Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  I’m grudgingly ready to believe that Eva is innocent of at least one murder, but I still hope for more information than she’s given us. “What about Leonora Firth or Dr. Everard Lodge? Jean Ritchie or Diana Kelly?” Although Diana wasn’t the blond I saw with Mr. Trevelyan, she’s still possibly a suspect, and it’s more important than ever to place her or one of the others at the crime scene.

  “I don’t know who they are.”

  “Did you see Mick O’Reilly?” I say.

  Eva responds with a blank look. “Who … oh, the red-haired boy who lives with you. No. I didn’t know he was there.”

  Grasping at straws, I say, “Did you see anyone following Mr. Trevelyan or acting suspicious?”

  “No.” Eva rubs her temples as if her head aches. “I’ve told you everything.”

  A sensation of defeat encroaches on me as strongly as it did the evening I hunted Jack the Ripper through the dark, foggy streets of Whitechapel and it seemed I would never catch him, would wander those streets forever.

  “Then let’s talk about Charles Firth’s murder,” Barrett says to Eva.

  I cling to my hope that the two cases are connected and that solving the first will solve the second and exonerate Mick.

  Eva sighs, then proceeds in a weary monotone. “Mr. Firth asked me to model for him at St. Peter’s. He said the pictures would look more genuine if I was photographed at the church rather than if he added me in later. So I met him at the church. We went inside and looked around, and he decided to photograph me in the crypt. While he was setting up his cameras, I went across the passage to change clothes.” Eva explains, “He’d brought a white gown that would make me look like a ghost. I’d just finished changing when I heard noises above me.” Recollected fear animates Eva’s tired eyes as she raises them. “Someone else was in the church. Mr. Firth said, ‘It’s probably the vicar. Keep quiet, so we don’t caught.’ A little while later, we heard moaning, as if someone was in terrible pain.” Eva shivers. “Then growling, slavering noises, like an animal. Mr. Firth said, ‘Those are the noises that people have described hearing. Maybe the church really is haunted and I can photograph some real spirits.’ He was very excited.”

  So he’d wanted to believe in the supernatural, wanted to take genuine spirit photographs rather than create hoaxes. I grieve for Charles Firth.

  “He said, ‘I’m going to have a look. You stay here.’ He went upstairs. I didn’t think it was a ghost, but I was terrified that whatever it was would come and attack me. I threw on my regular clothes over the white gown in case I had to run out of the church. Then I waited. Finally, I heard Mr. Firth coming back. He was muttering to himself as if he was angry. I was about to ask him what he’d found when I heard footsteps hurrying after him. Then it sounded like he was arguing with someone. I couldn’t understand what he was saying or hear the other person. Then he cried out, and there was a thud, as if something heavy had fallen on the floor. I heard the footsteps running away. I hurried to Mr. Firth. He was lying in the chamber by his cameras. There was blood on his shirt. He was breathing hard and fast, and the blood was pouring out. Someone had tried to kill him.” Eva’s face is as starkly white as in her spirit photographs.

  I believe Eva, and Barrett nods; he does too.

  “I had to get help for Mr. Firth. I ran outside to look for a policeman but couldn’t find one. Then I saw a house across the lane, by a big building. I started toward it, but then I heard someone run out of the church behind me. It must have been the killer.” Eva hugs herself, glancing fearfully over her shoulder, as she must have done that night. “I hid in the bushes. They ran past me, across the lane.” Her mouth twists in an embarrassed smile. “This will sound childish and silly, but I closed my eyes. I guess I was afraid that if I could see them, they could see me. When I opened my eyes, I saw light from the door of the house as they opened it and went inside.”

  A house across the lane from the church, by a big building. I think back to my wedding day, picture the area, and remember girls playing ring-around-the-rosy outside St. Peter’s School and the attached smaller section. I lean back, stunned by the implications of Eva’s tale.

  “The vicarage,” Barrett says, afire with excitement. “The killer is someone from the vicarage!”

