Suddenly the air had writhed and shimmered before her eyes. That first time had felt like falling into a hole or a dark dream. When she opened her eyes again all had vanished—the meadow, the well, and the trees. Elsie shivered in the darkness. A small figure emerged from the gloom, a girl whose long curls fanned away from her pale face. The skirt of her dress, wet and mud-stained, seemed to float around her slight body. When her mouth opened, words billowed out like fog.
“I only wanted to see myself,” the girl breathed. “Mummy’s going to be very angry about my dress.”
That was all—a simple confession that framed a horrible truth—and then Elsie blinked and found herself back in the meadow.
She’d dismissed it as a nightmare, more unsettling than frightening. Not worth mentioning to anyone. A short time later, however, a gossiping young housemaid let slip that the vicar’s niece had fallen into a Peverel well and drowned. As soon as the words were spoken, the maid clapped her hands over her mouth. “I weren’t supposed to say anything, miss,” she mumbled. “Her Ladyship said you was too delicate to hear of it, but maybe now that you’re healed proper and out of bed, she won’t mind you knowing?”
At first Elsie was too stunned to speak. Had she somehow seen the vicar’s niece that day by the well? Was it a premonition … or an encounter with the dead?
“Exactly when did the poor child die?” she finally asked.
“Whilst you was recovering. You was sleeping most of the day and having the most peculiar nightmares, so Her Ladyship didn’t want you to hear of the girl’s death. She feared it would upset your rest. Oh, miss, you’ve gone so pale—have I upset you?”
Elsie dismissed the maid as calmly as she could and spent the morning puzzling over what she’d learned. Could such a vision, one in which a girl’s hair and gown floated as though she were underwater, merely be a nightmare? It seemed too specific to be coincidence.
It was the second vision, a few months later, that truly terrified her. Sadly, it also proved her undoing as her mother’s darling little girl. They had been packing away her grandmother’s clothes and linens shortly after the old woman’s death. Though Elsie had suffered a bout of gooseflesh as she folded the yellowed underclothes, she’d felt no hint of sorrow. The Dowager Lady Rolleston, widowed early and kind to no one but her son, had excelled at being unpleasant. It was no secret that only Elsie’s father mourned her death. And that death had seemed to go on for an eternity—an extended cycle of relapses and last-minute rallies. Elsie had sighed with relief when Mother told her the old woman’s struggle had finally ended.
That day, as she tidied the room so the maids could give it a proper airing, she glanced toward the handsome oak headboard of the bed and saw the air writhe and shimmer as it had that strange day in the meadow. Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor, hearing her mother’s cry of surprise as if it came from a long distance. This hole gaped even deeper and darker than the first, and the figure that rose from the gloom was not a sweet-faced girl who merely looked lost. Instead it was the formidable apparition of her grandmother.
Only it was something else, too. The old woman’s eyes were black, and a substance like ink stained her mouth, making it a dark pit in the middle of her face. She lifted a hand and beckoned her closer. Elsie’s heart pounded, but she could not resist.
“You thought to be rid of me,” the woman said, showing blackened teeth.
Elsie stared, unable to speak.
“Poison, you stupid girl! You thought to rid me with foul poison.”
“What?”
“You gave that poison to me every day with a spoon,” her grandmother spat, “and then you poured the entire bottle down my throat. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
The woman’s hand reached out to clutch Elsie’s wrist, her grasp cold as ice. Elsie looked down and saw her fingers darkening to the ink black of her grandmother’s mouth. The black traveled through her veins as the chill snaked up her arm. She fell backward, drowning in darkness and bone-shivering cold.
She’d opened her eyes to see her mother’s anxious face hovering over her.
“My dear!” Mother slapped her lightly. “Elsie, are you awake?”
Elsie had pushed the hand away. “Stop, Mother.”
“Thank God! I’ve never seen you shake and moan like that. Your eyes were rolling back in your head!”
