A Shadow on the Lens

by Sam Hurcom

  ‘Some travellers were camped in the woodlands between here and Michaelston-le-Pit, not far from where the body was found. They would be the obvious suspects in all of this. If you expect to be here three days, there’ll be plenty of time for you to view the evidence we have.’

  ‘In cases such as these, Councilman, I am afraid time is never on our side. When was the body found?’

  He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. ‘A week ago.’

  ‘Last Friday – the tenth?’ He concurred with a nod. I continued, ‘The body will need to be examined and documented immediately, along with any other evidence you may have.’

  He barely acknowledged what I had said before he cleared his throat and started to prattle on about the village once more, pointing to cottages that we passed.

  I interrupted him. ‘The girl was local – did she live in the village?’

  ‘Until last week she did.’ He chuckled a little, muttering under his breath. He stepped away from me as a cart, dragged by two haggard mules and loaded with a few large bales of dried straw, passed between us. As we continued to pace on he asked quite jovially if I had been to this beautiful part of the country before. He spoke as if no crime had been committed at all.

  I deemed then that my first impressions of the man had been quite wrong. Cummings now seemed brash and irritable. I stood and watched after him for a moment or two before calling out to him. He seemed startled that I was not alongside him and waited for me to catch up. Abreast of the man, I lowered my camera case and spoke sternly.

  ‘Is Constable Vaughn available? I would like to speak with him as soon as possible.’

  Cummings seemed taken aback by my tone.

  ‘He’s on a rest day today,’ he spluttered. ‘Besides, I’m sure I can deal with most of your queries.’

  I shook my head and reached for my case.

  ‘He can rest when I am gone. I’ll require all the information he has so far.’ I gestured for Cummings to lead on and he did so, though his face seemed to darken to an unhealthy shade of crimson.

  The short walk from the common had taken a little over five minutes (if that), yet in that time my opinion of Cummings had altered drastically. His ego was great; his outlook on the murder seemed lacklustre at best. I still did not know the victim’s name, and by Cummings’ tone and manner, I could already tell he thought little of the deceased woman.

  We came into the village square and there I took a moment to pause and gather my bearings. Cummings informed me the village green – a triangular space of grass raised a little from the dirt roads and buildings surrounding it – was known to the locals as the Twyn. He pointed out a few key landmarks, including the school building, its rather large windows all closed in spite of the fine weather. I grew tired of the man’s company when he began to delve into his investment and influence in the village’s upkeep, hoping then that the young Constable Vaughn would be a more pleasurable (and professional) companion.

  I felt the eyes of a few townspeople going about their business, follow my footfalls across the chalky dirt road as we passed the sparsely placed iron rod gas lamps and quaint rows of properties, each with well kept, neat gardens. My lodgings were to be in one of two inns built adjacent to each other. ‘The Three Feathers’ was emblazoned in black paint across the smooth cream façade. I was grateful to have arrived, not merely to part company with Cummings but also for the sake of my camera case. The handle seemed to be growing dangerously loose under the weight of the equipment I had brought with me.

  Cummings continued to ramble on. As we stepped down into the inn’s sunken patio, I lowered my case to the floor. Inside my jacket was a smooth moleskin notebook and stubby granite pencil. I removed them, and interrupted Cummings quite abruptly once more.

  ‘An examination of the body will need to be carried out presently. Have Vaughn meet me here; where did you say the deceased was being kept? Time permitting, we shall inspect the scene of the crime this afternoon and begin carrying out questioning first thing tomorrow.’

  Cummings shifted awkwardly, trying to smile but doing little more than grimacing at me as I fumbled for a clean page in my notebook.

  ‘What can you expect to find? The body was recovered from there seven days ago.’

  I nodded absently. ‘There is always evidence left at the scene of a crime, though the eye may not notice it at first.’

  Cummings cleared his throat. ‘I had imagined this would be a little less … intrusive. More a formality; checking our evidence, that sort of thing.’

