“Oh. The policeman. Yes,” Mrs. Firth says. “I meant so that Charles’s spirit can come.”
So she believes in ghosts, and she thinks her husband will appear to her. I pity her for her foolishness.
“Spirits won’t come if the atmosphere is unsympathetic.” Mrs. Firth looks closely at my friends and me. “Are you sympathetic to the spirits?”
We all nod, aware that if we say no, she’ll tell us to leave. She leads us down the passage to a room furnished as a library, with bookshelves that cover the walls. The black velvet curtains are closed, and the only light comes from a candle in a silver holder atop a heavy round wooden table. Beside the candle, incense sticks burn in a green ceramic jar. The smoke is so dense that my friends and I cough. Mrs. Firth sits in one chair at the table, motions us to seat ourselves, and folds her hands.
I picture her keeping vigil like that ever since she learned her husband was dead, patiently waiting for his ghost to appear. “Did your husband believe in the supernatural?” I ask.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Firth pauses. “Well, not when we first met. But while we were courting, I talked to him about the things I’ve seen and introduced him to my friends in the spiritualist community, and he eventually came to believe.”
I wonder if he adapted his personality to hers, just as he adapted it to those of his customers. Was it the kind of compromise that many married couples have to make? I glance around the room. On the shelves, in front of the books, are figurines, crystals, animal skulls, strings of beads, feathers, bells, and demonic masks. Either Charles Firth was a believer or didn’t mind living with the trappings of his wife’s superstition.
“The policeman said there were negative plates in Charles’s cameras at the church. He mentioned the wedding.” Mrs. Firth fixes her hopeful, eager gaze on me. “You must be his wife. He said you were going to develop the negatives. Have you? Was there anything on them?”
So that’s why she let us in—to find out if her husband photographed any ghosts. I reach in my satchel, take out the print of Charles Firth, and warn her, “I’m afraid this may be disturbing to you.” Then I lay the print on the table.
Mrs. Firth gasps as she touches her fingertip to the pale, blurred figure assailing her husband. She looks up, her eyes shining with elation. “He captured the image of a spirit!” Then sorrow crumples her face. “A spirit that killed him.”
My friends and I don’t try to contradict her; I doubt she would listen. I say, “Did you know that your husband was planning to spend the night in the church?”
“Oh, yes. I had heard that St. Peter’s is haunted, and I told Charles it would be a good place for spirit photography. If I hadn’t sent him there, he would still be alive.” She covers her face with her hands and quakes with sobs. Her hands are large, the joints knobby, with a ring on each finger. The plain gold wedding band looks out of place amid others set with chunky garnets, turquoises, and opals. “It’s my fault he’s dead!”
Perhaps it’s her fault in a different way than she means. When a married person is murdered, the spouse is a logical suspect. Mick slips out of the room, presumably to search the house for clues. As Mrs. Firth mops her face with a black-bordered white handkerchief, Hugh asks, “Where were you the night before last?”
She doesn’t seem to notice that Mick is gone. “I already told the policeman I was at home by myself. He didn’t say so, but I know he suspects I killed Charles.” She utters a woebegone laugh. “Of course I didn’t. And here’s proof.” She touches the “ghost” in the photograph.
But she hasn’t an alibi. “How long were you married?” I say.
“Eleven years.”
“Have you any children?” I’m seeking other people who might have information germane to his murder, and even youngsters might. I remember the vicar’s grandchildren, whom I suspect know more than they’ve been allowed to tell.
“No.”
“Was your marriage happy?” Hugh says.
Mrs. Firth plays with her rings. “Yes.” She tugs the wedding band over her knuckle, then pushes it back into place. “We had our troubles, but yes.”
Glancing toward the bookshelves, Hugh wiggles his eyebrows at me. I look over there and see a knife lying in front of some books. It appears to be an antique, with a carved ivory handle. I notice other knives on other shelves, a veritable collection. I wonder if Mrs. Firth cleaned the murder weapon and hid it in plain sight.
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted your husband dead?” I say.
“No. He was well liked.” Then she bursts out, “Why are you bothering me with these questions? My husband was murdered by a spirit.”
I struggle to be tactful. “We’re helping the police investigate the murder. We need to explore all the possibilities and determine precisely what happened in the crypt last night.”
