A Shadow on the Lens

by Sam Hurcom

  ‘I believe something is out there, Mr Bexley, something that took that girl and left her as she was found. You want to believe that a man could do such a thing – I believe different. No man I ever met would want to do such terrible things.’

  He turned to walk away but seemed reluctant to do so, as though he were stepping out onto the gallows or before a firing squad.

  ‘We don’t talk about it because we know it’s there. We know it’s real, feel its presence every day.’ He glared at me with his red, bloodshot eyes. ‘Don’t tell me since you’ve been here you haven’t felt it too.’

  It took a great effort to stifle a shudder as I thought of all I had seen and heard. Voices in the shadows. Eyes watching in the trees. Betsan’s emblazoned corpse, sat up and staring at me in the cellar of All Saints church. Catrin’s face twisting and contorting before my very eyes.

  I cleared my throat and spoke quietly. ‘If you recall anything, please let me know.’

  Next came a Mrs Patterson, the wife of the local shopkeeper. She was in her mid-forties, petite, well-dressed, her hair pinned back in such an alarming manner as to pull the skin of her forehead taut and give her eyes the appearance of being for ever opened wide. She spoke candidly when I asked of Betsan’s character.

  ‘Her mother.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Having a child at her age; no husband, no father to the girl. It’s obscene – vile. She used to live in the house by the station you know, till that burnt down. She’s a very wealthy woman.’

  I thought of the Malthouse, the derelict cottage just up from the station, its roof collapsed, its rotten frame exposed. It seemed much had been left unsaid when I had met with Catrin.

  ‘Burnt down?’ I asked. ‘When did that happen?’

  Mrs Patterson leant closer to me. ‘When she was pregnant. She blamed almost everyone in the village, came ranting and raving into the middle of the Twyn. We all knew she did it herself – madwoman! There’s no other explanation. Just look at the way she lives her life now, a savage out there. No way to raise a child. We all wonder why she won’t leave, why she lurks here. It’s no surprise the girl turned out the way she did.’

  ‘Why do you think she stayed here then? Surely if she is a wealthy woman, she could have simply left?’

  Mrs Patterson shrugged. ‘Who knows what possesses a woman like that?’

  I tapped my pencil upon the paper, seeming to look in thought but really letting a rush of dizziness pass me by. I had to give the appearance of good health, even if I was not wholly well.

  ‘You have some sympathies for Betsan then?’ I said after a moment.

  To this Mrs Patterson shook her head. ‘We all must start somewhere, and I admit her start in life was a bad one. Maybe she didn’t stand much of a chance of living honestly, wholesome and all. But at some time, we have to take responsibility for what we do. The girl was asking for trouble, the life she led the … the carnal desires she had.’

  I shook my head a little. ‘You are not the first person in this village who would blame Betsan for her own death and I daresay you will unlikely be the last.’

  Mrs Patterson’s lips twisted. She took a deep breath and spoke to me in a manner most patronising. ‘You don’t see other women in this village wandering around in the woods on their own, speaking to strange men, and winding up dead. I would think you had some more sense than to absolve the girl entirely of all her blame.’

  ‘It is not a question of where she walked,’ I replied bitingly. ‘Or even the manner in which she conducted herself with those in the village. Suffice to say that whether a girl be flirtatious or not, it does not permit a man to rape, defile and butcher her like a mere animal. There is only one criminal in this whole affair and it is not Betsan – a child by all accounts, I remind you.’

  I was speaking loudly by the time I finished, though Mrs Patterson seemed wholly unperturbed. She folded her arms slowly, her wide eyes unblinking.

  I continued with a little more composure. ‘Everyone speaks the same of the girl’s ways, that she dallied and so forth.’ To this Mrs Patterson scoffed a little. ‘But I see no evidence to confirm as much. Can you tell me anything of the carnal desires, as you put it, the girl may have had?’

  Mrs Patterson rolled her eyes. ‘She was a flirt. Men will be men and she liked their attention. Always down by the mill, giggling and running with them. In spite of what you think she was asking for trouble and no one will say otherwise.’

