‘I have the new prints,’ he said, ‘but —’
‘Oh! Let me see!’ Miss Hartop exclaimed, bouncing to her feet. The first two pictures brought nods of approval, and he hesitated before showing her the third one.
The portrait itself was unexceptional. Miss Hartop appeared to be contemplating her future as a bride, and the flowers looked agreeable enough, but there was something else in the picture and when Mr Beckler had first seen it clearly, he had known for certain that the object had not been in the room, or at least not in a form that was visible to his eyes. Floating in the air a little way above Miss Hartop’s shoulder was a misty image, half transparent and yet perfectly identifiable as the figure of a woman. The lady was seen in profile, only the upper half of her body appearing. She was clad in a blouse with a high frilled collar and wearing a large, elaborately trimmed hat.
‘I am not at all sure where that originated, or whom it could be,’ said Mr Beckler.
Miss Hartop, however, was sure. She clutched a hand to her bosom, threw her head back and uttered a scream that was in danger of awakening the corpses in every cemetery in Brighton. ‘Mother!’ she cried, and fainted dead away into Mr Beckler’s arms.
He had managed the situation with as much delicacy as he could muster. When she recovered, which fortunately took only moments, since Miss Hartop could not stay silent for long, Mr Beckler politely but urgently requested that she not mention the picture to anyone until he had had an opportunity to study it. Despite this, within days all Brighton knew that Mr Beckler could photograph ghosts. The news was not, however, taken seriously. To Mr Beckler’s severe discomfiture, it was loudly derided at society gatherings and dismissed with heavy sarcasm in the newspapers as ladies’ tattle over the teacups; indeed, there were insinuations that the teacups concerned contained something rather stronger than tea.
Mr Beckler knew that he had a great deal of work to do. While the public clamour had been unfortunate, it had thankfully reflected more on Miss Hartop’s judgement than his own. The image was of better clarity than his first ghostly portrait, and he had used a magnifying glass to make a careful examination of the plate from which the picture had been printed. As a result, he had at long last gained an insight into how the ghostly images had been achieved, and more importantly, how he might create them again and do better next time. Before he attempted this, however, he made a careful study of both the advocates and critics of the much-maligned American photographer Mr Mumler, to learn what errors he should avoid. Armed with this information, he recommenced his experiments. He needed to refine the images so that they were convincing portrayals of recognisable individuals, discover how to replicate them at will, and then attract influential clients. He could not achieve this last miracle alone, but he had at hand three associates who would not question his actions: the voluble self-centred Miss Hartop, the unwitting and witless Richard Scarletti and the professional legacy of the former owner of the business, the late Mr H G Simpson.
Careful plans were assembling in Mr Beckler’s mind as he watched his latest production come to life in the printing frame. After carefully toning and fixing the paper print, he at last hung it up to dry with a smile of satisfaction.
At long last, he had the perfect ghost.
CHAPTER ONE
It was early summer in Brighton. The air sang with salt breezes, the sky was a limpid sheet of uninterrupted blue. There were long sunlit days, blissfully sublime, almost as if they might last forever. When evening drifted in, it brought its own pleasures, painting both sea and sky in red and gold, before finally welcoming in cooler and quieter nights.
The town was in its fresh new holiday colours for the first of the visitors. By day the piers, promenades and pebbled beaches were busy with families determined to make the most of every moment, the sea dotted with boats and bathers, the streets alive with the rattle of pony carts and squealing children in their tiny goat-drawn carriages. On the wide walking promenade of the new West Pier visitors displayed their brightest attire, strolling in the sun, chattering in the shade of ornamental shelters, clustering about the gaslit bandstand in the evenings.
There was entertainment to suit every taste: gardens to visit, theatre varieties, marching bands, the Royal Pavilion to admire, concerts at the Dome, and the usual assembly of fortune tellers and magicians in gaudy booths.
