Trusting that all is otherwise well,
Affect’ly
Edward
Mina quickly penned a note to Edward reassuring him that she would make every effort to avoid upsetting their mother. She would have liked nothing better than to expose Mr Beckler as a criminal, but she understood Edward’s feelings on the subject. He, of course, was quite unaware that Mr Hope had engaged Mr Beckler as the instrument of her destruction and that she feared he might do so again. Although her hands must remain tied for the time being, she felt certain that should Mr Beckler have the temerity to respond favourably to her mother’s interest, Edward might feel very differently on the subject, and would have no hesitation in taking the appropriate action. There could well come a time in the near future when any information she was able to acquire about how Mr Beckler produced the spirit pictures would be extremely useful.
That morning, as Mina waited at the solicitors’ office to see young Mr Phipps, she paid more than the usual attention to the oil portrait of the firm’s founder. There was something warmer and more friendly about an oil painting than a photograph, she thought, and it was not just because of the use of colour. An artist in oils had more time to observe his subject, to move around him and decide on the best view without worrying about any difficulties imposed by light and shade. He could capture the personality of the sitter seen over a period of time and not just in the few moments that the camera lens was exposed.
Mr Aloysius Phipps as depicted was in his seventies, relaxed, comfortable and just a little stout. He was seated in a substantial brown leather armchair, one hand on the arm of the chair, the other on his lap, holding a book. His grey hair was an abundance of waves, his beard long and streaked with white. He was smiling with contented pride. On the wall behind him hung a number of certificates, and a row of silver trophies which suggested that he had been a devotee of croquet.
‘It is a delightful portrait,’ said Mr Ronald Phipps, appearing behind her.
‘So it is. I have never really looked at it before. Of course, I never met your grandfather. Do you feel it captures the character of its subject well?’
‘It does. The artist has reproduced very faithfully his expression of intelligence, the posture of ease and confidence, yet also his essential benevolence. He was considered by all to be accomplished, wise, and fair in his profession. In his private life he was good company, a kind man with a delightful sense of humour. I have many fond memories of him.’ He turned to Mina. ‘I am pleased to see that you are improved in health.’
‘I am. I hope that Miss Cherry is well?’
‘She is indeed. Our wedding plans continue apace. There is so much to do!’
Mr Phipps conducted Mina to his private office, which was, she thought, looking a little better furnished than she remembered it, in keeping with his new position as junior partner. He then turned to the subject of his letter.
‘This is all a little strange,’ said Mr Phipps, hesitantly. ‘You are aware of course that I share your views on the spirit mediums who have been preying on the residents of Brighton, and like yourself I have not experienced anything that could be proven to be a visitation by a spirit, however…’ Mina waited. ‘It is an interesting coincidence that I found you just now paying such close attention to the portrait of my grandfather, since this does concern him. My aunt was very fond of him, as we all were. After his death, she did sometimes attend seances hoping to receive a message, and occasionally she was granted a few words of a reassuring nature. But never an actual appearance.’ There was another pause. ‘Just recently my aunt received a letter which she found very surprising. It came from a Mr Beckler, who not long ago opened a photographic shop in Ship Street. She asked me to look at it. Mr Beckler informed her that he had been taking photographs of some of the more notable monuments in the Extra Mural Cemetery, which naturally included the Phipps mausoleum. I don’t know if you have seen it, but it is very handsome.’
‘I have, yes, it is very fine,’ said Mina, making every effort to conceal her growing apprehension.
‘He said that when developing the picture, he saw a gentleman standing beside it. A gentleman who had not been there at all when the picture was taken. He wondered if the man could be identified. Naturally, I did not want to trouble my aunt with this, and so I visited Mr Beckler’s premises and he showed me the picture.’
‘Did he say when this picture had been taken?’
‘Only a few days ago. I am sure he was correct, because some new shrubs had been planted very recently and they were pictured. The monument was seen from the side with the inscription relating to my grandfather, and to my astonishment he was there standing beside it, as clear as day.’
Mina was thoughtful.
‘I know what you are going to say,’ said Mr Phipps, hurriedly. ‘I have seen the image in the window, the one supposed to be Miss Hartop’s mother. All I can say is that it is the image of a lady, but the features are not at all distinct, and really it could be almost anyone. I know that persons who are grieving are eager to see in a faint image or a glowing apparition the features of a loved one, because it comforts them, but I can assure you that the image in the portrait taken by Mr Beckler was very clear indeed, and it was my grandfather without a shadow of a doubt.’
‘You are quite sure of this?’ said Mina. ‘What I meant was, he passed away quite some years ago.’
‘I know, I was a child at the time. You are suggesting that my memory may have become — I don’t know — blurred over time.’
‘Do you have a photograph of him to make a comparison?’ asked Mina.
Mr Phipps smiled. ‘That is the irony of it. I have never seen one. In fact, I don’t believe he ever had a photograph taken. He sometimes spoke of photographic portraits very distrustfully; he said they were supposed to capture a truthful likeness, but he did not believe they could. Of course, the art of photography has made great strides since then. But given his beliefs, it is very curious indeed that he should appear in a photograph after his death.’
