A Shadow on the Lens

by Sam Hurcom

  And so much space!

  Why carry out the crime so close to the mill, where discovery was more likely? With the veil of darkness why not move the body to the woodlands proper? There it could be buried or burnt if that was the inclination. It could be days then till the girl was known to be missing.

  My thoughts are thus: either the body was left in its location and state for a purpose (though the reason remains unclear) OR the time of discovery (perhaps even the discoverer) is incorrect. If the crime were an act of passion, it would perhaps make more sense – the perpetrator could have panicked and fled the scene, maybe even seen to try and foul the remains in such a manner as to destroy any connection to himself. Yet the scorching of the earth, relative to the burn marks that Constable Vaughn has described to me, do not correlate, meaning the injuries inflicted could not have been done in the same spot the body was found. This theory, that the killer panicked in a moment of frenzy and tried to defile the body where it lay, is therefore null and void, as her final resting place cannot be where she was burnt.

  What then of the accusation that this was an act carried out by travellers, somewhere toward their campsite in the woodlands? It is a possibility, for they could have moved the girl’s body, staged the scene close by the mill to conceal their crime. Intuition tells me this is false, however; the idea seemed such the moment Vaughn and Cummings expressed it to me. Far too neat, far too easy – these matters rarely are. AGAIN, why would they leave a body to be discovered? It makes no real sense.

  It seems to me that the body was left for a purpose, to invoke fear or send some message, perhaps? The charcoal felt warm to the touch this morning, but that I now question. If it were warm, it would have been a fresh burning, an outrageous idea. By my own admission I had been feeling unwell since noon, and with credence to Occam’s Razor, I accept now that I was mistaken in my thinking. Yet the scene remains a staging of a sort.

  Vaughn’s report may shed some more light on the whole affair. The Lord General did little to help with that – had I known his state … no, I am lying even as I write. I would have still gone to see him for the sake of my enquiry and to rest any niggling doubts about his character. I distrust Cummings for the simple fact that he seems keen to be done with the matter quickly. He hoped I would merely confirm his and Vaughn’s opinion, make a warrant for the arrest of any travellers within one hundred miles and pay my last respects with a shot of brandy before returning to Cardiff on the last train of the day. I have no evidence to suspect him of any foul play and I am giving him the benefit of doubt – it is likely he is as fearful as all those who live here, and is simply willing his theory to be true.

  I am keen to learn more of why the body is being kept so far from the village proper. Cummings mentioned some superstitions on the part of these people. I imagine they fear that some cruel spirit – Beelzebub himself! – shall cast a lasting curse upon the place should the body remain in the vicinity. Perhaps that is an unfair presumption – a discrimination of sort – upon these simple folk. In a sleepy shire such as this, it is all too easy in the bright light of day, with the songbirds whistling and the mediocrity of life being played out around you, to dismiss such fears as old wives’ tales for children who have not done all their mother’s chores.

  At this late hour though, with the heavy black of night as company, with the whispering of draughts through crooked rafters and the hollow, unnatural hoot of the night owl unseen, the mind wanders to its darkest corners and thinks of all too dreadful things.

  The entire time I write I have been glancing – glancing through the window, glancing over my shoulder, glancing towards the bed. Since my arrival I have dealt with the discomfort of being watched, and the feeling lingers now into the night. Each flicker of the candle makes me turn and watch. The shadows seem to startle me, something looming in my peripheral vision, moving against me as I cast my head down towards the paper. It is foolishness, of course, though far harder to dismiss than I, a rational man who fears no God, would dare admit to anyone.

  There remains the scratching from the ceiling; I shall not sleep easy with rats moving above me. Such vile things.

  The revellers have left and the bar rests quiet now. I should as well, for I am weary, and would be rid of this sudden illness that has taken hold of me. I would not have bothered sitting and scribbling this entry if it were not for the shadows and the eerie hue of the gas lamp.

  Let me muster some courage to extinguish this candle.

  5

  The Road to Michaelston –

  June 18th, 1904

  Some phantom in a nightmare must have roused me, for I woke suddenly with a terrible flutter in my heart. The dawn had not arrived, though the inky darkness of night was beginning to lighten. My shaking hands were blue as I looked at them, so too were the sheets on my bed and the walls of my room.

  I sat bolt upright and took deep breaths to calm my nerves. The ache in my head and body lingered from the night past. I was feverish, my entirety seemed drenched in oily sweat. I cursed the damn illness that had come over me so suddenly on this errand.

  In the gloom, I managed to take some drink I had remaining from the night previous. My shoulders and neck felt stiff and I sought to move and pace a little around the room to energise my body. It only did to exhaust me. When I collapsed back into bed, I held my eyes shut in an effort to return to sleep.

  It is funny what a bad dream and darkness can do to you – the two combined can banish sense and reason. I lay there for perhaps an hour or more, till the first streaks of light dispelled all the horrid things I had dreamt and returned my sanity and courage.

  I was dressed and fully groomed by eight thirty – Cummings was to collect me at nine. I scanned over my notes from the previous day, trying to gain some inspiration or a more rounded idea as to what had happened. Nothing came, and I mostly sat wiping the sweat from my brow, before checking my camera and stand. Testament to how badly the nightmare had unnerved me, I felt compelled to tuck my Enfield pistol in my case with my equipment.

