A Shadow on the Lens

by Sam Hurcom

  Within five minutes everything was still. I thought about Geraint Davey for a little while, the way he had looked and spoken to me that previous day. My intuition implored me to speak to him, and as all good investigators do, I listen to my intuitions.

  I yawned, meaning to write a little in my diary.

  The candles on my table flickered. The gas lantern at the cross roads dimmed. The room fell to darkness, all except the two fine orange embers that glowed across the little table.

  The air grew cold as dread overcame me.

  I moved to turn and look behind me, twisting my neck slowly, fearing what I would find with me in the room.

  The gas lantern suddenly grew brighter, the candles on my table re-ignited. The room was flooded in soft light again. It gave me such a start that I sprang from my chair, knocking it backward with quite some force. I swirled in the room to find there was nothing but the bed and my shadow.

  The dreadful scratching from the ceiling started once more.

  10

  Diary Entry – June 18th, 1904

  My fever is deepening – it has brought with it such terrors.

  I cannot trust anything of myself, of my senses. I have seen such things, so unnatural and perverse. Not of this earth, of this place – nothing could be more unreal than what I remember laying eyes upon today, what I smelt and heard.

  Yet there they were before me, as solid as the pen in my hand, as tangible as the paper on this writing desk.

  Reason dictates I hold steadfast against such supernatural things, for they are but a fiction, a dream world. I am a twentieth century Descartes, deciphering reality, justifying what can be real and what is but fantasy. And I am sceptical (I admit quite fearful) for what was surely real today could only be true fantasy. And what fantasy I experienced felt very, very real.

  The wound upon my back (what wound, for there is none to be seen!) stings as I write these words. I see her face, that most dreadful expression, the black holes of her eyes, whenever I look upon shadow.

  What a fool! My hand shakes as I write of such things!

  To turn to other matters then – to talk of the grave case at hand.

  What of the enquiry? It has thrown all manner of questions and no answers make themselves clear. Suppose Cummings is right, suppose he has been all along. His suspect is the most obvious, a wayward gypsy, a bandit of sick mind and intention. A naïve young girl, selling herself to dangerous fellows – what is so uncommon of that? Nothing is more common on the streets of East London.

  Why then does it not sit right; why does it feel too neat for such a wicked thing? Why do I feel it is but a narrative being pressed upon me by the Councilman?

  Is he suspect, perhaps the suspect? What motive could spur him – concealment: truths to which he will not admit? Involvement – could a man of his type have a part in such a vulgar thing, a butcher’s crime? And what of Vaughn, for he would surely be complicit. And who else, for until I begin questioning, I cannot know of anyone’s whereabouts, motives, desires, passions, insecurities, resentments …

  It is now a priority to begin interviewing those in the village, a task that should already be underway (were it not for this fever I’m sure it would be!). First the mother; she may have noticed a change in the girl’s demeanour in the days leading up to her death. Then the miller who discovered the body; he may divulge some new information missed by Vaughn and Cummings. Then the miller’s workers (including Geraint Davey) – the farm hands as well – who may corroborate Cummings assertion that the girl was selling herself. Then all others, one by one until some truth is made clear to me. Perhaps it shall come quickly.

  Perhaps. Perhaps I shall have greater suspicions by this hour tomorrow.

  Perhaps I shall sleep and be rid of this insufferable fever by morning. In spite of the rest I take, it seems only to be worsening.

  11

  The Mother – June 19th, 1904

  I awoke sprawled across the floor, the candles but dwindled pools of wax upon the table. I barely moved for ten minutes, for my body ached so terribly and the wretched fever had only intensified.

  A great deal of effort was needed to haul myself upward and I clambered against the chair of the writing desk, cast to one side as if I had fallen from it. My diary was open, some pages bent and dog-eared, my fountain pen nowhere in sight, its ink daubed across the desk and floor. The top page of my diary was scratched and scrawled, words etched in as though carved upon stone. I had no memory of writing them, though they were surely made in my hand.