It was four months since Mina Scarletti had been stricken by a lung infection that had nearly taken her life, but with care and determination she had gradually mended. Dr Hamid had been cautious to pronounce his final verdict, but he now felt able to say that he did not believe her illness had left her with any lasting detriment to her already precarious health. He had prescribed fresh air, gentle exercise, warm sunshine, and not getting involved in solving mysteries or undertaking any work that could tax her energy. The first three items on his prescription were easily procured in Brighton. The last was not.
Mina, her mother Louisa, and younger brother Richard lived on Montpelier Road, in one of the tall cream-coloured houses that formed a terrace sloping down to the sea front. Here, all the conversation was about the forthcoming celebration to mark the betrothal of Mina’s older brother, Edward. He was the serious, sensible one of the family, a managing partner in the Scarletti family publishing business which had been established by their late father, Henry. Edward resided in London, not far from his office on Regent Street, and last year he had wooed and won pretty heiress Agatha Hooper.
A family gathering had been delayed for several months, first by Mina’s long illness and then by the birth of a daughter to Mina’s sister Enid, her third child, since she already had twin boys. Throughout the winter of 1871 and the following spring, Enid and her mother had been thrown into paroxysms of distress due to the extended absence on business of Enid’s husband, Mr Inskip. His destination had been a remote part of Romania, and although he had promised to write, several months elapsed with no news of him. Louisa had feared tragedy; Enid had dreaded her husband’s return and his discovery that her expectant state was incompatible with his being the father. It eventually transpired that he had been languishing under an indisposition that was and remained mysterious. Baby Gwendoline’s arrival as a seven-month child had solved Enid’s difficulty, and when Mr Inskip finally returned in good health, he had suspected nothing. He, Enid and the betrothed couple were therefore about to descend upon Brighton for a celebratory gathering at the Grand Hotel.
Edward’s wedding date had been set for the end of September, to be followed by a tour of Italy. Edward being Edward, he was naturally fretting about how Scarletti Publishing would fare during his long absence from the office but had been reassured by his partner, Mr Greville, who had formerly managed the business with his late father, that all would be safe in his capable and experienced hands.
As family matriarch, Louisa’s main contribution to the work of organising the visit and celebration was complaining about the intolerable burden it placed on her, while leaving the actual labour to others. Since Mina usually managed the household, the Brighton arrangements had fallen to her. She in turn consulted Edward, who meekly took his orders on matters domestic from Miss Hooper. The Scarlettis’ general maid Rose was frequently dispatched on errands, which she undertook with no audible complaint.
It was a warm afternoon in late June when Mina, her mother and brother Richard gathered at the parlour table for what would probably be the last peaceful family tea before the visitors arrived.
‘The fatigue will undoubtedly kill me,’ said Mrs Scarletti, with practised confidence, ‘but at least I will have the comfort of seeing my family all together. They will gather around my deathbed —’ she made a dramatic gesture to indicate the sweeping extent of this expected assembly of grief — ‘to say a final farewell, and I will be reunited with my dear departed ones in heaven.’ She sighed and piled clotted cream onto a scone. Tall and slender, with an elegant sweep of blonde hair and the complexion of a porcelain doll, Mina’s mother could never be convinced
that she was far stronger than she looked. She ate heartily and went about in society as much as was appropriate for a three-year widow.
‘But there are so many people to crowd into the house!’ she continued. ‘Enid and the new baby and the twins! Where will they sleep? How can we manage them all? How shall we feed them? Is there bed linen enough? I really can’t imagine.’ She pressed pale fingers disconsolately to her forehead.
‘It is all planned, Mother,’ said Mina, patiently. She had advised her mother of the arrangements several times, but Mrs Scarletti had been determined not to absorb the information as it interfered with her protestations. ‘I have consulted with cook about the meals, and we have ordered everything that is required. The linens are clean, aired and ready. Enid and Mr Inskip will take the guest bedroom, and one of the upper rooms has been prepared for their nursemaid and children. Edward will share Richard’s room, and Miss Hooper will stay at the Grand Hotel with her aunt.’
