by Paul Stewart
I pulled my fob-watch from my coat pocket and checked the time. It was a quarter past one. I had to return to Clarissa Oliphant’s house in Hightown, but since I was quite close to the professor’s university rooms, I decided to drop in on him first. Quite apart from anything else, it had been a long and tiring morning, and I was in need of a cup of PB’s excellent Assam Black tea.
I arrived on the roof of the imposing white-stone academy minutes later and shinned down a drainpipe to the window sill of the professor’s laboratory. Peering through the grimy glass, I saw PB stooped over a workbench, his back towards me. I tapped on the window, and he turned. I don’t know who was more surprised; PB to see me crouching there on his window sill, or yours truly to see his swaddled head.
‘Barnaby,’ he said, striding to the window and opening it.
‘PB,’ I said, grinning as I jumped inside. ‘What’s with the new bonnet?’
The professor grimaced. ‘Toothache, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘A rather tiresome case of toothache.’ Despite the bandage, which he’d wrapped over his ears, round his chin and secured at the top of his head with a floppy bow, I could see that the left side of his jaw was badly swollen.
He returned to the workbench behind him. A cluster of open bottles stood at its centre, a pipette lying in front of them and a test tube in a retort standing to their right.
‘I was just preparing a little something,’ he explained, ‘to ease the pain.’
I sniffed the air. ‘Cloves,’ I said.
‘Oil of cloves, indeed,’ he said. ‘Among other things. Tincture of iodine, camomile and lavender. Anise … And a splash of laudanum,’ he added.
I peered over his shoulder as he continued working, counting off the drops of the various liquids and shaking them together. He was clearly in a lot of pain, his face grimacing with every movement he made.
‘Let me, PB,’ I told him, taking the pipette from his shaking hand. ‘Now, how many drops of this exactly?’
‘Twelve,’ he said miserably. ‘Though I doubt it’ll help. It’s the third batch I’ve made in as many days, and the pain’s as bad as ever.’
I nodded thoughtfully.
‘I’ve got an idea, something I came across in Dalhousie’s Handbook of Dentistry the other day,’ I said, turning to him. ‘I’ll need a small piece of zinc and a stout pair of scissors.’
Wincing with pain, the professor waved a hand at the drawer. ‘You’ll find everything you need in there,’ he said, and added wearily, ‘I’m going to sit down for a moment.’
The professor was always fashioning curious contraptions to do with his experiments, and the drawer was stuffed full of various leftover bits and pieces. There were lengths of wire, cogs and chains, rubber tubing and a vast assortment of nuts, bolts and washers …
‘This is zinc, isn’t it?’ I said, waving a small, irregular-shaped sheet of mottled metal in front of him.
He was sitting with one hand pressed gingerly to his swollen jaw. He opened his eyes.
‘Zinc?’ he said. ‘Yes, it is, but …’
‘All in good time,’ I told him.
I seized a pair of scissors from the drawer and, holding up the zinc plate, carefully cut out a small circle about the same size as a thruppenny piece. I could feel PB’s gaze resting on me as I did so, intrigued, despite the pain of his toothache. I fished in my breeches pocket for a silver tanner.
‘Here,’ I said, placing both the small coin and the smaller disc of zinc in PB’s outstretched hand. ‘Put the two pieces of metal together, and clamp the pair of them next to your bad tooth.’
The professor looked perplexed, but did as he was told. He closed his eyes. A minute later, he opened them again.
‘Ip’s pingling,’ he muttered.
‘Tingling?’ I said. ‘It’s supposed to. Wait a bit longer.’
While PB sat there, the two discs of metal clamped between his jaws, I crossed the laboratory and put a kettle on the stove. I was looking forward to a nice cup of Assam Black more than ever. I was warming the pot when I realized that the professor was standing behind me. I turned to see him grinning broadly.
‘Quite remarkable!’ he exclaimed. He was holding the two pieces of metal in one hand, and the bandage in his other. ‘The pain has gone!’
I smiled, pleased that my little experiment had worked so well.