  I moved on, for it seemed pointless labouring on this point.

  ‘Did Betsan have any friends that you know of? I haven’t seen many other girls of Betsan’s age in the village.’

  It was the only time Mrs Patterson’s demeanour changed. She unfolded her arms, shifted herself in the seat and looked down for a moment whilst she gently laid her hands on her lap.

  ‘I can’t say I knew of any friends the girl may have had. I saw her often when she came into the shop. My husband is a kindlier person than I and was willing to serve her. She was never with anyone, though.’

  I returned to questions of what Mrs Patterson had seen in the days leading up to the event, though she was quick to give her opinion on the culprit of the crime.

  ‘Mr Cummings spoke of travellers at the town meeting we had and I for one believe him,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Mr Cummings is not an investigator,’ I replied in similar tone.

  We finished on her alibi, to which she could confirm both her and her husband’s whereabouts. With little courtesy I made her show me her arms and neck, which she eventually did after numerous huffs and protestations. With not the finest scratch visible, I thanked her for her time, though she left without saying another word to me.

  From there I spoke separately to two labourers of the farm south of Michaelston; their answers were simple, and it was clear from their demeanours that neither wanted to talk to me. Whether they actually knew anything of any value was hard to tell. As with the ironmonger, I asked if something was holding them back, perhaps keeping them from speaking openly to me. Did they fear something of which they would not speak? To this, neither man would answer. Neither had a graze upon them.

  Then a carpenter by the name of Hennesey, who mumbled in such croaked tones I was barely able to understand him. He spoke minimally, spending slow, painful minutes ruminating on each question I asked. When I began to inspect his arms and neck, he delved into a blow by blow account of each thin scar and healed fracture that he’d received across his hands and wrists over the course of many years.

  An elderly couple then, the rather muddled husband a former stationmaster. He wanted to spend more time discussing the poor state of the railway than anything to do with the murder.

  And on and on it went for several hours, as each man and woman I questioned grew ever vaguer, plainly wanting nothing more than to be rid of my company. Most it seemed shared in the superstition of the Calon Farw, to varying extents perhaps, but fearing it enough to say as little as they could to me. As time passed on I grew unsettled, for each person’s account began to blend with another’s. Their answers were all so similar.

  Betsan had been asking for trouble. No one in the village could have done such a thing. The girl didn’t have friends to speak of. The girl was a flirt, a prostitute, in fact. There were travellers in the area – the girl met with them regularly. Nothing but the girl and her mother was out of the ordinary in the village. She was the only person that such a thing could have happened to.

  These, of course, were but a small handful of the villagers and perhaps were genuine in all that they knew. But as the hour struck six and I concluded what I believed was my final questioning for the day, I feared that this may be the start of things to come, that all that had already been said would be the entirety of all that I would come to hear.

  I slouched in my chair, frustrated, exhausted. My head pounded softly, and I let it slump backwards a little
so that I stared up at the hall’s dark ceiling. Thunder rumbled outside – I listened to the chatter of rain against a nearby window, what had been a constant during all my questions that day.

  ‘Are you all right, In-inspector?’

  I didn’t move as Vaughn spoke to me.

  ‘Yes, Constable. Just a little tired.’

  He had come in from the hall’s foyer and walked over towards me.

  ‘Were you able to learn anything today, something that may help the enquiry?’

  I shook my head absently and with a sigh looked upon Vaughn.

  ‘A little, Constable. These were but the first interviews however and I am sure more will come to light in the days ahead.’

  I rubbed at my face and eyes, feeling ravaged, and desiring a stiff drink. My eyes felt heavy, my arms limp. I hoped then I would be in a fitter state tomorrow and thought it best to retire for the evening.

  ‘The people of this village, Constable,’ I said drearily. ‘Have they always held such superstitious views on things? You don’t share their belief in this Calon Farw, I gather?’

  Vaughn shook his head. ‘No, sir. It’s all ra-rather far-fetched to me, the sort of thing my father would have discouraged when I w-was a l-lad.’

