falls silent. We each knew our father for ten years as children, when we trusted him completely. We’ve only known him four months as adults, and how much has he changed since he left us? Why should we trust him now, when he betrayed our trust by disappearing then?

  “Never mind,” Sally says, flapping her hands as if to shoo away stinging wasps. “The important thing is to find him. We should look for him at the hospitals, in case he’s been in an accident. Then the train stations and the docks. Maybe he decided to go back to America.” She tugs my arm. “Sarah, we need to hurry!”

  I experience an unsettling shift, as though the bedrock under my feet has cracked and I’m straddling an abyss as it widens. For twenty-four years I longed for my father. After finding him, I determined to clear his name so that he and Sally and I could be a family. But my doubts gain force. Did he lie about where he dumped Ellen’s body? Is his whole story a lie? Did he rape and murder her and put the blame on Lucas and my mother? Maybe he was afraid that Sally and I would discover the truth and decided to run away rather than face the music. Now I’m standing on the piece of bedrock that belongs to the present, and I’m moving away from the piece that’s anchored to the past, like a ship leaving a harbor. I speak slowly, hesitantly, aware that my words will propel me faster toward an unknown, hazardous destination.

  “I can’t look for Father.”

  “Why not?” Sally demands.

  “Barrett and I are going to Norwich,” I say, and explain about Eva Piper.

  She stares at me in disbelief. “Father has disappeared again, and instead of looking for him, you’re going a hundred miles to chase a murder suspect?”

  I hate to let Sally down, and I’m by no means comfortable with my decision. But Mick is the friend who’s stood by me from the day we met, who’s saved my life, to whom I’m bound by ties stronger than blood. I’m absolutely certain he deserves my help. I don’t know that my father does. I have one hundred percent confidence in Mick’s innocence, much less in my father’s. If there was ever a moment to cleave to the present and dispense with the past, it’s this one.

  “We’ll catch the first train to Norwich in the morning,” I tell Barrett. Wild-goose chase or not, it’s more worthwhile than spending precious time on my father.

  “No!” Frantic, Sally looks to Barrett for support.

  Spreading his hands, Barrett raises his eyebrows at me.

  “It’s looking more probable that Father murdered Ellen Casey.” Voicing my thought feels like the worst kind of treason, but Ellen deserves justice as much as Mick does, and I can’t put my loyalty to my father ahead of that truth.

  “I don’t care about her! All I care about is Father, and I know in my heart that he’s innocent.” Sally clasps her chest.

  “He may have just abandoned us for the second time.”

  “He didn’t. Sarah, please!”

  I’m twisting a knife in my own heart. “I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A hundred miles northeast of London, Norwich seems a city that never quite emerged from the Middle Ages. The cab carries Barrett and me from the train station through cobbled streets lined with ancient, half-timbered buildings. It’s as if Eva Piper really is a ghost and we’re hunting her in the distant past. Sleet falls on old public houses and churches. Morning mist cloaks a square stone Norman castle that rises above the rooftops. A raw, animal stench billows from a market where people gather around the outdoor stalls and herd sheep and cattle through the streets, just as their ancestors must have done six hundred years ago.

  The cab driver lets us off in Pottergate Street, one of many narrow lanes. I recognize the Jenny Lind Hospital, two stories of red brick with three gables, from its picture on the hospital bill. It’s newer than the other buildings in the street, and in the reception room, a plaque on the wall states that it opened in 1854 and that the famous Swedish opera singer had performed concerts to raise money for its construction. When Barrett and I join the line at the desk, I notice that most of the people seated in the waiting area are mothers and children. When our turn comes, Barrett says to the nurse behind the desk, “We’re looking for Evelyn Corey Piper.”

  “Second floor, ward two,” the nurse says.

  We’re astounded because we didn’t expect to locate Eva so quickly; we can’t believe our good fortune.