  I ignored him entirely. ‘Where is the body being held?’

  ‘A church – All Saints – in Michaelston-le-Pit. It’s a hamlet, but it’s always been closely connected to the village. About three miles away.’

  I was completely baffled. ‘Why on earth would you choose to keep the body there?’

  Cummings cleared his throat, seeming to hesitate before answering.

  ‘A few senior figures in the village were … uncomfortable with the body of a murdered girl being held amidst their homes and businesses. It may seem foolish, but people have their superstitions. The manner she was found in …’

  ‘What manner?’ My patience was beginning to wear thin.

  ‘Well, she was burnt.’

  ‘Burnt!’ I exclaimed, before jotting a single note down. ‘You have a whole body though?’

  Cummings nodded. ‘She was also bound.’

  I scowled at him. ‘How could her body be burnt yet remain bound?’

  ‘She had a chain wrapped around her.’ Cummings’ skin was draining of all its beetroot colour to a ghastly shade of pink. I sighed a little – the squeamish fellow would be no use.

  ‘You said the scene of the crime was between here and Michaelston, correct?’ Cummings nodded. ‘We’ll examine the scene first en route to the church and the body. What was the victim’s name?’

  ‘Betsan. Betsan Tilny.’ He spat out the surname as if it tasted rotten.

  ‘Middle name?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘Ceridwen, I think.’

  ‘And her age?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  I noted it down before pocketing my notebook and pencil. I reached to take my luggage from Cummings, who still held it in his balled, sweaty fist.

  ‘Fetch your man Vaughn and tell him to meet us at the crime scene. We’ll head down there in an hour.’

  ‘I may need longer than that to retrieve Vaughn,’ Cummings blurted at me as I turned away.

  ‘As I have already made plain, Councilman, time is not on our side,’ I snapped back at him. ‘Return here in an hour.’ With that he disappeared out of the small patio.

  I watched after him for a moment or two, catching the eyes of a few who had been staring at us the whole while from different points across the Twyn. Each turned or bowed their heads as I looked at them. I was accustomed to these sorts of gazes and intrigue when serious crimes had been committed in smaller, closer knit communities. The quiet of the place unsettled me. I carefully took my cases and ducked through the low doorway of the inn’s cool foyer. I stepped inside a cramped bar room, with an open cast fire lying dormant but made ready for the eve.

  I couldn’t help but slouch a little, feeling as though my head was too close to the low-hanging ceiling beams. In a lounge across the other side of the small mahogany bar I spotted a wasted figure slumped in a high-backed chair. His head lolled to one side as if his thin and scrawny neck were at breaking point. After a few moments, I stepped over and lay a hand on the bar, knocking thrice. There was no movement, not even from the old beggar asleep in his chair. I knocked again, this time louder and when no response came still, I leant over the bar, seeing a hatch opened to the cellar below.

  I called out in earnest until a misshapen figure appeared from the gloom. He eyed me as he clambered upwards, a husk of a man, with a slack jaw and heavy-set fr
ame. He wore a grubby vest and was balding badly, though he had gone to the trouble of combing what was left of his wiry hair across his ruby scalp. I introduced myself and we spoke briefly; his name was Solomon and he mumbled all his words.

  ‘Copper eh?’ He stepped out of sight for a moment and appeared again through a door next to the bar. He knelt so low to get through the door I was amazed he could fit at all – he was nothing if not six feet five.

  ‘Of a sort,’ I muttered coolly. He did not seem the type who would appreciate a seminar on the basic principles of forensic photography or investigatory practices.

  He lifted my luggage case without another word and stepped back through the tiny door he had come through. I followed into what was a very short and narrow corridor. We passed a small archway that led behind the bar and ascended a narrow flight of uneven stone steps to a tight landing with three doors in close proximity. With a shove, Solomon opened one door and led me into my room.