Elsie had rubbed her eyes to push away the image of her grandmother’s dark gaze and blackened grimace. “I saw Grandmama. She spoke to me.”
Mother frowned. “What?”
“Grandmama said …” Elsie’s voice quieted to a whisper. “That I poisoned her!”
A flush of anger mottled her mother’s neck and spread across her cheeks. “You never saw her. You never heard her say such a terrible thing.” She gave Elsie another slap, and this time it stung. “Don’t ever speak such lies again.”
Elsie had lain awake most of that night, afraid to dream again of her grandmother. By the time the dawn light streamed through her window, she was certain none of it had been a dream—neither the girl by the well nor the vision of her grandmother. They were real, and yet they were dead.
She had little time to ponder it further, for later that morning her mother had taken her to a London doctor. With little prompting he’d dashed out a prescription and presented it to Lady Rolleston like a gift. After that Elsie’s existence had devolved to a Chlorodyne haze, each day melting into the next with hardly anything to anchor her to waking life—nothing until he came to Peverel Place and put a camera in her hands.
For the first time the memory of his touch made her stomach convulse.
A dull pain began to thud behind Elsie’s eyes, making her groan. Her clear head came at a price—pain and nausea, as well as the threat of another full-blown episode.
She opened the bottle and took her dose.
After that she dressed and pinned her hair, frowning slightly as the heaviness settled over her body. There was comfort, however, in its familiarity. With the drug she was calm and grounded. Thus protected, she finally turned her thoughts to her beautiful artist, for whom she’d been willing to risk everything. She remembered him at the museum as if in a staged photograph—“Portrait of the Artist Preparing His Canvas”—and a wave of sorrow washed over her. The convulsions must have repelled him if he’d left the museum so abruptly. In his case, at least, her mother had been correct. How pathetic were the lengths she’d been willing to go to in order to be with him, when he couldn’t even look at her during her fit. Perhaps he’d never truly loved her at all.
At least Asher hadn’t abandoned her.
And the dark-haired gentleman who’d held her … Elsie’s heart fluttered to remember him. He’d been quite tender in his attentions to her.
A curious rush of relief followed these thoughts. She needn’t give up everything after all. Her treasures and comforts need not be abandoned for a life of poverty. She glanced at her camera and smiled. The light would be good this morning.
Perhaps the Poole girl could help her. After all, if Elsie were to continue on at Summerfield, she would need practice in making friends.
For once Kate was entirely without appetite. She tapped her toast against the plate as the others tucked into their own breakfasts. Asher avoided her gaze each time she risked a glance at him.
The previous night he’d stared at her as though she were a lunatic.
“Why would I want to go look at a dead body with you? The very idea is repulsive.”
“I doubt they’d let me see it if I went alone. Aren’t you at least curious to know if this dead boy is who I think it is?”
“It has nothing to do with me,” he’d said.
He was my dear friend, she thought. Doesn’t that mean anything? Judging by his scowl, she doubted it would. She’d taken a breath and switched tactics. “If we identify the body, it could help with the murder investigation. That would be rather heroic, don’t you think?”
A flicker of interest had
passed through his eyes. She let the idea hang in the air between them, resisting the urge to press him further.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” he’d finally said. “I’m too tired to think right now.”
Now she was biding her time until the Thompsons rose from the table. She would ask him then, and she would have to be persuasive.
All night horrid thoughts about Billy had plagued her. Where had he gone that night after the séance? Who would dare hurt him? The last time she’d seen Billy, his thin face peering out at her from the shadows of Mrs. Martineau’s staircase, he’d assured her he’d be fine. Even then she’d had a feeling of dread.
The notion that he could be dead had flourished in her imagination, and now its hazy borders had hardened into certainty. But if she was so certain, why this powerful need to see the body? She stared at her toast, considering this. Seeing the body would bring an end to the matter. And it might help her to know why it happened, perhaps giving her some clue as to who would kill a small boy. What scheme had Billy been working? Did it arise from his work with Martineau and the little detectives? More specifically, did it have something to do with Mr. Thompson and her father? Billy was clever for his age, but sometimes too brash. Perhaps he’d crossed a line and angered his target. He may have uncovered a piece of information that someone wished to stay buried.