“I’ll ask my husband. He was there. He saw everything.”
I remember the fake medium from my childhood, and anger rises like a wall in me. “Do you propose to conduct a séance?”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t the gift for summoning the spirits. I can only wait for them to come to me of their own volition. They speak to me through automatic writing.” Mrs. Firth goes to a desk, fetches a sheet of white letter paper and a pen, and brings them to the table. She sits down, takes up the pen, and rests the nib on the paper. “If the spirits are willing, they take control of my hand and write messages.”
While I struggle to conceal my revulsion, Hugh says, “Does it really work?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a famous example. When Mr. Charles Dickens, the author, died in 1870, he left his last novel unfinished. Only the first six installments were published. His spirit was troubled because he’d left his readers desperate to know how the story ended. He channeled the conclusion through an American named Thomas Power James. Mr. James was an uneducated man, barely literate. He couldn’t have written it, let alone imitated Mr. Dickens’s style.”
“Remarkable.” Hugh widens his eyes, as if he’s impressed, but there’s a flat note to his voice.
My opinion can’t be uttered in polite company. Mr. James must have engineered a hoax somehow. I think that if Charles Firth didn’t believe in the supernatural, he should have tried to dissuade his wife from believing. Some compromises are too big to make, even for love.
“Now, please, be very quiet.” Mrs. Firth breathes deeply, swaying from side to side and back and forth, as if her body is a net trying to catch her husband’s spirit as it swims in the ether. “Charles, are you there?” she says in a hushed voice. “It is I, Leonora.”
The incense smoke stings my eyes, infiltrates my lungs. I begin to feel light-headed, and I hear whispery sounds. Hugh looks queasy, as if he’s experiencing the same phenomena. It can’t be spirits; probably something in the incense causes hallucinations.
Mrs. Firth’s hand jerks. The pen zigzags across the paper, as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer, then draws a crooked heart. A smile trembles on her lips, and tears leak from her eyes. “He’s here. He says he loves me.”
I’m torn between anger and pity. She draws wavy lines that spiral around the page into the center, where they form two blobs. My eyes water from the smoke, blurring my vision. The pen scribbles letters of the alphabet in seemingly random groups and positions. Mrs. Firth shudders and whimpers while jagged marks cover the blobs. Her arm stiffens, and her hand flings the pen across the room. She slumps over, hands pressed against the table. She gasps and blinks, mouth agape, like a woman who was drowning in the ocean and has been flung ashore by a wave.
Hugh gets to his feet. “I say, Mrs. Firth, are you all right?”
I open the curtains and the window, letting in light and fresh air. Mrs. Firth grabs the paper, crying, “Look! Charles drew his murder. That’s the spirit that killed him!” She points at one of the blobs. “I told you so!”
If I strain my imagination, it and the other blob have vaguely human shapes, but I think Mrs. Firth, either intentionally or s
ubconsciously, copied the photograph that’s still lying on the table.
She touches the jagged marks. “The ghost is stabbing Charles with mystical energy. And see these words.” Her finger moves around the page, tapping the scribbled letters. “Thief, hide, gold, steal. The ghost was once a thief who buried his loot where the church now stands. He thought Charles was trying to steal it. Now we know what happened!”
Scorn vies with my pity. The whole alphabet is there; she could spell out any words she liked and interpret them in countless ways. The “message” is as false a clue as I expected.
Mrs. Firth spells out more words. “ ‘Good-bye until we meet again.’ ” She looks up, her eyes luminous. “Charles will be coming back.”
“Rubbish!” Hugh slams his hands down on the table.
Mrs. Firth and I both jump. Hugh shouts at Mrs. Firth, “This is nothing but your wishful thinking disguised as spirit communication.” His face is so dark and twisted with rage that I’m alarmed; I’ve never seen him like that. As Mrs. Firth protests, he snatches the paper from her. “You poor, stupid, deluded fool. He’s never coming back.”
“Hugh!” It occurs to me that Mrs. Firth isn’t the only one who’s lost somebody and Hugh isn’t really talking about her husband.
“Give me that!” Mrs. Firth screams.