  It was smaller than the bar area I had waited in below. A single bed, a foot shorter than my stature, was poorly made with woven linen blankets and a lone shallow pillow. It rested in the farthest corner. A wooden chair and small table stood against the opposite wall, emblazoned in the early afternoon light cast through a single, misty pane of glass. There was a tin bowl filled with water on the table and a chamber pot barely tucked below the bed.

  Solomon dropped my case with little propriety and began leaving the room. I threw my coat upon the bed and lay my camera case down gently.

  ‘I’ll need a light,’ I called after the innkeeper, stepping over the squeaking floorboards and gazing out the window. Solomon re-entered the room and grunted something inaudible.

  ‘A light – candle or oil lamp. There are no sconces on the wall.’

  Solomon muttered once more and slammed the door behind him as he left the room. I deplored the cut of the man, his sloping brow and quiet indignation. I returned my attention to the scene through my tiny window. Laid out before me was the south-east corner of the Twyn, the well-maintained triangle of grass and flower beds of primrose and blood-red poppies. A few trees broke up the green space, with golden light shining through the blossom and leaves like warm embers. I noticed a fountain and trough at the corner of the Twyn and in the middle of the dirt road alongside my lodgings, a gas lamp stood proud betwixt the intersection of four roads.

  I made out the large white manor that Cummings had claimed to be the national school. Beside that, seemed to be a postal exchange with a Postmaster’s bicycle propped lazily against the wall. Down the Twyn further still, I saw a third inn (The Dragon), seemingly larger than the one in which I resided. It, along with all the domiciles and businesses within view, seemed in pristine condition. No speck of moss lined the tiles, no blade of grass seemed left untrimmed. I thought it was all for my benefit, a charade to maintain appearances. Whether it was for innocent intentions or not, it didn’t matter to me then. It only did to deepen my sense of disquiet and unease.

  2

  The Scene – June 17th, 1904

  Whilst waiting for Cummings to return I examined my camera equipment. My camera – a Lancaster & Son (a superior model to any I had owned previously, bought in the autumn of eighteen ninety-eight) – was in some ways outdated by the time I arrived in Dinas Powys. Much furore was made of the Kodak Brownie, and its quite remarkable reels of photographic film, wholly distinct from the glass quarter plates I was trained in developing. The nature of my work would never prescribe me to send reels of film away to be developed and in many respects, I was already stuck in my ways. Still, my camera was a suitable model for the field exposure I generally required. I had enough quarter dry plates with me to make certain I could document the murder scene and the victim’s body in fine enough detail. I had also brought with me vials of the necessary chemicals required to develop such dry plates should I need to.

  I emptied the contents of my camera case on the floor at the foot of my bed and began to rummage absently through my luggage. Wrapped in a tatty nightshirt was my Enfield revolver; I was quite overzealous in bringing it on all such cases. As I pawed through my clothes and few personal effects, I realised I had no spare ammunition. It seemed to matter little – I had six rounds and struggled to think how I could possibly need them.

  With the weighty pistol in hand, I caught the sound of voices from one of the rooms adjoining mine. The words were too faint to decipher, though the tone was unmistakable. An argument was ensuing, a man and a woman. It was short-lived, though I held my breath in vain for a moment to listen. As their voices died away I dare say I noticed an unseemly scratching from the low ceiling above me. Rats, in the loft space no doubt. I followed the scratching as it passed me and my meagre bed overhead. I took no pleasure at the thought of vermin above me whilst I slept.

  Barely half an hour had passed since Cummings had left me, though I decided I would rather sit and wait for his return in the warm sun of daylight than the dark, shaded corners of my room. I gathered my camera and around half the exposure plates I had brought with me. Absent of the remainder, and the vials of developing chemicals, my case was far lighter than upon my arrival. I chose to leave my coat, which left me with no pockets large enough to conceal my Enfield. I decided to leave it, doubting I would have need for it at this stage of the enquiry.