If only she hadn’t taken the knife from him, he might have been able to protect himself. She shuddered at the thought of an adult—a burly man, she imagined—laying cruel hands on Billy. Knocking him down, wrapping his hands around the boy’s throat. The body would be bruised and broken, and it might as well be her fault. She would have to steel herself.
“Aunt, I would like to take some photographs in the garden today,” Elsie was saying. “I hoped you might allow Miss Poole the day off so she can assist me.”
Kate studied Miss Atherton. She seemed very sleek and pink-cheeked. Obviously she knew nothing about the body found near the college. She’d gone to bed before supper, and no one had dared tell her this morning.
Kate turned back to Mrs. Thompson. “I really can’t ignore my work in the library. Miss Freeman depends on me.”
Mrs. Thompson sipped her tea as she considered Kate. “I’m pleased to see someone of your years taking an obligation so seriously. Why do you need her, Elsie?”
“I hoped to pose her for a portrait. I don’t have enough practice with live models, you see. I’m imagining her as a character from a story, like the work of Julia Margaret Cameron.”
Kate didn’t know who this Cameron lady was, but she smiled behind her napkin in spite of herself. Miss Atherton wished to photograph her and her only. She couldn’t deny it was terribly flattering. And yet … there was Billy to consider.
Mrs. Thompson was smiling, too. “Seems like a worthy project. You may use the darkroom in the Science Annex—that way we can all see the results of your endeavors. Why don’t we compromise and say that Kate can have the morning to work with you?” She turned to Kate. “That is, if it suits you.”
Kate nodded shyly, feeling a traitor to Billy. Somehow, though, she would manage to steal away before Freeman expected her at the library.
“I can help, too,” said Asher, his eyes on Elsie.
“Sounds like a lovely plan,” Mrs. Thompson said. “All I ask is that you don’t leave the grounds today, Elsie. And send Kate to the library when you’re finished. I will explain to Miss Freeman.”
When Asher stood to the side, allowing the ladies to exit the dining room first, Kate trailed behind. Once they were alone she clutched his shirtsleeve and cocked an eyebrow.
He shook his head. “You heard what Mrs. Thompson said. We are not to leave the college grounds today.”
“She doesn’t want Miss Atherton to leave, but I’m quite certain you and I could slip out for half an hour. Mrs. Thompson need not know.” She held his gaze. “And if you don’t help me, I’ll be forced to tell Miss Atherton about your face when she doesn’t know you’re staring at her.”
“I don’t stare at her.” Asher frowned. “What are you saying about my face?”
“It reminds me of the wolf staring at Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Not sure I follow,” he muttered.
Kate grinned. “Ready to swallow her in one gulp.”
Chapter 13
Shamed by Kate Poole’s threat, Asher kept to the background while Elsie posed the girl for a series of photographs. He’d taken a seat on a wooden bench, affecting boredom as Elsie brushed the girl’s hair until it rippled softly down her back. It seemed to Asher that Kate’s hair, glinting a deep auburn in the sunlight, sighed with relief to be free of its customary plaits. Elsie had dressed her in a loose-fitting white dress—some sort of nightgown, he thought—but it achieved the medieval look she’d sought for the portrait.
Asher had scoffed at the idea of photographing an awkward girl like Kate, but with her soft hair and flowing gown she wasn’t quite so dreary a subject as he’d expected. Her face lost some of its sharpness when her hair hung loose by her cheeks. Her color had improved, too, and her skin looked smoother than when he’d first seen her.