‘The zinc and silver acted together with your saliva as a galvanic battery. It produced an electric current that worked on the nerves of the tooth, and relieved the pain,’ I told PB proudly. ‘Dalhousie has made some real breakthroughs in the field.’
‘You and your fields of interest never fail to amaze me, Barnaby,’ said PB approvingly. He took over the tea-making duties, swilling the hot water away and adding tea leaves to the pot. ‘I never know what you’re going to come up with next.’
‘Funny you should say that, PB,’ I replied, ‘because just recently I’ve become interested in the science of photogravure.’
‘Is that so?’ said PB. He chuckled as he poured us each a cup of steaming tea. ‘I have to say that, for me, it is the photographic capture of movement that fascinates me most. It would help so much with my work to be able to analyse the gallop of a horse or the wingbeat of a bird …’
‘Talking of birds,’ I said, as I remembered the reason for my visit, ‘I dropped by to return your notebook, PB. It’s full …’
‘Excellent work, Barnaby,’ he said. He looked up and smiled, his tongs poised over the sugar bowl. ‘Now, is it one lump or two?’ he asked. ‘I always forget.’
‘No sugar for me,’ I reminded him, then stifled a smile as the professor proceeded to put six sugar lumps into his own small cup. He passed me my tea, ushered me across to the wing-back chair at the end of the room and perched himself on the edge of the ottoman opposite.
‘Photogravure,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Or photography, as I prefer to call it.’ He stirred his tea. ‘I knew one of its earliest exponents, Dean Henry Dodson. We were up at university together, with adjacent rooms in New College, though he was several years older than me and already writing his doctorate.’
I took a sip of tea, the aromatic liquid bursting with flavour on my tongue. No one, but no one, made tea like Professor Pinkerton-Barnes.
‘A strange fellow, something of a maverick,’ he was saying, ‘and, just like you, Barnaby, he had an interest in a vast range of subjects.’ He frowned. ‘Everything from medieval alchemy to ancient pagan cults, from mechanical calculating machines to apparatus designed to manipulate light …’
‘And he invented photography?’ I asked.
‘Invented,’ the professor repeated softly, and took a sip of his own tea. ‘From my experience, Barnaby, such things are rarely the invention of a single person.’ He smiled. ‘Rather they grow from the accumulated work of many minds all seeking universal truths.’ PB shook his head ruefully. ‘Though there are always squabbles breaking out between rival scientists as to who thought of what first,’ he added. He took another sip of tea. ‘But yes, Barnaby, Dean Henry Dodson is certainly a pioneer of the exciting new science, or art, of painting with light. And fascinating stuff it is, too …’
As so often happened when the professor and I got talking over a pot of Assam Black, we became so immersed in our conversation that we both lost all track of time. Before I knew it, night had fallen and the lamplighters had come and gone. I heard the bells of Montgomery Hall chiming. It was seven o’clock and, as I noted the lateness of the hour, Clarissa Oliphant’s disapproving face suddenly appeared before me. I placed my cup and saucer hurriedly on the table and jumped to my feet.
‘I must go, Professor,’ I said. ‘I’m late. Thank you for my tea.’
‘And thank you, Barnaby, for your cure,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
The evening rush, when crowds of cobblestone-creepers compete with countless horse and carriages in the city streets below, was all but over as I highstacked back across town. The air was s
till, the sky clear and, with the temperature dropping fast, I had to be careful not to slip on the roof tiles as a thick hoarfrost formed. Three quarters of an hour later, a perfectly executed Drainpipe Sluice brought me down in front of 12 Aspen Row. It was a little late for the genteel folk of Hightown to be receiving unannounced visitors, but I guessed that for me, Clarissa Oliphant would make an exception.
I was right.
‘Mr Grimes!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically when Tilly the pretty maid showed me into the drawing room. ‘Tell me what you have been able to discover.’
Seated before a roaring fire, I told her everything I’d found out that day. Everything, that is, except for my outlandish thoughts about the ghastly apparition that had stared out at me from the window which, in the clear light of day, seemed too fantastical to put into words.