  I crept out of my room, trying not to alert the rowing pair of my presence. All was quiet as I descended the stairs and returned to the little bar area. I found Solomon tending to the floor with a wet rag and mop. The old man in the lounge was still sleeping awkwardly.

  I was famished and decided to ask for a little drink and food. Solomon left the bar area without a word, returning a few moments later with a glass of ale, a chunk of wholemeal bread and some over-ripened cheese. I try to make a point of never drinking whilst carrying out enquiries but assessing the demeanour of the man, I doubted I would be granted a glass of water if I asked. I gave my thanks and ate the bread and bland cheese quickly, sipping at the warm, bitter ale to wash it all down. I left half, finding the silent contempt of the bar an uncomfortable presence.

  The early afternoon was as brilliant as the morn, and I wandered onto the Twyn, taking in my surroundings proper. I found an empty bench and sat; the few who had watched my arrival to the village green had all but disappeared. The Postmaster emerged from his office after five minutes or so; he looked at me queerly, in the way a mouse may investigate a breadcrumb as he approaches it. He seemed to stare beyond me for a moment before looking down towards The Dragon Inn. I thought nothing of it then but thinking back, it was as if he were checking that no one was around.

  ‘Good day to you,’ I called to him. His wide eyes fixed on mine quite suddenly. He waved a hand timidly before moving to turn away. I called after him once more and beckoned he come over to me.

  He stepped onto the Twyn. ‘Fine day.’

  I nodded in silence. He approached the bench and stood before me.

  ‘You the Inspector, then?’

  ‘Of a sort.’

  He nodded as if he understood.

  ‘Heard you were coming – we don’t get many visitors here.’

  ‘Nor murders I dare say.’ I pulled out my notebook; it seemed as good a time as any to question a local man. ‘Did you know the victim?’ I asked plainly.

  ‘Everyone knows everyone, more or less.’

  I nodded. ‘May I take your name?’

  He told me it was Jacob Clyde and that he had lived in the village all his life.

  ‘I’ll be frank, Mr Clyde, I’ll be carrying out thorough interviews with anyone I deem relevant to the enquiry in the coming days. As the Postmaster of this village you may, unknowingly, have some information that will be beneficial to my investigation. If I could ask you a few questions now it would be most appreciated.’

  He sighed. ‘I have work to be doing.’

  ‘This shan’t be long. The
victim – Betsan Tilny – what was she like around the village: quiet, hard-working?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know you’d call what she got up to work. She had her way with the lads.’

  ‘In what regard?’

  Clyde smiled thinly. ‘She was a little unbridled. Down to no father I reckon personally. She’s got no one except her mother, Catrin.’

  ‘And where does she live?’ His smirk only widened at that question. ‘Well, does she not receive correspondence?’

  He explained that the mother lived on the other side of the railway, in a thatched hovel amidst the marshy bogs south of the village. He gave me some loose directions.

  ‘Well, why does she live there?’ I asked, for it seemed by his description to be a terrible place and manner in which to live.

  ‘She has some claim to the land,’ he remarked. ‘Her family going back and all. She isn’t the sort to get letters.’ He tapped at his temple and raised his eyebrows.

  I frowned at that. ‘Are you saying she’s deranged somehow?’

  He shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want to call it.’

  ‘How did you come to know of the girl’s death?’

  ‘We had a town meeting – up there in the hall.’ He pointed to a building just beyond the national school, on the opposite side of the road that Cummings and I had walked down from the common.

  ‘So Cummings informed you?’

  The Postmaster nodded. ‘Something the General would have done previously but he’s getting on now.’

  ‘The General?’

  ‘General Arthur James. He’s the Lord of the Manor of Dinas Powys.’ He pointed absently towards The Dragon and informed me the General’s estate was nestled just a little way from it on the edge of the common. I jotted down the details.

  ‘Cummings made no mention of the General.’ This I perceived to be nothing but Cummings’ arrogance; perhaps he thought himself leader of the village. ‘I shall need to speak with him. When was this meeting Cummings held with you all?’