  I could barely think straight, barely move even, for it were as though a savage infection had taken hold of my entirety and I were greatly pained just to exist and breathe. At some point I rose nonetheless, though I knew in what vestige of coherent thought I had, I should take rest or even, in spite of Cummings’ previous failed efforts, call upon a physician.

  I have no real idea of how long it took me or what hour of day it was, but I left my room with my notepad, pencil and pistol (my fountain pen I discovered at the foot of my bed), stuffed into my heavy coat pocket. My temperature oscillated wildly from fiery heat to freezing chill. I nearly fell down the narrow stairwell, and stumbled into the bar area in an unseemly fashion, clenching my eyes shut as dark purple prisms exploded across my vision.

  Outside, I stood in the sunken patio of the inn waiting for Cummings, certain for whatever bizarre reason, that he was to escort me to the mother’s dwelling. Church bells roused me; the sights and sounds of men and women moving across the Twyn for Sunday prayers. I didn’t care then whether they noticed me or not.

  I was in no real state to question the mother, knew damned well it was wrong of me to trouble her on a Sunday. Yet I was compelled to do so, for I needed information. I needed to know what happened, needed to understand more of Betsan and how she died.

  I recounted what the Postmaster had told me of where the mother dwelt and headed out of the Twyn alone.

  Here, it would seem fitting to note thus. I write of my encounter with Catrin Tilny as best I can, for the details were hazy even in the days immediately following our conversation. I make no attempt to paint Catrin as anything more or less than she appeared to me on that day. With the benefit of hindsight, I wish now that our conversation had not been hampered so badly by my illness, and Catrin’s initial reticence. Often, I have wondered how things may have been different had I returned to her after our first meeting.

  With some regret I admit now, that it was not merely the distraction of other matters that kept me from speaking to her once again, but something more akin to a lack of nerve.

  The railway track marked the frontier of development south of the village; there seemed nothing of the land beyond it. I doubt even now that anything of significance has been built there, though it has been ten years, and much, of course, can change in a decade.

  I remember heading to the station to cross the railway line. Standing on the platform, I watched as a few figures mingled close to the edge of the common in their Sunday best. Church bells rang out, dull and monotonous. The sound was something to focus on nonetheless, as I skipped thoughtlessly across the sleek tracks of the line before disappearing into the marshy landscape beyond.

  I recall wandering, misguided by the Postmaster’s loose directions and my wavering pyrexia. My shoes, bogged down, sunken in waterlogged mud. Midges – I, flagging badly, cursing, muttering, slipping in entangled undergrowth. All is something of a blur, until at last (after mere minutes or half a day) I smelt smoke and came in sight of a dishevelled dwelling.

  It was arcane and ancient to say the least, a relic, far more so than the cottages and farmhouses of the village and Michaelston-le-Pit. The Postmaster had called it a hovel and that seemed a great exaggeration, for it was far less substantial than even that. It was built of mud (though its base was lined with large stones, packed together with clay) and rounded, t
he thatch roof thick and misshapen so that the whole structure seemed to lean to one side. A thin trail of smoke stretched skyward from a small opening in the peak of the roof. Adjacent, a chicken coop and run of sorts was built and fenced in by low stone walls and brambles wrapped and spun to form a fence. There were no animals in sight.

  I inched slowly towards the little entrance way, an arched opening with a woven reed door propped clumsily, concealing what dwelt inside. A pungent smell of dank, rotten vegetables hit me, exacerbating my now constant nausea.

  ‘Hello?’ I called brazenly, stumbling over an array of pots and metal skillets left lying in the dirt. I continued to creep around the structure and saw a little wooden shelter leaning against the house, a cover from the elements if nothing more. There was a bench and a small open fire with a black stove pot stood atop it. Here sat the Tilny mother.

  ‘Hello,’ I called again. She did not turn to me.