  Upstairs in the ward are two rows of beds, all occupied by children who seem to have serious injuries or ailments. Some have bandaged heads, or legs in casts rigged with ropes and pulleys. Mothers sit at bedsides, and a nurse confers with a physician.

  “This can’t be the right place,” Barrett says.

  At the end of each bed hangs a sign bearing the patient’s name. We spot a sign that reads EVELYN COREY PIPER. The patient is a boy, seven or eight years old, his blond hair cropped short. Across a dent in his skull at his left temple is a crooked scar outlined with marks from stitches. Smaller scars pock his face. He’s eating, or trying to eat, from a bowl of custard on a tray attached to his bed. His fist clutches the spoon; he misses his mouth. There are custard smears on his distorted jaw, his bib, and the bedsheets.

  Pitying him, I state the obvious: “This isn’t Eva.”

  The boy glances up at the sound of my voice. His eyes are blue, the left cloudy.

  “You were right,” Barrett says, his voice laden with the same disappointment that overwhelms me. “This was a wild-goose chase.”

  I hear a gasp, and we turn to see a woman standing in the aisle between the rows of beds. Tall and slender, she’s dressed in a gray coat, and a black net veil on her gray felt hat is folded back to reveal pale blond hair drawn back from a beautiful, familiar face. Her wide blue eyes stare at Barrett and me with alarm.

  “It’s her!” I say.

  Eva drops the china basin she’s carrying. It shatters on the floor, splashing water. She turns and flees. Barrett yells, “Stop!”

  We chase her out of the ward, along the passage. Barrett collides with a nurse. Eva runs through a door, and I race after her, down a flight of stairs. As she reaches a door at the bottom, I’m five or six steps above her. I launch myself at her with no plan for what’s going to happen next. I sail through the air and crash upon Eva. She screams as we thud to the stone floor. Her body cushions my landing, but my right knee hits with a painful impact. Pinned under my weight, she shrieks and flails. I clamber to my feet, hauling her with me. Breathless with triumph and anger, I shove her up against the wall.

  “Did you kill Richard Trevelyan?” I shout into her face.

  Eva turns away, struggles to break free. “Let me go!”

  I hold tight, digging my fingernails into her slender, fragile shoulders. “Answer me!” I think she’s guilty and she left Mick to take the blame. I bang her head against the wall while she screams.

  “Sarah, stop.” Barrett pulls me away from Eva and steps between us.

  Eva crumples to her knees, raises her arms to shield herself from me, and wails, “I didn’t kill Mr. Trevelyan.”

  Still panting with fury, I say, “No? Then why did you run from us?”

&
nbsp; Barrett pats my arm, urging me to calm down, and says to Eva, “Do you know who we are?”

  Peering at us between her spread fingers, Eva nods. “She’s Sarah Bain, the photographer from Whitechapel. You’re Detective Barrett.”

  I’m startled because she knows exactly who we are. Then she says, “I’ve read about you in the newspapers.” Her veil, disarranged during our skirmish, slants over her face, and I’m even more startled to realize that I know her from frequent sightings, a veiled, graceful figure ducking into George Yard. Some women wear veils to protect their complexions from the dirty air; perhaps Eva also wears hers to hide her incredible beauty and protect herself from unwanted attention from men. Fate has prevented us from meeting, until now.

  “What are you doing here?” Eva drops her hands in a gesture of defeat. “How did you find me?”

  “We have questions for you too,” Barrett says. “Let’s talk someplace more comfortable.”

  He extends his hand to Eva. She meekly lets him help her stand, and she accompanies us upstairs to an empty sitting room gaily decorated with framed nursery-rhyme illustrations. Barrett seats me on the sofa and Eva in the armchair opposite, then goes in search of tea. Head bowed, Eva dabs her handkerchief at her eyes. As my temper cools, I experience the same sick feeling that came over me after I almost shot Inspector Reid. Once again I’ve gravitated toward violence to solve a problem. Once again I feel my mother’s presence in me, abrading my own self. Her voice echoes in my memory: We do what we have to do. She said it when I complained about moving to yet another new neighborhood. Then, I thought she sounded bitter. Now I perceive a touch of satisfaction in her voice, as though she disliked her circumstances but didn’t doubt that she’d chosen the right course of action.