‘What did you say to Mr Beckler?’
‘I hardly knew what to say. I think I said that the man portrayed looked like my grandfather, but I would have to give it some thought and consult with the other members of the family. He seemed content to accept that. I felt obliged to ask him not to place the picture on public display, and he promised that he would not. It seemed prudent to buy a print to show to the other partners. I did so, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was my grandfather.’ Mr Phipps opened his document case and extracted a photographic print mounted on card. ‘This is it. Whatever it might be, Mr Beckler certainly saw it as an opportunity to acquire more business. He said what an honour it would be for him to photograph all the partners in the firm and how impressive such a picture might look in our window. A portrait of dignified, professional gentlemen inspiring confidence. I must admit, I could see his point.’
Mina examined the picture. In the centre of the print was the Phipps mausoleum she had seen so recently, but to one side of it was the figure of a man. Mina was forced to admit that the image of the man was very clear and distinct and bore a strong resemblance to the oil portrait of the late Mr Aloysius Phipps. Mina wished she had her magnifying glass with her. She had learned the value of such an item not long ago and had purchased one for her own use. Instead, she peered very closely at the photograph, trying to judge the quality of the main image against that of Aloysius Phipps, and saw quite unmistakably the edge of the wall of the mausoleum showing through the body of the man. The figure was translucent.
‘You may have noticed that he has a cast in his left eye,’ said Mr Phipps, pointing out that detail. ‘It was a little thing, but he could sometimes be sensitive about it. He did not like to look in mirrors too often. That was what made it quite certain to the family that there could be no mistake. Perhaps that was the real reason for his dislike of photographs; while complaining of their lack of truth, he actually found them too truthful. If you
look at the oil painting, it is obvious that he has asked the artist to correct that feature.’
‘And yet,’ said Mina, ‘one supposes that in the spirit world where all things are healed, his spirit body would not have reproduced that defect. I have often been told that in the afterlife my spine will be perfectly straight.’
‘Might I ask your opinion on this portrait?’
‘I will need some time to consider it. I might be able to discover more. I certainly intend to try.’
Mr Phipps looked relieved.
‘Might I ask you some questions?’ said Mina.
‘Oh, please do. I promise I will not charge it as a consultation.’
‘When I was last in the Extra Mural Cemetery visiting the grave of my father, I enjoyed a short stroll as recommended by Mr Bishop’s guide and noticed some monuments which caught my attention. I was told that some interesting stories were attached to them. I wonder — could you indulge my curiosity?’
‘I will do my best.’
‘There was a small and rather mean headstone for a Miss Porterson-White. I was told there was a dispute about a will.’
Mr Phipps almost chuckled. ‘Oh yes, a most savage dispute. And it is still not reconciled. But our firm was not involved. It was a London family.’
‘If you discover any more, please let me know.’
‘I will.’
‘And the family of Mr Hector Samprey?’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said very solemnly.
‘I believe the poor man succumbed to injuries in an accident, one in which his wife died?’
‘So I have heard.’
‘And he had a son who died in the same year?’
‘Yes, I am sorry to say that he was murdered by his criminal companions.’
‘Murdered! How dreadful!’
‘He was one of those young men who believed he could live better on his wits than by working. He became involved with a gang of cutthroats and thieves who mainly dealt in stolen goods. I don’t know the precise circumstances — maybe there was a quarrel — but he was killed by one of his erstwhile friends. The grief undoubtedly hastened the father’s demise.’
‘I don’t suppose you know anything about Mr Frederick Soules, the manufacturing chemist?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do. My uncle dealt with his affairs and often shook his head about the foolishness of it all.’
‘Oh?’
‘Soules had a business rival, a man named Harvey. Soules had developed new manufacturing methods which enabled him to undercut his rival. It was all perfectly legitimate, but there was bad blood and jealousy. The enmity ran far deeper than that because Soules had married the woman Harvey loved. Soules came to us because he suspected that Harvey had tried to bribe one of his employees to steal the process, but he couldn’t prove it. There was nothing we could do about that.
‘Then there was an outbreak of cholera and Harvey spread the rumour that it was caused by Soules’ contaminated products. Not only by word of mouth, but he actually distributed printed leaflets. On that occasion, Soules was able to prove that it was Harvey who was responsible and took him to court for libel and slander. Harvey had to pay a fine and costs. He came close to ruin.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘About ten or twelve years ago. But the story doesn’t quite end there. Soules was so afraid that Harvey was plotting still more revenges that Mrs Soules went to plead with him, for her sake, to desist.’
‘And did he?’
‘To my uncle’s surprise, he did. Harvey had loved her for over twenty years, and that emotion won him over. He gave up the business, sold his assets to Soules and went into retirement on a small annuity. When Soules died a few years later, Harvey married the widow. The company is run and owned by Soules’ two sons.’
‘That is quite a romance,’ said Mina, wondering how she might include it in the plot of a story. She consulted her list of names, but Mr Phipps had nothing to say about Mr Veale the confectioner, although the name of the business was known to him, and the late Mr Mulgrew continued to remain a mystery.