  I stood and watched her. She was grey and thin, her fine white hair untamed and loosely plaited down the length of her back. Her aspect was severe, all bones and right angles, her nose sharp and pointed, her brow furrowed and wrinkled. She toyed with some needle work, hunched over it, twisting at the material with quick thrusts of her wrists. Her withered arms were exposed to her shoulders, so pale that thin trickles of purple veins were clear to see even from where I stood.

  I stepped over towards her though she paid me no attention. She seemed such an aged creature, so old that I doubted for a moment she could be the mother of the young Tilny girl. She was nothing if not sixty. Yet her taut face and petite frame bore some resemblance to the body lying in the cellar of All Saints church. I felt a chill in the air, so similar to that monstrous place.

  I staggered a little, overcome by a fit of coughs. She turned on me then, her crisp blue eyes puncturing the landscape.

  I greeted her once more.

  ‘You’re the Inspector.’ Her voice was high and abrasive, like nails on a blackboard. ‘We thought you’d be here sooner.’ She turned her gaze back towards her needles.

  I stared at her for a moment, perplexed, before scanning the area. There was nothing but trees and the untamed wilderness.

  ‘I’m seeking the mother of Betsan Tilny.’

  She only nodded and muttered in shallow breaths. I stepped closer still.

  ‘Are you the girl’s mother?’ My voice was rasping, my throat hot and dry.

  ‘Only one she ever had.’

  I was dumbfounded. I moved within a few yards of her and waited to see if she would speak some more. When she continued to sit in silence, I produced my notebook and crouched on my haunches. At her level, I looked upon her with greater scrutiny. It seemed she had barely eaten in some time, the bones of her frame protruding through her dirty blouse and faded blue apron.

  ‘Mrs Tilny—’ it was enough to get her started.

  ‘Mrs!’ she shrieked, her eyes still fixed on the material in her hand. ‘You think I have had a man, I ever had need of one?’

  I frowned before starting again. ‘Ms Tilny,’ for I thought it best to not excite her further, ‘my name is Thomas Bexley and I work for the Metropolitan Police in London. I understand this is a very difficult time.’ She remained unmoved. ‘Can I offer my sympathies and assure you we are doing all we can—’

  ‘We is you! No one else would care do anything for my daughter in death. It’s why you were brought here.’

  My head pounded and I thought how to go on.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about your daughter, particularly regarding her behaviour in the days leading to her death.’

  ‘Murder,’ the mother said sharply.

  I nodded slowly for she was quite right. ‘When was the last time you saw your daughter?’

  ‘Four days ago,’ she said simply.

  I stayed quiet for a moment, hoping she would correct herself. She only continued to work her needles.

  ‘Forgive me, Ms Tilny, but I’m afraid your daughter was found deceased on the tenth of this month – she’s been dead for well over a week now.’

  She seemed to smile, a thin little smile that was barely noticeable. Then she turned to look at me for the first time. ‘Have you seen her yet?’

  The pit of my stomach fell away as I saw the dark hollow eyes and charred skin.

  ‘Yes, an examination of the body was carried out yesterday.’

  She shook her head a little. Then I truly saw the family resemblance, for I had seen that smile the previous day, as the girl’s dead body had sat up and glared at me despite those empty eyes. I began to cough and wheeze uncontrollably. When I was somewhat composed, I reached a hand towards her and whilst she didn’t flinch, she eyed me as a snake looks upon a rat. I gently clasped her forearm.

  ‘I know this is hard, but we must talk of your daughter. It is imperative we find those who are responsible for her death.’

  She wrenched her hand away from me with a dry, sadistic yap of laughter.

  ‘Place me in irons then, Inspector. She was my daughter, my love, and I let this happen.’ She hit her wrists hard together – twice, thrice – what smile there was erupted madly before vanishing with no trace. She stared at me with such vacancy for an instant before falling completely silent and returning her attention to her needlework. Grief takes on many shapes and voices, but it is always recognisable.