  CHAPTER 28

  Our train to London is delayed because of mechanical problems. While it sits on the track and Barrett falls sleep, I think of how hurt and miserable Sally looked when we left her at her lodgings last night. How I wished I could have told her I’d changed my mind about going to Norwich and promised I would move heaven and earth, immediately, to find our father! When I apologized again, she said, “It’s all right. I understand.” She was trying her best to see my point of view, and her generosity put me to shame. I remember a time soon after my father went missing. I’d come home from school and begged my mother to help me look for him. It was washday, and she was hanging clothes on the line. She snapped, “Can’t you see I’m busy?” I now know that she knew my father was gone for good and hated to keep up the farce of looking for him. To Sally, I must appear as heartlessly cruel as my mother did to me. Sick with guilt, I vow to make it up to Sally. As soon as Mick is free, I’ll spend every moment hunting for our father. I’ll ask Sir Gerald for a leave of absence from the Daily World, and if he says no, I’ll resign. But even with that decided, my conscience is far from clear, and I’m afraid that I’ve lost more than my father.

  When Barrett and I finally emerge from Whitechapel station at eight thirty, the smoke in the fog smells of burning wood. The bonfires have started in parks, vacant lots, gardens, and on the riverbank. It’s Halloween.

  “Are you sure you want to go to the vicarage after we stop at your house to see if Hugh is back?” Barrett says.

  “Yes. I can’t wait to learn who killed Charles Firth.”

  It’s just too bad that Eva Piper squelched our theory that the same killer also murdered Richard Trevelyan. We can’t imagine any connection between Mr. Trevelyan and the vicarage. Mick will have to stay in jail, counting down the days to his trial, unless we can find a way to clear his name.

  Along Whitechapel high street, lit candles and plates of food have been placed in doorways to feed visitors from the other side. Adults and children, costumed as animals, fairies, and goblins, go from house to house, singing, “A soul! A soul cake! Please, good missus, a soul cake.” They collect small round spice cakes in exchange for their promises to pray for the donors’ dead kin. As we approach my house, I see a vagrant lying in the doorway, his face hidden by his bowler hat, his legs curled up under his black coat.

  “Sir, you’re blocking my door,” I say. “Please move.”

  He jerks upright, pushes back his hat, and the light from the streetlamp falls on his face. He blinks familiar green eyes at me.

  “Hugh!” I cry.

  “Sarah.” He yawns and smiles. “Hullo, Barrett.”

  A flood of joy almost knocks me to the ground beside Hugh. Gone is the fear that he’s dead, that he’s never coming back. “Thank God!”

  “Nice to see you,” Barrett says. The relief in his voice tells me that he too feared the worst. He extends his hand to Hugh, who takes it and pulls himself to his feet.

  “I was so worried!” Now that Hugh is safe, my own relief gives way to anger. “Damn you!” I smack his chest.

  Hugh laughs. “That’s a fine ‘welcome home.’ ”

  He takes me in his arms, I’m crying as we embrace. He’s solid, really here. When he kisses my cheek, his breath is fresh, and he smells clean, of bay rum shaving lotion, not liquor; he isn’t drunk or hungover. It’s as if summer came early and all is warm, sunny, and bright.

  “What are you doing out here?” Barrett says as I step away from Hugh and wipe my eyes.

  “I lost my key,” Hugh says. “Nobody was home, so I sat down to wait, and I dozed off.”

  “Where have you been?” I demand.

  “Do you mind if we talk inside?” Hugh gives an exaggerated
shiver. “I’m freezing.”

  In the kitchen, he sits at the table, and I watch him covertly as I make tea. He’s thinner but neatly groomed, dressed in a white shirt and gray suit that look new. His complexion is rosy, and his eyes have that sparkle that I’ve not seen since before he lost Tristan. He left a broken man and returned whole and healthy—a miracle. I set steaming cups of tea in front of him and Barrett and say, “Tell me.”

  Hugh sips tea, warming his hands on the cup. “I went to Switzerland.”

  “What?” Barrett and I say.

  Hugh smiles at our amazement. “It’s not that far. Only a day’s trip by steamship going there and a day coming back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going?” I say.

  “Because you would have tried to talk me out of it,” Hugh calmly explains. “I was fed up with writing to Tristan and not getting any reply, so I decided to take action. Action is so much better for the soul than brooding, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, and …” I’m afraid to ask what happened.