  I did what I had to do.

  It’s been my own justification for sins I’ve committed. Would it have been my excuse if I’d killed Inspector Reid or injured Eva Piper?

  Now I see my mother in a different light. She wasn’t only a criminal who strangled a little girl to protect her rapist son, as I thought; she was every mother who’s ever fought for her child, sacrificing her own virtue. She paid for her crime by never seeing Lucas again and dying horribly from cancer at age forty-eight. But I’m not sure whether I’m finding some good in my mother because I still love her, or whether I need to believe she wasn’t all bad because she’s in me, and whatever she was, so am I.

  Barrett returns with three steaming teacups, a sugar bowl, and a milk jug on a tray. As we all stir our tea, he says to Eva, “Who is Evelyn Corey Piper?”

  She cradles her cup in both hands, as if to draw courage as well as warmth from it. “He’s my son.”

  The little boy has her blond hair and blue eyes, but still I’m surprised to learn that she’s his mother. I suppose I thought of her as the ghost in her photographs—incorporeal, not capable of something as earthly as childbirth.

  “I call him Corey,” Eva says. “That’s my maiden name. My husband’s name was Evelyn. He was a teacher at the Norwich independent day school.” Belatedly, I notice that her speech identifies her as a gentlewoman. “He died of pneumonia two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Barrett’s compassion is genuine. He’s better at interrogating people than I am, kinder and gentler. “What happened to Corey?”

  Eva responds to Barrett like a plant unfurling in sunlight. “Last March, we were walking by a factory when the boiler exploded. A piece of metal hit Corey and broke his skull. He had to have an operation to take out the shattered bits. He’s getting better, though. He can’t walk yet, but he can see out of his good eye, and he can talk a little.”

  I think of the dent in Corey’s head and the custard smeared on his face, and it’s hard for me to believe he’ll recover completely. Although I can pity Eva, I cling to my belief that she’s a murderess. Remembering the hospital bill, I say, “It must be expensive to keep him here.”

  Eva and Barrett cast wary glances at me, as if they’re both afraid I’ll pounce on Eva again. “Very expensive,” she says. “I had to go to London and look for work. I became a model at dressmakers’ shops.” Distrust narrows her eyes. “How did you find me?”

  I explain briefly, then say, “You also modeled for Charles Firth.”

  Eva squirms, obviously uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  “But the money you earned from modeling wasn’t enough,” I say. “So you blackmailed Charles Firth and Richard Trevelyan.”

  “Blackmail?” She forces a laugh as red spots flush her pale cheeks. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Mr. Newby told us.”

  She cringes, then takes a deep breath and sits up straight. “So you’re married now,” she says, glancing at the ring on my hand. “When you have children, you’ll understand. As a mother, you do what you have to do.”

  I blink. It’s as if Eva has stolen the phrase from my mind. This ethereal woman is as ruthless on her son’s behalf as my mother was on Lucas’s.

  “Blackmail’s a crime,” Barrett says, gently reproachful, “even if you did it for a good reason.”

  “I didn’t want to!” Eva cries. “Mr. Firth was a kind man. He asked me about myself, and when he heard about Corey, he raised my wages because he wanted to help me. I took advantage of him.” She briefly covers her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry, and so ashamed of myself.”

  “Did you know what he was using your photographs for?” Barrett says.

  “Yes. He told me. I don’t believe in ghosts, and at first I didn’t like the idea of pretending to be one. But Mr. Firth said that for people who do believe in ghosts, his spirit photographs are a comfort. They feel better when they have pictures of themselves with their departed loved ones. He wanted to help them too.”