  ‘It is all too easy, Ms Tilny, to torment ourselves with what should have, could have been done. It will serve no purpose in this matter now though.’

  ‘Regardless I know my guilt,’ she hissed quietly. ‘Ask me your questions.’

  I nodded, fumbling for my notebook and pencil. ‘Betsan lived with you, here?’

  I could not hide my intrigue in the ramshackle dwelling.

  ‘Since the day she was born,’ the mother replied quietly. ‘Think what you will of this place but never have I needed a man to buy me a home, gather me food, provide for me, buy me little dresses and hats to wander about in.’ She spat into the dirt by my feet. ‘This home, this land, is mine. Would have been Betsan’s …’ She trailed off then.

  I nodded. ‘Do you frequent the village often?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But Betsan did?’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Betsan was found close to dawn on the tenth; had she been home the night previous?’

  The mother shook her head, her jaw visibly clenching under her thin skin. ‘Hadn’t seen her the day and night before that either. Wasn’t the first time she’d stayed out, sleeping God knows where.’

  ‘Did she have many friends in the village, anyone she was close with?’

  The mother shook her head once more.

  ‘Did she have work?’ I continued.

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘I’m trying to piece together what happened to Betsan in the days and hours leading to her death; who she met, who she spoke with. A key part of that is understanding how she occupied her days.’ I stopped then, thinking how best to approach the rumours of prostitution.

  ‘She came back with money, not just ha’pennies, mind. Quite a bit of money.’ The mother growled, jabbing her material ever harder with her needles. ‘More and more it seemed lately. And I know what you might think, what you’ll go on to ask me. Betsan was young and naïve and pretty. I don’t know how she came by that money and I don’t want to know.’ Her voice quivered at the last.

  I nodded. ‘One line of enquiry concerns a group of travellers who were believed to be in the area in the days – perhaps weeks – leading to Betsan’s death. Did she say anything about that to you?’

  The mother shook her head wildly. ‘She didn’t say much at all to me in the last few weeks. Whatever she was keeping to herself made her happy, though.’

  ‘In what regard?’

  ‘In the way all young girl
’s keep secrets from their mothers,’ the old woman sneered.

  I felt a pulsing pressure building in my right temple. My stomach churned and I was certain I would vomit.

  ‘Could you make a guess what such a secret could be? Did she plan to leave; did she have plans for the both of—’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she yelled at me and it near sent me reeling in the dirt, for the volume and scorn she reached was shocking. I maintained my balance, but the world seemed to change all around me, the light dimming. I scanned the wild bushels and twisted trees, suddenly certain that figures in hiding watched us both. Footsteps ruffled, close by, far off. I tried desperately to ignore them.

  By now I was gravely in need of a drink of water.

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’ the mother asked once more.

  I nodded my head, rubbing my eyes, sweat running heavy down my cheeks and neck. ‘Yes, as I said, the body was examined yesterday.’

  ‘I saw her,’ she replied flatly.

  I was taken aback. ‘You … you saw Betsan’s body?’

  ‘Not her body. I saw my daughter, Inspector.’ Her smile was returning. I told myself she was delusional, grief-stricken, desperate to see her child once more. But that smile had darker meaning. It filled me with such fear, as the movement and clamour of those in hiding grew in volume.

  ‘You have my sympathies, Ms Tilny, but understand this is no matter of folly. Your daughter’s killer remains unchecked, whether they reside in the village or have fled entirely. Forgive my candour but you must be as frank and clea—’

  Something sped through a thick growth of nettles in my line of sight.

  ‘Did … did you see that?’

  ‘I know all too well my daughter is dead, Inspector …’ she continued talking.

  Things blurred; the world left me. All went black if only for a moment for I was still balanced (barely) on my haunches beside the old woman when everything snapped back into view. Whether I asked for water or not I cannot say, but I remember taking a drink from a small clay mug and thinking miserably on my state. I was unwell, and the illness was only worsening.