She grabs the paper, and it rips. Hugh crumples the part he holds in his hands and throws it on the floor. Mrs. Firth drops to her knees, picks it up, and holds both parts to her bosom. Hugh stands huffing like a cornered bull, opening and closing his fists, his eyes wild with rage and grief. I lay a soothing hand on his arm, but he violently shakes me off.
Mick, alerted by Mrs. Firth’s scream, rushes into the room. He takes one look at Hugh and says, “Sarah, let’s get him out of here.”
As we pull Hugh to the foyer, he sags between us, his strength drained, the wildness on his face yielding to misery. His drinking, his staying out all night, and his scuffle at my wedding breakfast were but preludes to this episode, and I fear that worse is yet to come.
A loud knocking at the door startles us all.
CHAPTER 8
When my friends and I don’t immediately answer the door, it opens. A man carrying a wicker picnic basket steps into the foyer and removes his black silk top hat. He says in a cultured voice, “I’m here to give my condolences to Mrs. Firth.”
His dark, expensive coat and trousers drape loosely on his tall, thin, willowy frame. He’s like a fashion illustration for a smart haberdashery, only too old, looking to be in his fifties. His blond hair is turning silver, and the skin on his long, bony face sags. His pleasant smile reveals large, yellowish teeth. “The name’s Richard Trevelyan.” He extends his hand for me to shake.
Caught by surprise, I shake his hand and introduce myself. After Hugh and Mick follow suit, I say, “Did you know Mr. Firth?”
“Yes, we were close friends. I’m also the publisher of his books.”
“Richard!” Mrs. Firth hurries into the foyer.
Mr. Trevelyan sets down the picnic basket and takes her hands in his, which have long, manicured fingernails. “I came as soon as I heard. My dear Leonora, I am so sorry.”
Mrs. Firth turns her tear-stained face to my friends and me. “I thought you’d left.”
I don’t want to go yet; Mr. Trevelyan might have useful information. I frown at Hugh, irritated at his rudeness as well as sorry for his pain.
“Mrs. Firth, I apologize for my terrible behavior,” Hugh says. “I don’t know what got into me. There’s no excuse.” He bows his head. “I beg your forgiveness.”
Mrs. Firth eyes Hugh as if she doesn’t know whether to trust his latest abrupt change in mood. Mr. Trevelyan, obviously puzzled because he doesn’t know what transpired between them, says, “Why don’t we all sit down for a nice chat.” He holds up the picnic basket. “It’s near lunchtime, and I had my cook pack some provisions. Leonora, dear, I wanted to make sure you keep up your strength. There’s enough for everyone.”
“That’s very kind of you, Richard.” Mrs. Firth addresses my friends and me. “Please do stay.” We murmur our thanks, and I feel guilty because we’re imposing on her during her bereavement. She says quietly to Hugh, “I forgive you. Often, the people who most need to believe in the abiding power of the human spirit are the most vehement disbelievers.”
The dining room is dark and gloomy, the table cluttered with books and papers. While Mrs. Firth moves them to the sideboard, Mr. Trevelyan opens the drapes. Outside the window is a back garden enclosed by ivy-covered walls. There, weedy-looking plants, perhaps herbs, grow in ceramic pots. Mr. Trevelyan unpacks the picnic basket, setting out bottles of milk and cider and unwrapping roast beef sandwiches, cheese, pickles, fish pies, and iced cakes. Mrs. Firth rummages in the cabinets for plates, glasses, and silverware. When we’re seated, Mick devours his food, taking care to chew with his mouth closed and wipe it on his napkin instead of his sleeve. I’m hungry, but I swallow guilt with each bite.
Mr. Trevelyan cuts his sandwich in small pieces with a knife and fork, as if he were dining at a banquet. “How do you know Charles?” he asks my friends and me. After I explain that I was once a customer of Mr. Firth and his murder was discovered during my wedding, he says, “How extraordinary! The cosmic forces must have brought you back together.”
“Miss Bain and her friends are photographers and reporters with the Daily World,” Mrs. Firth says. “They’re working with the police to investigate Charles’s murder.”
“I see.” Mr. Trevelyan’s tone says he’s mystified as to how that state of affairs came about, but before he can ask, Hugh speaks.
