“What did they say?”
“I couldn’t hear. When they saw me, they moved down the street.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Young, with blond hair, dressed in black.” When prompted for more details, Dr. Lodge says, “It was dark and foggy. I didn’t get a good look.”
I wonder if Dr. Lodge has invented a mysterious blonde to divert suspicion from himself. “May I speak with the other members of your society?”
He spreads his arms in the manner of a priest welcoming the heathen into his fold. “Of course. We’ve nothing to hide.”
CHAPTER 13
During my talk with the members of the Society for Psychical Studies, I discovered that roughly half think Charles Firth was murdered by a ghost. The others think the murderer is human, and they eagerly proposed suspects, some of whom are rival spirit photographers. But Jean Ritchie is the hands-down favorite—either she put one of her “harpies” up to killing Mr. Firth, or she did it herself.
When I left the observatory, Mick and Anjali came walking together across the lawn toward me. Their expressions solemn, they didn’t speak to or look at each other until they parted. She said, “I live in Bloomsbury, number forty-eight Burton Crescent.” Mick said, “Right.”
Now, on the train, he keeps quiet, and I stifle the urge to ask questions. It’s not until we’re in Bethnal Green, carrying the photography equipment along St. Peter Street toward the church, that he breaks his silence.
“Deirdre’s my ma.”
I’m surprised, and not only because Anjali hit so close to home when she “read” him. He’s never told me his mother’s name. All he’s said is that when he was eight, she ran away with a man. He pretends he doesn’t care, but her abandonment must have hurt him as much as my father’s abandonment did me.
I don’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. I do think about her, but it’s water under the bridge.”
I’m not the only one who’s been haunted by the ghost of an absent parent, but I’ve found mine, while Mick is obviously still missing—and yearning for—his.
“What did you and Anjali talk about?” I want to know what’s going on between them. She seems a nice girl, but her father is a suspect in the murder, and I’m far from comfortable with her “gift.”
Mick stops and points. “Blimey, will you look at that?” A noisy crowd of men, women, and children outside the church has given him an opportunity to change the subject. I think it’s safe to assume that the case has turned personal for Mick as well as me.
In the church’s entryway stands the Reverend Thornton, his face stern as he says, “This is a house of worship. If you’re here for any other purpose, go home.”
Grumbles and protest erupt from the crowd.
“We want to see where the murder happened.”
“Was it really a ghost that done it?”
The newspaper stories have brought out the curiosity seekers.
“The Rev ain’t gonna let us in either,” Mick says. “We’ll have to sneak in.”
We hurry around the church through a side gate to the yard. Beneath the skeletal oak trees, we follow a leaf-strewn gravel path around evergreen shrubs. A raven picks at a bloody bone. I think of the cholera pit, and I shiver.
Mick tries the side door. “It’s locked, but no problem.”
He applies his picklocks, and we carry our equipment into a passage. The church seems deserted; the only sounds are the creaks old buildings make. A doorway I’ve never seen before leads to stone steps that descend into blackness. Recalling things that have happened to us in other dark underground places, I don’t want to go there. Mick gropes his way down the stairs, and I hear a gas jet hiss and a match strike. Light flares from a sconce on the wall at the bottom. I carry the equipment down to the crypt while Mick lights other jets along a passage that seems wider than the one outside the crime scene because there’s no junk stacked along the walls.
“Anjali’s pa’s ghost meter would come in handy,” Mick says.
I’m disturbed to see that he’s half-serious—Anjali has shaken his skepticism as well as mine. We explore chambers with ledges where coffins once sat. The dead have been removed from many London churches and transferred to cemeteries. It’s hard to see much inside the chambers because they lack gas pipes for lights. I can’t tell if the scuff marks in the dust are signs of recent activity. We come upon a chamber that still holds wooden coffins that look decades old, the wood rotted, the nails rusted. Mick opens them, and I hold my breath so as not to inhale human remains, but they’re empty.
“I’ll try some photos here,” Mick says. “Maybe it’s haunted by the ghosts of the people who used to be in the coffins.”