‘I glimpsed a figure at the window,’ I told her simply. ‘A strange figure that I don’t think was your brother, Miss Oliphant, though I couldn’t be absolutely sure …’
‘A strange figure!’ exclaimed Clarissa Oliphant, then paused, for at that moment the door opened and in strode her brother, Laurence Oliphant. The collar of his baggy green overcoat was up, the wide brim of his Brompton down, while a thick, tartan scarf covered his mouth and nose. He glanced across at me, and in that fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
He glanced across at me, and in that fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
‘Clarissa, I think you owe me an explanation,’ he said, turning to his sister.
‘Indeed,’ said Clarissa. ‘Mr Grimes was just leaving.’
She ushered me to the door, pressed that second crisp banknote into my hand with a soft ‘thank you’ and closed the door behind me. I was glad to be out of the room, I can tell you. There had been a look of despair in Clarissa Oliphant’s eyes and, for a moment, I felt guilty about my original thoughts that she was overbearing and controlling. This was a proud and concerned sister, at the end of her tether. What was more, despite the heat from the fire, the look that Laurence Oliphant had given me had chilled me to the marrow in my bones. I was heading for the front door, when Tilly the maid came out of the scullery and took me by the arm.
‘Oh, Barnaby!’ she exclaimed, her pretty eyes clouded with concern. ‘They’re going to have one of those rows of theirs. And I hate it when they argue, I really hate it!’
In the drawing room, I could hear Laurence’s voice, shrill and peevish, growing increasingly agitated, and Clarissa, speaking firmly, endeavouring to calm him down. It wasn’t having the desired effect.
‘Stop trying to control me!’ Laurence protested.
‘But, Laurence, dear …’
‘Snooping round and prying into my affairs. It’s intolerable.’
‘But I worry so for your well-being,’ said Clarissa. ‘You don’t look after yourself, and you never had the strongest of constitutions, even as a boy. I’m concerned you’re making yourself ill.’
‘Well, don’t be,’ he snapped. ‘I’m fine. And anyway, you’re my sister, not my governess, and I’m not one of your precious pampered charges. Do you understand, Clarissa? I don’t want your concern.’
‘But my dear Laurence,’ boomed Clarissa, ‘all I want – all I have ever wanted – is what’s best for you.’
‘Then give me the money I need,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve made a great breakthrough, Clarissa, and I need funds to exploit its full potential. You have that strongbox full of gold sovereigns that Lord Riverhythe bequeathed you, which you hoard like a miser, while I, your own flesh and blood, have to beg and borrow to fund my work …’
‘But what is this work, Laurence?’ Clarissa asked beseechingly. ‘You won’t talk of it. It’s making you ill, and yet you ask me to invest my nest egg in it …’
‘Well, if you won’t cough up the gold,’ screamed Laurence Oliphant, ‘I’ll take something I can sell, at least!’
‘No, Laurence!’ Clarissa Oliphant exclaimed, the motherly tone to her voice replaced by fierce emotion. ‘Not that! You know how much it means to me.’
‘And you know how much my work means to me,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to my studio. Do not attempt to follow me!’
The drawing-room door flew open and he stormed past Tilly and me in a blur of movement, his fustian weave overcoat flapping behind him.
‘Laurence, dear,’ Clarissa called after him. ‘Laurence!’
The front door slammed shut. Tilly and I exchanged glances. The next moment, Clarissa Oliphant appeared in the hallway.
‘Bring me my smelling salts, Tilly,’ she said wearily, ‘I’m feeling a little faint.’ She turned to me. ‘Mr Grimes,’ she said, a single eyebrow arched. ‘You’re still here, I see.’
I nodded as Tilly hurried off to the scullery, drying her eyes on her apron.
‘My nerves,’ she said, pushing behind her ear a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun. ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’
‘If there’s anything I can do?’ I told her.
She nodded, and I saw the resolve in her pursed lips. ‘There is, Mr Grimes,’ she said, her voice booming once more. ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing, I want you to take me to this lock-up of Laurence’s. I intend to have it out with him. It’s time to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.’