The framed photographs and album were delivered to Mina that afternoon, and she took the opportunity to make a detailed examination of the betrothal pictures before letting her mother know that they had arrived. Taking the ghost picture to the window and using her magnifying glass, she studied it in a good light. Much as she wished to deny it, she was sure that there was no subterfuge, at least none that she could detect. The figure who stood beside her was without a doubt that of her father, but as he had looked when Mina was a child. Unlike Mr Phipps’s picture, there were other people present who Mina knew to be composed of solid flesh, and she was able to compare her father’s form with that of the other individuals. His image had a noticeably different quality. Mina and her family were solid, whereas the lines of draped curtains at the rear of the studio could be seen through her father’s form.
She needed expert advice, and she knew exactly where to obtain it. Mina wrapped the album of betrothal photographs carefully, placed it in a stout bag, and hired a cab to transport her to the fashionable emporium of Mr J E Mayall.
On the way to Mr Mayall’s studio, Mina berated herself for acting so impulsively. She had no appointment to see the proprietor, whom she had never met, and who she felt sure must be an extremely busy man. Instead, she had foolishly given in to a sudden burst of impatience to have answers from a person of expertise. She reflected on what she knew of the eminent Mr Mayall, whose activities often featured in the Brighton newspapers. She had never heard of him taking, advertising or selling spirit photographs. He was a member of the Brighton Natural History Society and was mentioned in reports of the society’s meetings where he displayed a keen interest in such diverse subjects as volcanoes and microscopes. He was without any doubt a man of science. He was also a noted philanthropist, holding exhibitions and bazaars to fund schools and hospitals. The more Mina thought about her errand, the smaller and less important she felt, but she had cast her die and she would go on.
When Mina entered the premises of Mr J E Mayall, the renowned photographer of Brighton, it was like entering a gallery of fine art. Compared to this, the entire shop of Mr Beckler in Ship Street looked like the humble antechamber to something larger and more distinguished. Where the Ship Street premises were simply neat and well kept, Mr Mayall’s was also refined and luxurious, with smooth oak panelling, oil paintings in deeply carved frames, a huge gallery of photographs, and everywhere the boldness of gilding and ornament, a proclamation of pride blended with good taste. There was a special place for photographs of members of the Royal family, which as the gold-painted legends made very clear had been taken personally by Mr Mayall. There was a pronounced scent of polish and paint, with just a hint of money.
Mina approached the reception desk, where a gentleman clerk watched her limping slowly towards him. He gazed with some curiosity at the bag she was holding. ‘May I assist you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you, I wish to see Mr Mayall.’
He opened a leather-bound appointment book. ‘Certainly. Do you have an appointment, or do you wish to make one?’
‘I — regret I do not have an appointment. But I only wish to speak with him. I do not wish to sit for a portrait.’
He looked her up and down. He made no effort to persuade her to have a portrait taken. ‘I see. Might I ask why you wish to speak to him?’
‘I want to seek his expert opinion on some photographs that were taken of my family recently.’
The clerk’s expression hardened, and he closed the appointment book. ‘Were these photographs taken by Mr Mayall or another photographer?’
‘Another.’
There was a meaningful pause and a cold little smile. ‘I am not sure that Mr Mayall would wish to comment on another photographer’s work. My suggestion is that you write to him, explaining what it is you would like him to review, and he will I am sure respond.’
Mina found herself warming to the challenge.
Small and insignificant she might be, but she had a mission that she felt sure would interest Mr Mayall, and a rising determination in the face of the clerk’s dismissive manner to see the celebrated gentleman that day. ‘I am not seeking a review; it is a scientific consultation. The pictures show something which seems to me to be impossible. I require the opinion of an experienced man, a man of science.’
‘Be that as it may —’
Mina had one more card to play, and it was her own. ‘I am sure he will want to see me. My name is Scarletti, of the Scarletti publishing house in Regent Street.’ Mina took one of her cards from her reticule and placed it on the desk as if playing a winning ace. ‘Mr Mayall’s late son was a friend of my brother Edward, who is betrothed to a cousin of Mr Mayall’s wife, a Miss Agatha Hooper.’
The clerk picked up the card and gazed at it. ‘I suggest —’
‘I suggest that you take my card to Mr Mayall immediately and tell him that Miss Mina Scarletti is here and wishes to speak to him.’
The clerk raised his eyebrows. He stared at Mina. Mina stared back. At length he operated a bell pull and moments later another, rather more junior clerk appeared. ‘Please take this card to Mr Mayall and ask him when he might next be free to speak to this lady.’
The junior clerk departed. ‘I cannot of course anticipate Mr Mayall’s response.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mina. She waited, rather expecting the junior clerk to reappear, but instead the man who entered the gallery with Mina’s card in his hand was a gentleman in his late fifties, very serious-looking and rather handsome. He was fashionably dressed without being ostentatious and wore a black armband and a heavy mourning ring.
‘Miss Scarletti,’ he said, warmly, ‘I am very pleased indeed to meet you. I have heard so much about you in recent years; in fact, I was intending to write to you suggesting that I might take your photograph as one of the notable personages of Brighton.’
The Cyanide Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 6) Page 11