“I’ll have another look at the crime scene.”
While he mounts the camera on the tripod, I make my way along the passage, turn a corner, and enter the familiar area outside the chamber where Charles Firth’s body was discovered. Amid the junk are boxes of candles and matches. I light a candle and examine the chamber, averting my eyes from the bloodstain still on the floor. There’s no trace of the greenish slime that I don’t want to believe is ectoplasm. Charles Firth must have come in contact with it somewhere else. I inspect other chambers, to no avail. In one, between the coffin shelves, I notice a doorway, and I lean through it into darkness. The smell of earth and cesspools is stronger and fouler here. The light from my candle penetrates only a few feet beyond the threshold. The walls of this space are roughly carved from the earth, and brick pillars rise from the dirt floor to a low ceiling with exposed rafters. It looks as if construction on the crypt wasn’t finished after the church was built.
If any ghosts inhabit the church, this is where they’ll be.
Goaded to overcome my superstitious fear, I inch forward, candle extended. A cold draft elongates the flame. I’m not reassured to know that the cavern has an opening to the surface. It feels as though it’s breathing. I hear skittering noises—from rats or cockroaches—and a distant, muffled explosion as Mick takes a photograph. Then, from deeper in the darkness, comes a whimper.
My heart vaults into my throat. I freeze in my tracks. “Who’s there?” My voice trembles.
After a long silence comes an eerie moan that sounds replete with sorrow and despair.
Someone’s in here with me.
As I turn to flee, a movement catches my eye—a dark shape, briefly silhouetted in the light from the passage before it merges with the shadows. It’s between me and the exit, and if it’s not a ghost, it could be the person who killed Charles Firth—perhaps one of the suspects I’ve met, perhaps someone unknown. I back deeper into the cavern. Something soft and airy grazes my face. I stifle a shriek, telling myself it’s only a cobweb. The shape, vaguely human now, advances on me, staying in the dim outer radius of the light cast by my candle. The weak, guttering flame now seems too bright, marking my location, rendering me a clearly visible target. Whatever the creature is, it makes no noise, as if it’s shod in velvet or floating above the ground. My back bumps into a pillar, jarring a gasp from me. As I step around it, the draft blows out my candle. Blinded, I stumble over something on the floor. I drop the candle, fall forward, and land on what feels like a pile of lumber. As I struggle to push myself upright, the rough boards scrape my hands. Then I hear, from somewhere behind me, another whimper.
I’m caught between two presences that my intuition says are dangerous. Choosing to brave the one I’ve glimpsed rather than the one I haven’t, I race toward the lighted door, toward all that’s ordinary and sane. Just before I reach it, the hulking figure of a man dressed in dark clothes steps in front of me. I skid to a stop before I run smack into him. His fair hair catches the light from the passage, a gold nimbus crowning his head. Now I discern his soft, boyish features. He’s not a man; he’s Reverend Thornton’s twelve-year-old grandson.
“Daniel!” The word escapes me in a burst of relief.
He responds with a strange,
satisfied smile. “I scared you.”
My relief turns to anger. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. What are you doing here?”
He tilts his head, solemnly pondering my question as if it’s more complicated than it seems. “You’re looking for ghosts, aren’t you?”
I grasp at the skepticism that the last few minutes have undermined. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
An explosion from the flashlamp reverberates through the crypt. Daniel says, “Then what’s the red-haired boy trying to take pictures of?”
“We’re investigating the murder,” I say, resenting this interrogation by a child who’s made a fool of me. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you,” he says with a hint of sassiness. “Grandfather says the crypt is off-limits to everyone except the police.”
“But you seem to have the run of it.” Here is my chance to get in the questions the vicar prevented me from asking two days ago. “Were you in the church that night?”
A long moment elapses while Daniel ponders again. Is his mind slow, or is he trying to fabricate a good lie? “There are ghosts here, whether you think so or not. Sometimes I see them out of the corner of my eye. I think they’re scared of people. But someday, if I sit still enough for long enough, maybe they’ll know I don’t mean them any harm. Maybe they’ll let me look at them.” He watches me closely to observe my reaction. “Do you think they will?”