‘I should hope so!’ said Mrs Scarletti, with a flash of indignant alarm. ‘A betrothed couple cannot sleep under the same roof until they are married. At least, they will not do so under this roof. It would be the talk of Brighton if they both stayed here.’
Richard, looking uncomfortable on a straight-backed chair since it impeded his natural urge to lounge like a dozing cat, inspected a treacle tart and took two pieces. ‘Knowing Miss Hooper, she has insisted on the Grand Hotel,’ he said wryly. ‘She is one of those quietly demanding types and would scorn anything less. Is it just the family lunching there?’ he added.
‘Yes,’ said Mina, ‘I have reserved a private room with a special menu and champagne. There will be a string trio to entertain us, and a formal display of Miss Hooper’s pressed flowers which have been specially framed for the occasion.’
Mrs Scarletti, who had decided that Miss Hooper’s pressed flowers were an abomination, shuddered. ‘I trust they will be under glass or I could not endure them. Why anyone would want to look at dead flowers that have been squashed out of their proper shape I cannot imagine. A nice painting or a photograph would be so much better, but the girl can have no talent for art, unlike you, Richard.’ She favoured her son with an indulgent smile.
Mina could not repress a little sigh. Richard, who had been granted the fine features and blond locks of his doting mother, liked to wander idly through life with as little trouble to himself as possible. Mina was very fond of him, but his tendency to unintentionally cause confusion and chaos was a constant worry to her. Only last March, Richard had been dismissed from his post as a sketch artist for Scarletti Publishing by his own brother for neglecting his work and general unreliability. This ignominious end to his association with the family business had had to be carefully concealed from their mother to avoid upsetting her further during Mina’s illness and Enid’s pregnancy. No one wanted to shake her conviction that Richard was the talented one of the family, since boasting of his accomplishments had been her only comfort during a time of severe trial. When Mina discovered the truth from Edward, she had unashamedly used it as a weapon to induce her workshy younger brother to find another honest employment, threatening that if he did not, she would reveal all as soon as family equilibrium had been restored. Since Richard had long ago dissipated his inheritance from their late father, and relied upon gifts from his mother, he had taken the threat very seriously.
This scheme of Mina’s had however rebounded upon her with disturbing effect since Richard had found employment at the new business of the detestable photographer Mr Beckler, a man who Mina for her own very good reasons wanted to avoid. Mina had secrets of her own, an unpleasantness she felt unable to reveal to her family. It lay encased in her memory like a hungry viper with sharp little teeth that gnawed at her from within. To her further annoyance, Richard entertained hopes that Mina and his employer might make a match.
‘We should have photographs made of the betrothal party,’ said Richard. ‘I shall ask Beckler to do it; I am sure he will be delighted.’
‘That is a good thought, my dear,’ said Mrs Scarletti. ‘Imagine how we will all look gathered together. We are such a handsome family. Even Miss Hooper has quite regular features, and might look well if carefully lit.’ She glanced at Mina as if about to say something else but did not. Mina, her small, frail body twisted by scoliosis, was often placed to one side in family portraits so as to make the least possible impression, and it hardly needed to be said that this would occur again. ‘Mr Beckler is a very clever young man,’ Mrs Scarletti went on. ‘And when I sat for my portrait, I thought his manners were excellent.’ She patted her hair. ‘Is he still single? I only ask because a young man of promise ought to have a wife. Perhaps I can think of someone for him.’
‘He is single and devoted to his business. I doubt he even thinks of marriage,’ said Richard, ‘although, one never knows…’ He gave Mina a sly glance, whose eyes flashed a warning look.
‘I passed by the shop the other day and there was an advertisement in the window offering to take portraits of monuments in the Extra Mural Cemetery,’ said Mrs Scarletti. ‘I thought that very peculiar.’