  “The retreat for ex-priests is in a chalet on a suitably godforsaken mountain. I went up there and asked for Tristan. The gatekeeper looks like Cerberus minus two of the heads. He said Tristan wasn’t receiving visitors. Well, I refused to leave, so finally Tristan came out to the waiting room where I’d installed myself. He said I’d come all that way for nothing, because he didn’t want to see me. He told me to go home and never trouble him again.”

  “Oh, Hugh.” My heart aches for his folly. I seethe with anger at the heartless Tristan.

  Hugh waves away my sympathy. “It’s all right. He said what I needed to hear. It was like lancing a boil—painful but necessary. Now I can stop my futile pining and moping and get on with my life.”

  This is what I wanted for him—to face reality and begin to heal—but I hardly dare believe it’s true. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Hugh smiles. “Never better. I say, I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat? I sound just like Mick. Where is he?”

  “In Newgate Prison.” I explain while I toast cheese on bread.

  “My God.” Hugh shakes his head, sobered by horror. “If I’d been with Mick that night, he wouldn’t be on the hook for murder. I shouldn’t have left.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Barrett says. “Nobody could have predicted what would happen.”

  “Anjali did,” I say.

  “Who’s Anjali?” Hugh says.

  “The daughter of Dr. Everard Lodge. He’s one of the suspects in Charles Firth’s murder.” I’m realizing how much Hugh has missed. “Or, I should say, he was a suspect.”

  “Sarah and I just discovered that the murderer is someone at the vicarage,” Barrett says, and tells Hugh the gist of Eva Piper’s story.

  “The august Reverend Thornton, his kindly wife, or his odd grandchildren? Excellent work!” Hugh wolfs down bread and cheese with the appetite he lost when Tristan broke his heart.

  “We were about to go over there,” I say.

  “What are we waiting for?” Hugh tosses his napkin on the table, pushes back his chair, and stands.

  “You mean, you want to go with us?” I say, unsure that it’s a good idea.

  “Definitely. I’ve been out of the game for too long. The least I can do is help you wrap it up.”

  His energy seems like a fire made from twigs, liable to burn out fast. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Not a bit. My little outdoor nap was quite invigorating.” Hurt dims the sparkle in Hugh’s eyes. “Don’t you want me?”

  He’s just experienced one rejection; far be it from me to inflict another on him. “Of course I do.”

  Barrett nods. We’re both glad to have Hugh back, and four suspects might be too many for the two of us to handle alone.

  Hugh goes to the parlor, dons his coat, then opens the drawer in the table and removes three guns. The sight of them gives me a sickening jolt. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on mine since the morning I almost shot Inspector Reid. Hugh checks the guns to make sure they’re loaded, then hands Barrett and me our weapons. Mine is cold and heavy in my hand. I shy from thinking about things that happened at the conclusion of our other investigations and what could happen tonight.

  Hugh tucks his gun and a box of bullets into his coat pocket, smiles, and says, “Ready?”

  * * *

  Just after ten o’clock, Barrett, Hugh, and I walk toward the vicarage. The fog glows orange with the light of bonfires. The night echoes with footsteps and giggles from mischief-makers. Candles burn inside carved gourds on porches; the grotesque faces leer.

  “This is almost like old times,” Hugh says, his tone cheerful and his steps light.

  I don’t quash his enthusiasm by reminding him that our last confrontation with a killer was only months ago. My wounded shoulder aches.

  “I just wish Mick were with us,” Hugh adds.

  At the vicarage, my knock on the door echoes through the house, which seems as empty as a tomb awaiting a corpse. After I knock repeatedly for some minutes, the fanlight at the top of the door glows. I recall Eva Piper describing how she saw the killer enter the vicarage. I didn’t get a good look at the person. The fog made everything blurry. I was afraid he would come back out and see me and he would guess that I knew what he’d done. So I went home. If she’d fetched the police, perhaps Charles Firth’s life could have been saved and the person who stabbed him could have been caught that very night. And then my friends and I wouldn’t have become involved in the investigation and Mick wouldn’t be in jail. It’s hard for me not to hate Eva Piper for her cowardice. But of course she did only what she thought she had to do—protect herself rather than risk leaving her sick son motherless and alone in the world.