I put on an expression intended to convey an adult’s patience with a child’s fancifulness. “I think you’ll be disappointed.” But his matter-of-fact recital was scarier than the curate’s tale about the ghosts of a resurrectionist and a cholera victim, and Daniel is a disturbingly odd boy.
He peers into the far, pitch-dark reaches of the cavern. “This must be where they come into the church. There must be an underground tunnel from—” He pauses, then whispers, “H-E-L-L.” He must have been scolded for uttering bad words.
I’m not sure I believe in hell, let alone secret portals leading to it, but his suggestion gives me an idea. “Is there an entrance to the church in here?”
Daniel studies me as if I’m an insect stuck on a pin. “You want to know if that’s how somebody got in and killed the photographer.”
I think he’s mentally quicker than he acts, and he’s taxing my patience. “Is there an entrance or not?”
He regards me with condescending pity. “It wasn’t a person. It didn’t need a door to get in.” Before I can demand that he answer my questions, he puts his finger to his lips and says, “Shh!” He tenses; his widened eyes search the darkness.
A soft, high-pitched wail makes my heart jump. I forgot that there is another creature in the cavern with me. The wail repeats, louder. I want to bolt out the door, but I don’t want to seem a coward.
Daniel’s pale eyes shine. “It’s coming closer,” he whispers.
“It must be a dog that got trapped in the church.” My voice trembles with lack of conviction.
The wail peters into growling, indeed like an animal’s. My mind conjures up a picture of a werewolf, its human face overgrown with fur, its teeth elongated into fangs.
“Not a dog,” Daniel whispers. “A demon.”
A slithering noise, like a beast dragging itself across the floor as it wakes from centuries of slumber, accompanies another wail. Under my skirts, something clutches my ankle. I scream. Bony fingers claw my skin. This is no inanimate wax hand on a rod. I kick and yell, lifting my skirts to see what’s underneath. The grip on my ankle releases. Daniel bursts into laughter that rises to shrill, maniacal hoots. His twin sister Lucie is kneeling by me, all dimples, disheveled black hair, and merry eyes. She giggles and covers her mouth with hands dirty from crawling on the floor.
Mick rushes into the room. “Sarah! What’s wrong?”
I double over and clasp my chest, too breathless to speak for a moment. Mick stares, puzzled, at the children. Their mirth subsides into proud smiles.
“I’m all right.” Gasping, weakened by relief, I say to Lucie, “You scared me half to death!” Furious at her trick and my own stupidity, I tell Mick what she and Daniel did.
Mick, who’s played many a trick himself, scowls with his effort to avoid laughing. “You naughty brats oughta be spanked.”
Lucie’s smile fades as she rises to her feet, and she seems so innocent that I can’t stay angry at her. Daniel hangs his head, chastened. Although I can see how comical my reaction must have looked to them, I’m annoyed, but I say, “Never mind, there’s no harm done.” Both twins seem not quite right in the head; they probably didn’t know any better.
Mick voices the idea that’s occurred to me. “Have you been playin’ tricks on other people?” he asks the twins. “Were you the ghosts they seen?”
Lucie shrinks from his accusing tone. Daniel puts his arm around her, glowering at us. His fist clenches as though ready to do battle in his sister’s defense. “It wasn’t us,” he says.
Again I think of the curate’s description of a resurrectionist with a female corpse, and I picture Daniel carrying Lucie through the church at night while she whimpers and moans. “This is serious,” I say to them. “A man’s been murdered here. If you’ve been pretending to be ghosts, it’s time to admit it.”
“Yeah, so that we’re not chasin’ false clues while the real killer is out there,” Mick says.
“The ghosts are real,” Daniel protests, and Lucie nods.
I don’t trust them. “Were you in the church that night?”
They solemnly shake their heads, their mouths closed tight. I’m almost certain they’re lying, but before I can challenge them, the Reverend Thornton hurries into the chamber.