  I smiled a little at that. ‘He seems like a sensible man, your father.’

  Looking up at the dark rafters in the ceiling, I thought of the shadowy corners of Solomon’s cellar and the negatives strewn across the stone floor.

  ‘He w-was,’ Vaughn murmured. ‘He always used to say—’

  ‘My negatives,’ I cut in then rudely, sitting straight in the chair and looking at Vaughn. ‘Did you see them? Do you have them?’

  Vaughn shook his head, what small smile he had quickly fading.

  ‘No-no, sir. I n-never took p-possession of them.’

  ‘Well, who has them then?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Neither you, Mr Cummings nor the innkeeper claim to have them. Did they simply vanish into thin air?’

  ‘Perhaps they are still in the cellar,’ Vaughn replied. I stayed quiet for a moment thinking on the matter.

  ‘Would you mind if I m-m-made my way, Inspector?’ Vaughn then said rather timidly. ‘I thought it best to forewarn those who will need – who will need to be questioned tomorrow. They may take it better that way than being told first thing in the morning.’

  I nodded, for it was a good idea. I impressed upon him that Miller’s workers would be best, especially the two who were present when the body was found. Other than them, it seemed irrelevant – most likely everyone would need to be questioned in due course.

  Vaughn said he would do his best to speak to all the mill hands that evening. As he bid me goodnight and made his way out of the hall, I gathered up my notebook and thumbed through the pages I had written absently. As I pocketed it and stood to fetch my coat, Vaughn reappeared and called over to me.

  ‘Mrs Shaw has just arrived. I spoke to her earlier and said about the enquiry. Should I tell her to come back tomorrow?’

  I sighed again, but sat back down and asked Vaughn to see her in. As she came towards me, carrying a rather large beige umbrella, I signalled to Vaughn he was free to leave, which he did with a brief farewell.

  Mrs Shaw sat down rather haphazardly in the seat opposite me. She let out something of a squeak as the seat slid a little from under her, and then smiled awkwardly, before removing a dark bonnet and setting it down clumsily upon the floor.

  To my estimation she was in her late fifties. Red-faced, plump, with thinning hazel hair that had visible silver wisps laced through it. She seemed to take care of her appearance, for her clothes were well pressed and neat, the buttoned cloak she wore wet but devoid of even a fleck of dirt. As she removed it, placing it upon the back of her seat, I noted the fine gold brooch she had pinned to her ruffled blouse, its ivory floral centrepiece gleaming in the soft lamp light. It seemed clear to me that she had some wealth, or at least projected thus.

  ‘I appreciate you coming, Mrs Shaw, it is of great help to this miserable affair.’

  She smiled a little. ‘I’m pleased I can be of any use.’

  I took down some basic information: she had lived in Dinas Powys all her life and was widow to a Phillip Shaw, the village’s previous Council Treasurer. She had no children nor any immediate family either here or in South Wales. I began then to ask her the very questions I had asked all those that had come before, beginning with Betsan and whether she had known her. After but a few short minutes, it became apparent that Mrs Shaw would be of very little help – she dithered on almost every other word.

  ‘I saw her. From time to time. She … she was a pretty girl. Very fair.’

  I nodded and smiled politely. ‘But you say you never really spoke to her, nor heard anything of her character – rumours, small talk and the like.’

  Mrs Shaw stayed silent, her brow furrowed as she seemed to agonise over the question.

  ‘Well, um. No, not really. Should I have heard anything about her?’

  I tried to maintain my now thinning smile. ‘No. I’m merely asking if anyone ever said anything of her to you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Mrs Shaw replied, ‘I don’t like to dabble in gossip. My husband always used to say idle chit chat would spoil our fine community.’

  ‘I suppose that is sound advice. Your husband must have been a well-educated man.’

  She burst into life then, clasping her hands together and looking up to the ceiling with a melancholic smile.