  When I left my room, I heard whispers and muttering from the couple in the room across the short landing from mine, no doubt the pair I had heard arguing the day before. I stumbled down the narrow stairwell and found the bar as I had left it, though a few chairs were lying on their sides and the tables were in need of a thorough clean. As I waited, I noticed the old man, asleep once more in the lounge opposite. His head lolled to one side in the same manner as when I had first lain eyes on him, only now his shirt and herder’s cap were of a different sort. The sight of him brought on quite the spell of nausea, and as I bowed my head towards the floor, Solomon appeared before me with irritation etched across his brow.

  He brought me a mug of weak, lukewarm tea without a word and a few moments later returned with a plate of boiled eggs. I thanked him and inhaled the tea rather than drank it.

  ‘A full house then,’ I gasped when the mug was empty.

  Solomon said nothing.

  ‘Are there guests in all the rooms above?’ I asked once more.

  Solomon glared at me. ‘No one here but you,’ he murmured.

  ‘Come now,’ I replied groggily. ‘What ruckus was that yesterday if not your other guests? I heard them as I left my room this morning.’

  He maintained his cool gaze and I decided to leave the point, guessing then that it was his family occupying the rooms above.

  ‘Is there a physician in the village?’ I asked. He shook his head and left me alone.

  I sat for a few more minutes, mustering the strength to stand and leave the bar. With my case in hand I made to the door and stood in the small outside patio of the inn, feeling the chill of the morning rush against me. It was welcome but did little to alleviate my fever.

  It was a fine morning by all accounts. The pastel dawn had been replaced by hazy blue skies, unbroken by cloud in all directions. Everything was still. A churc
h bell rang out with rhythmic authority; it was nine on the hour. A door slammed across the Twyn, though I saw no one stir. A few minutes later, I caught sight of the Postmaster leaving his office. He seemed to hold still for the briefest moment, looking straight at me. He made no move to approach but sped away on his rickety bicycle down Station Road.

  As I watched after him, the disturbing sense of disquiet returned to me. The stillness of the Twyn suddenly became unnatural rather than serene. It is hard to explain such an intuition, one that is completely unfounded. But I was certain, as with the previous day, that behind the gothic windows, obscured in the darkness of their rooms, people watched me.

  I turned on the spot and looked all around. Indeed, in that moment I saw the flicker and twitch of curtains rustle here and there. My paranoia it seemed was justified – it would remain fully ignited until the day I left Dinas Powys, with no real pause or reprieve.

  Some ten minutes later, I heard the clatter of a wagon approaching the Twyn. It seemed to take an age. As Cummings appeared in view, sat atop a dusty haycart dragged by a thin shire horse, I succumb to another spell of nausea and dizziness and barely acknowledged his greeting.

  ‘You don’t look well, Inspector,’ he pronounced. By now I had decided not to bother correcting my misplaced title – I hadn’t the energy.

  I clambered onto the driver’s box and slung my camera equipment behind me with a regrettable clatter. Cummings gave a light shake of the reins and we slowly moved away, looping around the grassy Twyn and heading back down Mill Hill. Cummings informed me the journey would be no more than twenty-five minutes and that Vaughn was already waiting for us.

  The cool morning air whistling gently past us felt wonderful. Cummings asked me my opinion on the matter at hand; I chose to say as little as possible.

  ‘Until an examination of the body is carried out and questioning begins there is little to say. Too many things do not correlate to paint a clear picture.’

  ‘If I may be bold, Inspector,’ Cummings said warmly (too warmly in fact, for it was obvious then that his manner was feigned), ‘perhaps you are overthinking the matter. This all plays into the hands of those damned gypsies – they’ve left the girl and a scene so confused wholly on purpose. We with good heart spend days trying to uncover the truth whilst they scurry away, never to be caught.’

  In truth, the man had a point, though his insistence that the crime was committed by travelling vagrants was becoming more than a little noteworthy.

  ‘Do you have some experience, Councilman, that gives you such prejudice against travellers?’

  Cummings grimaced. ‘Such dirty, vile—’

  ‘Your duty,’ I cut in before he could say too much, ‘is to assist in uncovering the truth of this murder, not in placing guilt on anyone you deem somehow lesser than yourself.’

  ‘Now really, Inspector, that has never been my intention.’

  ‘Then unless you have credible evidence to support your claims and theories, do not question the manner in which I carry out—’

  I stopped mid-sentence. We had descended Mill Hill, crossed over the river and were now approaching the base of the Pen-Y-Turnpike. A large wagon, laden with wrapped meats, sacks of flour and other such provisions, stood at a standstill before us, its nag waiting stoically at the base of the hill. An argument was ensuing between the driver and another man. I quickly gathered that this man – the road keeper – was not allowing the driver to make the ascent up the hill, deeming his load far too heavy.

  Cummings pulled up the cart, climbed down from his perch and approached the two men. In spite of his being there, the argument quickly descended into vulgarities before each man grabbed at the other’s collars. Cummings quickly separated the pair, leaving them swinging their arms maddeningly with no real contact.