“How did you get in?” he demands of Mick and me. He turns to the twins. “And what are you doing here?” His face is dark with displeasure as he orders, “Everyone, out!” He marches the twins out to the passage; Mick and I follow. “Daniel and Lucie, what have I told you?”
The twins stand like soldiers at attention, their arms stiff at their sides. Daniel recites, “That part of the crypt isn’t safe. We’re not allowed to play there.”
“Correct.” The vicar explains to Mick and me, “The ceiling is unstable. You could have been hurt by falling rocks.” He says to the twins, “Go home. You’ll be punished later.”
They shuffle away. I call, “Wait.” As they pause, I say to Reverend Thornton, “I think they were in the church the night of the murder. I need to know if they heard or saw anything.”
“You’re mistaken.” He motions for the children to leave, and they obey. “I already told you they were at home, asleep.”
“Do you watch ’em every minute?” Mick says.
“I’m a light sleeper. So is Mrs. Thornton. If they’d left their beds, one or both of us would have heard.”
Now I’m more certain than ever that whether or not the children are the “ghosts” rumored to haunt the church, they know something. “There’s a killer at large. If he thinks the children are witnesses to the crime, they could be in danger.”
“I’m fully capable of protecting my grandchildren, thank you.”
“It’s important that you cooperate with the investigation, so that the killer can be caught,” I say.
“Of course we will cooperate with your husband’s investigation, in the unlikely circumstance that we can be of any help. But we’re under no obligation to cooperate with the press, Mrs. Barrett.” The vicar has put me in my place as the mere wife of a policemen rather than a professional detective in my own right. “And I would appreciate it if you do not publish stories about my grandchildren in your newspaper.” He extends his hand toward the stairs. “I’ll see you and Mr. O’Reilly out now. If I find you here again, I will call the police.”
CHAPTER 14
Mick and I find ourselves on the front steps of St. Peter’s with our equipment, like unwanted guests evicted from a hotel. We cross the street to escape the reporters, photographers, and gawkers still gathered outsid
e the church.
“What’s the Rev trying to hide by keeping the kids away from us?” Mick says.
I don’t want to think the worst. “Maybe nothing. They seem fragile, and he’s their guardian.”
“Could they have done it?” Mick sounds as reluctant as I am to believe they’re killers.
“I don’t see why they would have wanted to kill Charles Firth. There’s no evidence that they even knew him.”
“They’re weird, though.”
I can’t help wondering if Charles Firth was a victim of some game played by Daniel and Lucie.
“Daniel’s big and strong enough to stab someone,” Mick points out. “He could be the ghost in the picture.”
I remember the strength of Lucie’s grip on my ankle. The poor orphaned children are two more people, in addition to Dr. Lodge and Anjali, who I hope aren’t guilty. And I can’t say I really want the culprit to be Jean Ritchie or her friends. It behooves me to find other suspects.
“Let’s look for clues outside the church,” I say.
We retrace our steps to the gate by which we previously entered the churchyard, then walk along the narrow strip of grass between the church and the iron fence that separates it from the sidewalk. Sharp leaves on the holly bushes planted by the walls snag my skirts. We stop at the front of the building, where the main entrance with the tower atop it juts from the wall. The corner is landscaped with evergreen shrubs and a tree.
“Suppose the killer knew Charles Firth was coming to the church and lay in wait for him,” I say. “He wouldn’t have wanted to be seen.”
“This’s a good place to watch the front door,” Mick says. “Maybe he left something.”
We peer under the shrubs, which are tall and dense enough to conceal a person. Mick says, “Hey, there’s a shoe.”
A man’s left boot, dark brown around the bottom, lighter brown on top with black buttons, lies on its side among dead leaves. The leather is grimy, the sole caked with mud. When Mick grabs the boot, it kicks at him. We exclaim and jump backward. There’s a foot inside the boot, and a leg clad in dirty gray-and-black-striped trousers attached to the foot. The shrubs rustle as the man under them pushes the boughs apart and sits up.
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