“Are you a believer too?” Hugh has eaten nothing, but he refills his glass with the hard cider. His polite tone has a derisive edge, and I kick him under the table.
“I am indeed.” Mr. Trevelyan sounds proud.
Hugh ignores me. “You actually think that communication with the dead is possible?”
“I do. And I’m in excellent company.” Mr. Trevelyan reaches in his pocket and brings out a pamphlet, which he spreads on the table in front of Hugh and me. The title, in ornate lettering , reads The Society for Psychical Studies. “I belong to this society. So do many of the kingdom’s most prominent, respected individuals.”
Mrs. Firth eats mechanically, as if she doesn’t taste the food. “Look at the member list on the back page. You’ll see the names of scientists, scholars, and members of Parliament.”
“There’s a meeting tomorrow, at noon at the Kew Observatory,” Mr. Trevelyan says to Hugh. “It would be a good opportunity to educate yourself.”
Hugh thumps his glass down on the table. “Sir, are you calling me ignorant?”
Taken aback, Mr. Trevelyan says, “Not at all. I’m just saying that before you scoff at spiritualism, you should learn the facts.”
“Facts?” Hugh snorts. “Everything about spiritualism is half-baked mumbo jumbo.” I kick him again, and he says between gritted teeth, “Sarah, stop kicking me.” He pushes back his chair. “I’ve had enough of this.” His voice breaks, and he stalks out of the room.
It’s the first time he’s walked out on an investigation, a bad sign. As the front door slams, Mr. Trevelyan looks bewildered and Mrs. Firth relieved to see the last of Hugh. Mick starts to rise, glances at me, and hesitates; he can’t decide whether to go after Hugh and leave me alone with two potential murder suspects or stay. He sits back down.
Mr. Trevelyan breaks the awkward silence. “Perhaps you would like to have this.” He hands me the pamphlet.
I thank him. The list could point me to other people who knew Charles Firth. “You said that you’re Mr. Firth’s publisher. What kinds of books did he write?” I’m less interested in the books than in determining the nature of the relationship between the men.
“They’re collections of his photographs, with his descriptions.” He fetches a book that Mrs. Firth moved to the sideboard. “Here’s the latest.”
The book is about
an inch thick, expensively bound in purplish-brown leather and embossed with stylized blossoms. Stamped in gold letters is the title: The Spirit Photography of Charles Firth, Volume 3. I open it at random to a photograph printed on smooth, heavy paper, of a young woman in black mourning garb. She stands beside an open coffin in which a bearded man lies beneath a white shroud covered with a bouquet of lilies. In the upper background hovers a translucent image of the same man’s face, gazing down at the woman. The heading on the opposite page reads Mrs. Antonia Wall and the spirit of her late husband Joseph, Kensington, 1889. The text contains information about the subjects as well as the camera, lens, lighting, exposure, and developing process that Charles Firth used. I flip through pages and view portraits of other people with the ghosts of their dead loved ones. They contain none of the theatrical effects that provoked my scorn for others I’ve seen—no halos above the ghosts, no famous people among them. They look disconcertingly real.
“Not only did Charles capture the spirits with his camera, but these photographs are beautifully composed and technically excellent,” Mr. Trevelyan says. “He was an artist.”
I nod, forced to agree. I can admire Charles Firth even as I deplore that he was one among many frauds, and my desire for justice for him doesn’t diminish. I put great stock in the fact that he did me a good turn despite how he treated other people.
“His books are very popular,” Mr. Trevelyan adds.
Mrs. Firth has slipped out of the room, and now she returns with the photograph I brought. “Charles took this just before he died.”
“Good Lord.” Mr. Trevelyan gapes. His astonishment changes to delight. “Leonora, we should publish special-edition prints of this. It will become a collector’s item—the most sought-after spirit photograph ever!”
I wonder if Mr. Trevelyan really believes in ghosts or just recognizes that they’re good for business. He stands to gain financially from the murder—perhaps he was the “ghost” in the photograph, disguised in a white sheet. But how could he have known that Mr. Firth would trigger the self-timer on the camera? And with Mr. Firth dead, there will be no more spirit photographs from him, no more books to sell. Why kill the goose that laid golden eggs? Nonetheless, Richard Trevelyan is still a better suspect than an imaginary ghost.
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