  I made no attempt to interject, feeling dreadful, light-headed and hot with fever. The three bickered for a few minutes until their voices began to simmer down. It seemed an agreement was met.

  Cummings returned to my side.

  ‘Joseph is heading to the farms near Michaelston,’ he informed me. ‘We’ll take some of his load.’

  I nodded, groaning a little as Cummings stepped back towards the hill. I followed, in no real mood to help but compelled to hurry things along. In spite of my torpor, I lugged a few flour sacks and two whole butchered mutton from Joseph’s cart to our own. Joseph’s cart still seemed dreadfully overburdened, but the road keeper was soon satisfied. Together, he and Joseph began leading the horse and cart up the steep incline.

  Cummings and I watched after them. He offered me a cigarette, which I declined; I have a taste for tobacco, but my throat felt wretched and dry.

  ‘Damned fools, the pair of them,’ Cummings muttered as the two men began barking at one another some way out of sight up the hill. By now we had been at the base of the turnpike for almost half an hour and the cool of dawn had burnt away entirely. I removed my jacket and tie, unbuttoning my shirt and rolling my sleeves so that, from a little way off, I looked indistinguishable from the few farm hands we saw heading to and from the mill. We returned to our cart and waited for the road keeper to return.

  ‘The body at rest in Michaelston,’ I said quite bluntly, pinching at the bridge of my nose as the haycart, the road and everything else in my line of sight shuddered before me, ‘explain that to me.’

  Cummings took a slow drag on his cigarette. ‘I told you yesterday. These people have their superstitions.’

  ‘Of what nature?’ I persisted.

  Cummings spluttered, ‘Look, I don’t share the opinions of many who live here – it is not my role to judge as you, this very day, made plain to me.’ His cigarette had burnt to a stub and he flicked it to the floor. ‘Many years back, some foo— someone got the notion that a, thing – a presence, spirit – whatever you may wish to call it, lurked in the woodlands around the village. They call it Calon Farw, the deathly heart or some nonsense. Now, people blame it for the girl’s death, though the state she was in, they think it’s not finished with her. They wanted the body held in a church and All Saints had a vacant cellar. They’re certain it will come back for her.’

  ‘So what of those who reside in Michaelston – surely they were not pleased when they learnt the body would be kept with them?’

  Cummings hesitated and mumbled. ‘They came to stay in the village, for the time being at least.’

  I shook my head. ‘You cannot indulge such nonsense—’

  ‘Indulge it!’ Cummings blurted. ‘Do not come to this village, Inspector, and tell me what I may or may not do. I had no choice in the matter when everyone wanted her body away from their homes, their places of work. It’s not my fault these people are not like you or I. Out here, far from a city, from real civilisation, you cannot blame them for having all manner of fears and worries, especially when such a thing as this has happened.’

  On this point I couldn’t help but agree, thinking back to the night previous and the very real feeling of a presence being with me in my room at the inn. A vision from my faded nightmare flitted quickly in my mind.

  ‘So that is it? There is no other purpose for her body being there?’

  Cummings placed a hand against his chest. ‘There is no other reason, Inspector. In truth, it is probably the best place for her, for your enquiry if nothing else. No one has been able to get to the body since it was moved, not that anyone wants to go near it.’ He fell silent then, his face draining of its colour.

  A voice called out and the road keeper waved at us from the base of the hill.

  When he came upon us, I insisted we make way immediately, my patience worn away almost entirely by the delay and my contemptible fever.

  The road from the peak of the turnpike was narrow, with untamed hedgerows and thick bushels of brambles at either side. We cut through the rolling hills and outcrops of tall trees, passed a few cattle sheds
and an abandoned farm house, all at a sullen and sedate plod. We made no sight of Joseph ahead of us, nor of anyone travelling in the other direction.

  ‘Many of us saw this coming,’ Cummings said quite suddenly after we had sat in silence for some time. ‘Well, not this entirely, but you get my meaning. Whether you agree with me or not, Inspector, girls who act out are likely to get themselves into trouble. I imagine half the cases you have in London—’

  ‘She only has her mother, is that right?’ I interrupted as I stared out across a golden field of rapeseed. Cummings nodded.

  ‘Yes, Catrin. I daren’t say I knew anything of the girl’s father being around. As a matter of fact, I can recall a strange fellow staying in the village for perhaps a month – if that – not long before the mother started showing. I’m certain he abandoned her when he realised. That class of man was bound to breed a wayward daughter. Catrin is no better mind – encouraged her, activities.’

  I asked him what he meant.

  ‘She was selling herself, Inspector, undoubtedly. Why else would she have been frequenting these travellers? No other reason than that in my opinion, and there were some rumours flying around the village before she died.’

  ‘Rumours of what sort?’

  Cummings seemed to grow uncomfortable. ‘She was something of a flirt with the young farm hands. The millers, too. Led them on, if you take my meaning.’ He pulled right on the reins to skirt a large pitfall in the dirt road. ‘Miller especially warned them of her. Of her sort really – this thing is not uncommon outside of the city.’