‘Ah, that is his new idea,’ said Richard. ‘You know he takes memento mori portraits, and they are very good ones, but not everyone makes a handsome corpse. There was that fellow who fell off the train, for example. You wouldn’t want that sight on your mantelpiece. So Beckler thought that if people have no last portrait they might like one of the monument. He will offer to send them to those family members who cannot travel to Brighton to put flowers on the grave. And of course, if the Brighton customers are pleased with the pictures, they might want to come in and have their photographs taken while they are still alive. He sees opportunities everywhere.’
‘You take very fine pictures, my dear,’ said Mrs Scarletti, warmly.
Richard had failed to mention to his mother that none of the portraits displayed in the shop were his own work, since Mr Beckler permitted him only the most superficial contact with valuable equipment and none at all with dangerous chemicals. His main position was that of counter clerk. ‘It is hard work, Mother,’ he sighed. ‘He is intending to go out to the cemetery and take some sample pictures to make a display. But the most important task, the one I am to carry out, is to decide which monuments will make the best pictures. I have to go there and find and sketch them first and show Beckler my drawings before we could think of taking the camera out.’
‘How do you choose which ones to sketch?’ asked Mina. ‘The most ornamental, I suppose, or those of the most important families?’
‘He gave me a list of names. I have to take it to the cemetery office, and they will give me a plan and tell me where to find the graves. Then —’ he paused for thought — ‘oh yes, then I put a cross on the map where the monument is and go there and draw it. It’s all terribly complicated.’
Mina frowned. Despite the impression Richard had wanted to give, it was obvious that all the decisions were being made by his employer. ‘Are these families who still live in Brighton?’
He shrugged. ‘Mostly. I suppose so. I didn’t ask. One of the graves was that of Mrs Honeyacre. The first one, of course, not the one we know. Oh, and Mrs Peasgood’s husband.’
Mina said nothing, but her suspicions had been aroused. She knew from past encounters that spirit mediums made use of graveyards for their research, gathering information about local deceased from inscriptions on tombstones. This information then emerged at séances to convince the clients that they were in touch with the family spirits, since they could not imagine how the medium might otherwise know their history. ‘He’s not setting himself up as a medium, is he?’ she asked anxiously.
Richard looked mystified by the question. ‘I don’t think so. He hasn’t said he would.’
‘But why those graves in particular? Unless he plans to cover every monument in the cemetery, which would be a very substantial endeavour.’
Richard searched his memory, which was not a lengthy task. ‘I think — I had
the impression from something Beckler said that they were families that Mr Hope was acquainted with. Perhaps they were people he met when he was last in Brighton. The spiritualism devotees? Maybe Beckler thinks they would be more likely to do business with him as he is Mr Hope’s associate.’
Mina did not reply but thought that if Mr Hope imagined that Mr Honeyacre and her mother’s friend Mrs Peasgood might support any protégé of his, he had a far better opinion of himself than he deserved. Mr Honeyacre, who had made a study of spiritualism for many years, had once been a sincere admirer of Mr Hope but this admiration had not outlasted the experience of meeting him. It was one thing reading the gentleman’s books, but it was quite another to have him descend upon one’s house and take over its domestic arrangements to the discomfort and annoyance of everyone else.
Mrs Peasgood had once taken an interest in spiritualism but had quite given this up after an incident in the Royal Pavilion which had caused her some personal embarrassment. Since she was a constant presence at ladies’ tea gatherings and a frequent hostess of elegant soirées held at her own home, she was also well aware that Mr Hope’s reputation had been touched by scandal. Mina was obliged to remind herself, however, that Mr Hope was unusually blind to his detractors unless they made some sort of clamour, and he had considerable support amongst those who refused to believe any ill of him. He existed bathed in the sunny glow of an imagined perpetual universal admiration.
‘Enterprise and hard work, that is what makes a man a success,’ said Mrs Scarletti, softly smoothing the lace collar of her gown with her fingertips. ‘If I had a marriageable daughter, I might well consider Mr Beckler as a son-in-law.’
‘What about —’ Richard began, glancing at Mina. Mina gave him her sharpest look and Richard almost choked on his tea.
The Cyanide Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 6) Page 2