  ‘He was, Inspector. Such a fine man. It’s been three years now since he passed. Did everything he could for me; doted on me, really. The day we met I felt so blessed – I have a small photo of him here, I carry it around with me always.’ She began to rifle at her collar and produced a silver chain and locket which she struggled to unclasp. I told her she need not worry.

  ‘I’m sure he was, Mrs Shaw, but we must press on. Around the time of Betsan’s murder, were you aware of anything out of the ordinary that occurred in the village? Even the slightest thing that you may have noticed?’

  Like all those I had questioned that day, Mrs Shaw had seen or heard nothing suspicious. She had been present at the meeting Cummings had arranged in the town hall on Tuesday the fourteenth. There he had informed those in attendance of Vaughn’s conclusion that the murder was carried out by some unknown vagrants.

  ‘And you believe that assertion, Mrs Shaw? That someone unknown from outside of the village could have done this?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘What other explanation could there be? I can’t imagine someone in the village doing such a dreadful thing. And before—’

  She seemed to catch herself and stopped abruptly.

  ‘Before what?’

  She hesitated for what seemed an age, her eyes moving back and forth, as though she were thinking deeply. I stared at her all the while, wondering if she were concealing something from me.

  ‘Before, all this, no one would have thought anything bad could have happened here.’

  I rubbed my jaw and paused, a little theatrically perhaps, watching as she shifted nervously in her chair. She didn’t say anything more however, and I wondered what on earth she could possibly be hiding.

  ‘If it is true that Betsan were killed by a loner, a gang for that matter, wouldn’t you feel unnerved, worried, especially as you are a widow living alone?’

  She bit at her lip, her eyes beginning to water at their edges. ‘I am worried, Inspector. Frightened, in fact. Everyone here is, whether they tell you or not.’

  Tears began to roll down her face and she struggled to compose herself. I admit then I felt I had wronged her as she whimpered with every short breath.

  ‘I apologise, Mrs Shaw, that was rude of me. I know you are frightened, and I’ll do all I can to put your mind at rest.’

  She looked up at me and smiled, her eyes round and w
et. I thought it best not to keep her much longer, and after another five minutes, thanked her for her time and assistance. As she stood, she near knocked her chair to the floor.

  ‘I hope I was of some help. If there’s anything else I can do—’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Shaw, but you have been more than helpful.’ I pocketed my pencil and notebook, thoughts turning once more to food and rest. Mrs Shaw was speaking to me as she replaced her bonnet and buttoned her cloak. I paid her no real attention, rubbing at the back of my aching neck.

  ‘This has all happened so suddenly, it seems; I used to think of this village as so innocent and quaint. I admit, I did often wonder if something could come along and excite us all, but this is not what I ever desired. To be frank, we never thought this would happen a—’

  My heart stilled suddenly as my focus returned fully to Mrs Shaw.

  ‘Say that once more. Were you about to say again – we never thought this would happen again?’

  Her eyes shifted as she bit down on her lip. She tightened the knot of her bonnet quickly and bid me a crisp farewell. I called out to her as I stood and moved around the small desk.

  ‘Mrs Shaw. Mrs Shaw!’

  She didn’t stop or turn to look at me, moving with great haste out of the hall. I heard the creak of the main door open, before a heavy thud as it was slammed shut by the elements. A draught blew in that extinguished one of the small lamps dotted on the wall.

  19

  The Scratching in the Ceiling –

  June 22nd, 1904

  I felt great trepidation as I came back to my room in the inn. The storm made the whole space dark, cast in a peculiar silvery light. I set my camera equipment upon the bed and moved hesitantly to light the lone candle upon the table. For a while I did nothing but stand in the centre of the room and look about me, though my body wanted only to sit and take rest. I blamed my hunger for my decision to leave and return downstairs to the bar, though in my heart I knew it was my fear of the place that drove me out.

  Solomon was tending to a few things. The bar was empty; it seemed no one dared venture out on such a torrid night. I asked him quietly for a drink, which he provided without a word. Scotch is not my drink of choice, though it seemed I was having it again that day. It gave me nerve to apologise for the way I had treated the man that morn.