Elsie, on the other hand—it took effort not to stare at her as she worked. For a girl who ordinarily moved as if walking through a dream, she was surprisingly precise with her camera. Her clear sense of purpose beguiled him, but at the same time he was intimidated by her expertise with the contraption. Afterward he offered to carry the camera and plate holder to the darkroom for her, but she declined. She hadn’t met his gaze directly all morning.
As he watched her walk away, he sensed Kate at his elbow. He turned to find her smiling coyly. She looked almost pretty.
“My, what big eyes you have,” she murmured.
He sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Just allow me to dress—I’ll be quick.”
She was quick. In less than ten minutes she returned wearing an everyday white blouse and brown skirt, her hair restrained once more in plaits. Her hat was less crumpled than the first day he’d met her—perhaps Elsie had tended to it.
“I don’t even know where we’re going,” he said.
“Regent Street, near Parker’s Piece.”
He stared at her blankly.
“It’s not far. Just follow me.”
They took the same route he and Elsie had taken the day before, but instead of turning at Trumpington, they continued on to Regent. The building, quite obvious with POLICE boldly chiseled into the stone arch above the door, stood on the west side of the road.
In that moment Asher imagined himself a police detective, or better yet a gentleman detective consulting with the police on a murder case. Surely that would be more interesting than a career spent in a dusty courtroom. He knew he was clever and had a good eye for details. He could become the sort of person who merely glanced at a dead body and knew exactly how the poor soul had died and why. He could be the American Sherlock Holmes—just as intuitive and logical, but not nearly so odd.
“All right,” said Kate, clasping her hands. “There should be a constable at the front desk. Tell him you’ve heard about the murdered boy and you think we might be able to identify him.”
“Why do I have to do everything?”
“You’re male and you’re posh. Don’t you remember how Jones treated me at the Summerfield gate? He listened to you.”
Subdued by her words, Asher opened the door, remembering just in time to let her go before him, and approached the young man hunched over the counter.
“Excuse me, constable?”
The man looked up. “Yeah?”
“We’re, um … we’re here about the body found last night in Queens’ Green.”
“Here to confess, eh?” The man’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He hardly looked older than Asher.
“Of course not!” Asher took a breath and relaxed his clenched fists. “We think we may know who it is.”
The constable straightened. “Well, I’ve only just come on
duty. Last night would have been Sergeant Floyd—he’d be more help to you.”
“Is he here?”
“No, he don’t come in until after four.” He looked around. “Truth is, we’re a little short of staff right now.”
Kate stepped forward. “All I want is to see the body. I don’t have any questions for the sergeant.”
His eyes widened. “You want to gawp at a corpse? We’re not running a sideshow here, miss.”
“I’m not here for entertainment. I fear it’s my friend you’ve got back there. Couldn’t you please just let me have a look?” she asked. “It won’t take much of your time.”
The young constable studied her for a moment. “I’d like to help you, but it’s contrary to the rules. I’d catch a great deal of trouble for letting a stranger off the street into the morgue.”
“Perhaps we should go, Kate,” Asher said quietly.
She turned bold eyes to him. “I think all the constable needs is a little encouragement.”
“What?”
She rubbed her index finger and thumb together.
“I never suggested anything like that,” the constable objected, and yet the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.
Asher glanced back at Kate, fully prepared to end this farce with a cutting remark, but her expression choked the words in his throat. Her chin was up, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Before coming to Cambridge he’d never bribed anyone in his life, but if this continued he’d be bankrupt by the end of the week. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half crown. “Well, constable?”
The young man affected indecision for the briefest moment. Then he grinned. “Oh, why not—I’m bored as it is. But I can’t be away from the desk for more than a moment.”
“A moment is all I need,” said Kate.
Pocketing the coin, the constable led them down a long corridor, past several offices, to a room at the far end of the building. When he opened the door, a sickening odor assailed Asher’s nostrils. Was that the smell of a dead body? How was it possible to live your life working amid such a stench? Feeling lightheaded, he quickly drew a handkerchief from his pocket. After staring at it for a moment, he steadied himself and offered it to Kate.
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