  A woman’s timid voice calls, “Who’s there?”

  “Mrs. Thornton?” I say. The idea that she could be the killer seems preposterous, even though I’ve met female killers who looked to be equally unlikely culprits. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Barrett.” This is the first time I’ve announced myself and my husband as a married couple. How odd to do so under such circumstances. “And Lord Hugh Staunton.”

  The door opens a few inches, affording us a narrow view of Mrs. Thornton in a high-collared white nightdress and brown wool housecoat. Her gray hair hangs in two skinny braids. She looks tired and worried, but she musters the kind, patient smile of a vicar’s wife who’s accustomed to troubled parishioners coming to her house at odd hours.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  “We need to talk to you and your husband and grandchildren.” Barrett speaks in the calm, authoritative voice he uses while on duty.

  Mrs. Thornton’s smile fades. “In regards to what?”

  “The murder in the church,” Barrett says.

  Her eyes shift; she steps backward. “They—they aren’t here.”

  Something’s not right. I push the door open wider before Mrs. Thornton can close it. She exclaims in dismay as Barrett, Hugh, and I barge into the foyer.

  “They’re asleep.” Her voice is shrill with fright. “Please don’t wake them.”

  “They’re asleep, or they’re not here?” Barrett says. “Which is it?”

  Mrs. Thornton shakes her head. Wringing her hands, rubbing them together, she reminds me of Lady Macbeth.

  “Reverend Thornton!” I call. “Daniel! Lucie!”

  My ears ring in the quiet as Barrett, Hugh, and I listen for a response. We run up the stairs. Mrs. Thornton follows us, pleading, “Stop. Don’t.”

  On the second floor, we find a room with a rumpled double bed from which Mrs. Thornton must have just risen. A black cassock hangs on a clothes stand, but the vicar is nowhere in sight. Across the hall are two smaller rooms, dolls and stuffed animals in one, model ships and trains in the other. Both beds are unmade, empty. I turn to Mrs. Thornton, who hovers in the hall.

  “Where are they?”

  She presses her trembling lips together. I can’t believe she’
s harmed them, but their absence and her lack of cooperation quicken my heartbeat into an ominous rhythm.

  “Search the house for them,” I tell Hugh and Barrett. “The knife too.” Then I run downstairs.

  Mrs. Thornton staggers after me, crying, “What knife?”

  At the bottom of the stairs, I halt and face her. “The knife that someone from your household used to kill Charles Firth. Was it you?”

  Her lips part; she stares. “No.” The word is a cracked whisper, as much a plea as a denial.

  I believe she’s innocent. I think she’s shocked because she didn’t believe her husband or grandchildren could be capable of murder and she wants me to make the terrible possibility go away.

  “There was a witness to the murder,” I say. “She saw the killer leave the church and come inside this house.”

  With one hand, Mrs. Thornton clutches the banister for support; the other grips her throat. I point toward the dark rooms on either side of the foyer and say, “Put on the lights.”

  She strikes matches and lights gas jets, as if she thinks that by obeying me, she’ll convince me that this is all a mistake. I hear footsteps above us as Hugh and Mick search the bedrooms and the attic. The parlor is vacant. So is the kitchen, with its chipped sink, old-fashioned stove, battered cupboards, and worn stone floor. Mrs. Thornton wrings her hands while I rummage through drawers until I find the knives.

  “Are any missing?” I ask.

  Mrs. Thornton shakes her head. Her lips quiver, and her eyes well with tears. I suppose the killer could have stabbed Charles Firth, washed the knife, and replaced it in the drawer with Mrs. Thornton none the wiser. I remember my own horror when I learned that my father was the prime suspect in a murder. Mrs. Thornton is in the same sinking boat that I am—awash with the need to believe, despite incriminating evidence, that a loved one is innocent. I search the pantry, the scullery, a second parlor, a library. They’re all uninhabited. Mrs. Thornton trails me to a closed door.

  “That’s my husband’s study. It’s where he writes his sermons. He doesn’t allow anyone inside.” Mrs. Thornton seems to be grasping at shreds of her normal existence.