First thing, she’d said, and first thing, I was there, knocking at 12 Aspen Row at eight o’clock on the dot. The door flew open and Clarissa Oliphant stood before me, dressed for the cold in a heavy calf-length greatcoat and an oversized green tam-o’-shanter. Her face was drawn and there were bags under her eyes. It didn’t look as though she’d got a moment’s sleep all night. She twirled an umbrella in her hand and thrust it forward.
‘Lead on, Mr Grimes.’
We must have made an odd couple as we strode through town. Clarissa Oliphant, tall, portly and silver-haired, striding impatiently behind me as I led the way, anxious not to be trampled underfoot.
The city was busy. It was Saturday, and several streets and squares were lined with bustling market stalls. We picked our way through the crowds on Fenugreek Street and Marston Lane as I retraced the route I’d taken the previous day. There was a distinguished-looking gentleman in front of the old Navy Memorial, exchanging lapel pins for donations to the Old Sailors’ Benevolent Fund. I paused to give him some spare change, causing Clarissa Oliphant to barrel into me and almost lose her footing on the cobbles.
‘Come, Mr Grimes,’ she insisted as I grabbed her elbow to steady her. ‘There is no time for delay!’
Broadacre was thronging and, not for the first time, I looked up longingly at the rooftops overhead, wishing that I was up there, far above the heaving cobbled streets. Using her umbrella like a weapon, Clarissa drove forward, her top lip curling as the foul stench that hung permanently over Gastown grew stronger. She pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and held it to her nose.
‘Not far now,’ I told her. We were on Blue Boar Lane. ‘It’s the next turning on the right.’
As we rounded the corner, I halted in my tracks. Something was not right.
The day before, Blood Alley had been deserted. Now there was a large group clustered around one of the lock-ups, staring intently and whispering to one another in hushed, urgent voices behind their hands. I noticed the ‘Black Margery’, a two-horse police carriage, parked at the end of the alley. A rotund constable, his face red and helmet askew, was guarding the open door of the lock-up, while from the back yards, every dog in the alley was furiously barking.
‘Which one is Laurence’s?’ asked Clarissa Oliphant purposefully, looking up and down Blood Alley.
My stomach turned somersaults. ‘That one.’ I pointed to the lock-up which was attracting all the attention.
Clarissa Oliphant let out a little cry of dismay. ‘I knew something was wrong,’ she boomed.
She broke into an ungainly lolloping run, her patent-leather pumps skidding on the frosty cobbles. She
pushed her way through the gawping onlookers; I followed in her wake. The constable stepped forward to bar her way, but the indomitable governess brushed him aside with her rolled umbrella, as though parrying a blow from a fencing opponent.
‘I’m Clarissa Oliphant,’ she proclaimed as she marched inside, ‘sister of the owner of this lock-up.’
I followed her. The constable protested.
‘Oi, you can’t go barging your way in ’ere! This is a murder scene …’
The lock-up, I discovered, housed a laboratory studio. It was cramped and hot, and bathed in a blood-red light cast by the ornate brass gas lamp on the side wall, which had a length of crimson silk wrapped round its glass cowl. Planks of wood had been nailed across the windows, cutting out every scrap of daylight. It was like stepping into an infernal pit.
There was a bench to my left, with a sink and zinc trays set along it, and overladen shelves above. To my right were cupboards, and a table bowing under the weight of the equipment piled upon it, while around my head, pegged to a clothes line that spanned the air and fluttering as I walked past, were numerous squares of paper. Each one was an oliphantype, the images of the faces that Laurence Oliphant had captured staring back at me impassively.
At the far end of the room, I saw a stout figure in a hound’s-tooth mackintosh crouched down beside an upturned cauldron. As Clarissa and I approached, he looked round, his face flushed in the red glow. He was jowly, with a hooked nose and dark, deep-set eyes, and was clasping a large magnifying glass in his right hand. On his head was a polished tub-belly bowler of charcoal grey, the latest fashion for detectives in the city constabulary. He looked the pair of us up and down, stroked his moustache, then climbed slowly to his feet.