  This is welcome news—that Charles Firth deceived his customers out of the same kindness he showed me. Thanks to Eva, I can believe that his fame and wealth were by-products of his work, not its primary goal, and I can remember him fondly rather than with disgust for his fraud. I feel guilty because I never repaid his generosity, yet Eva has done worse: she repaid him with blackmail.

  “Eva Piper, I shall have to arrest you.” Barrett’s manner is apologetic but firm.

  She stares, aghast that this nice man who’s been listening to her tale of woe has turned on her. “But what will happen to Corey? He doesn’t have anyone but me.”

  “You should have thought of his future before you blackmailed Richard Trevelyan and Charles Firth and threatened to report their fraud to the newspapers,” Barrett says. “You could be sent to a prison workhouse for years. Corey will likely go to an asylum.”

  “An asylum?” The horror in Eva’s tone evokes squalid conditions, neglected inmates tied to their beds.

  Barrett regards her with pity. “If all you get is time in a workhouse, you’re lucky. You’re a suspect in the murders of Richard Trevelyan and Charles Firth. If you’re tried and convicted, you’ll hang. And Corey will lose his mother for good.”

  I’m admiring his skillful manipulation of Eva at the same time I’m appalled by it.

  “No, please!” Eva falls to her knees, raises clasped hands to Barrett.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Barrett says. “You tell me, right now, everything you know about the murders, and I’ll overlook the blackmail.”

  Reminded of my attempt to make a deal with Inspector Reid, I gulp.

  “But I don’t know anything!” Eva says.

  Impatience joins the reproach in Barrett’s expression. “Mrs. Piper, we both know you’re lying. This is your last chance to tell me the truth.”

  Eva bursts into tears. “I didn’t kill Mr. Trevelyan or Mr. Firth. They were both alive when I left them.”

  Barrett and I look at each other, stunned by the implication of her words. “Wait,” I say. “You weren’t just at the scene of Richard Trevelyan’s murder, you were also at St. Peter’s Church the night Charles Firth was murdered?”

  “Oh, God.” Realizing that she’s in deeper t
rouble than ever, Eva sobs into her hands.

  Barrett gently takes hold of her arms, lifts her, and resettles her in her chair. “You might as well tell us.”

  Eva nods, drained and meek. I smile with triumph. Barrett looks far from happy, as if he’s done what he had to do but hated it.

  “Start with Richard Trevelyan,” I tell Eva. Much as I want to solve Charles Firth’s murder, eyewitness evidence in Mr. Trevelyan’s case is more important, as it could save Mick.

  Eva sniffles. “I heard about the spirit-hunting expedition from the newspapers. I went because I thought Mr. Trevelyan would be there. Corey’s bills were overdue, and the hospital was about to put him out. I found Mr. Trevelyan, and I begged him for money. He said he was as good as ruined already and I could talk to the press if I wanted. And he was going to tell the police I’d blackmailed him and Mr. Firth.”

  I glimpse another possible motive for Richard Trevelyan’s murder. Ruthless enough for blackmail, was she also ruthless enough to kill the man to silence him?

  “Then he saw someone watching us and hurried me out of the tunnel,” Eva says.

  That was me, making my brief appearance in the story she’s telling.

  “We got separated in the crowd,” Eva says. “I searched for him, I wanted to beg him to change his mind, but then people started running and shouting and saying there’d been a murder. I heard someone say it was Mr. Trevelyan. I was afraid that whoever had seen us arguing would report me to the police and I would be blamed.”

  Unbeknown to Eva, I had reported her, but I’d misidentified her as Diana Kelly.

  “I hurried home and packed my things,” Eva says. “I took the first train to Norwich.”

  Just as I thought, she skipped town to avoid a murder charge.

  “When you first spotted Mr. Trevelyan, was there anyone with him?” Barrett says.

  “There were a lot of people all over.”