Portrait of Peril

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Don’t worry, he’s fine,” Sally says, putting her arm around me.

  I pray that if Hugh didn’t jump off the bridge, he didn’t take his life somewhere else, in some other manner. Our group feels incomplete without Hugh, my usual, stalwart companion on adventures like this. The painful void in my heart grows bigger with every moment he’s gone.

  “Remind me why we’re here,” Barrett says to me. “If you don’t believe in ghosts, you can’t be expecting to find any.”

  “I do expect to find some of the suspects here,” I say. “I’d like a chance to question them again.” I’d also like to fully convince myself that ghosts don’t exist.

  Our conversation lapses. Earlier, Barrett told me that he’d taken a squadron of constables to Bethnal Green Workhouse, but he was unable to find Nat Quayle or the men I’d described who’d attacked Mick and me. They must have figured I would report them and that the police would be coming and made themselves scarce. Now Barrett is stewing, frustrated because he didn’t get justice for me, and the tension from our argument hasn’t gone away.

  “We got company,” Mick says.

  I become aware of shadowy figures—there must be dozens—walking among the rubble. Barrett says, “I thought this event was just for the Society for Psychical Studies.”

  “Sally, your article in the newspaper must have brought out the curiosity seekers,” I say.

  “Yeah, they’re lookin’ for a little fun before Halloween,” Mick says.

  Firelight glows from a large, irregularly shaped hole in the ground that looks like an entrance to hell. People descend into it as if they’re the souls of the damned. We follow them down an iron staircase to a dank cellar illuminated by lanterns hung on rusty gas pipes on the walls. The gas must have been turned off before the demolition. The scene is as noisy and cheerful as the lobby of a theater on opening night. I see fashionable ladies in fur coats, accompanied by impeccably tailored gentlemen, among the plainer locals. Everyone crowds around the arched entrance to a dim tunnel that’s blocked by a man clad in a sleek black overcoat and tall top hat.

  “That’s Richard Trevelyan,” I say to Barrett. “Charles Firth’s publisher.”

  Mr. Trevelyan greets acquaintances and welcomes them into the tunnel. He says to a group of local men, “I’m sorry; this event isn’t open to the general public.”

  “The newspaper didn’t say that,” one man says. He and his companions push past Mr. Trevelyan. Other people follow suit.

  “Good to see you, Mrs. Barrett and Mr. O’Reilly. You can go right in.” Mr. Trevelyan flashes his toothy smile at us before he turns his attention to the invading horde. “I say, this is a private event. Stop, please!”

  We’re swept into the tunnel, a long, wide, straight corridor with brick walls, an arched ceiling, and a worn, uneven paved floor. More lanterns hang from disused gas pipes. Their flames flicker in the cold, damp draft that carries the fetid odor of cesspools. The jail hasn’t lost all its power to inspire uneasiness. I shiver, imagining that it’s absorbed the evils suffered here for some two hundred years. But the crowds seem to relish the sinister atmosphere. They open the creaky iron grates that barricade the cells, examine the old bunks and washbasins. Other photographers are setting up their cameras. Voices and laughter echo. Unlit tunnels branch off from the main corridor. We come upon a crowd peering into a chamber in which Leonora Firth and four other women sit at a round table, colorful shawls draped over their hats and coats. Smoking incense burners surround a lit candle in the center of the table. A notepad and pencil in front of Mrs. Firth are ready for spirit writing.

  “Excuse me, who are you trying to contact?” Sally asks. She’s told her landlady that she’ll be spending the night with me, and she’s happy to escape her curfew, excited to cover the story of the ghost hunt.

  “The spirit of a little girl that’s been heard sobbing in the tunnels,” Mrs. Firth says, pointedly ignoring Mick and me.

  Children convicted of crimes were imprisoned at the jail, and I suppose many sickened and died here. I photograph Mrs. Firth and her circle; then I lead Barrett, Mick, and Sally farther down the tunnel. It opens into a large, octagonal room that must be below where the tower once stood. Eight stone pillars in a ring at the center support the ceiling. Bull’s-eye lanterns hung on them emanate beams of light that crisscross in midair. A doorway at the far end leads to another dimly lit tunnel. Dr. Lodge in his white coat stands in the center of the room, his arms spread to shield his magnetometer from the crowd.

  “Don’t touch!” he says. “This is a valuable, delicate scientific instrument.”

  “Hello!” Anjali, in a gray coat with a black velvet collar and matching black velvet hat, leaves her father’s side and runs up to us.

  She and Mick smile at each other. The air suddenly seems vibrant, and I don’t think it’s from the kind of magnetic field that Dr. Lodge’s apparatus measures.

  Anjali curtseys and daintily extends her hand, palm down, to Mick. “My lord.”

  Mick bows, takes her hand, and bends his head to kiss it. “My lady.”

  Anjali giggles with delight, but as Mick’s lips touch her skin, her eyes and mouth open wide with sudden terror. She yanks her hand away from him.

  “What’s the matter?” Mick says, disconcerted.

  “You have to go!” Anjali says.

  “But I just got here.”

  She pushes him toward the exit. “Just go. Please!”

  “Don’t you want me here?” Mick sounds hurt.

  “You’re in danger.”

  “Danger, from what?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Dr. Lodge hurries over to his daughter. “Anjali, did you have a vision?”

  “Yes, Father, but I’ve already forgotten what I saw.” Her face a picture of distress, Anjali says to Mick, “I just know that if you stay, something terrible will happen to you.”

  Mick grins, relieved that this isn’t a brush-off. “I been through terrible stuff before. I can take care of myself.”

  “You would do well to heed Anjali’s vision,” Dr. Lodge says.

  “Please!” Her eyes sparkle with tears. “I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

  Mick offers her his handkerchief with the masculine condescension of a hero in a romantic novel reassuring the damsel in distress. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

  “She once warned me not to go out, and I didn’t listen,” Dr. Lodge says. “I was knocked down by a runaway horse. I was lucky to suffer only a broken arm. I could have been killed.” He says to Barrett and me, “If you care about your young friend, you should take him away.”

  “It sounds like you don’t want us here,” Barrett says.

  Dr. Lodge subjects Barrett to his cool, detached scientist’s scrutiny. “And you are …”

  “Detective Sergeant Barrett, Metropolitan Police.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly flustered, Dr. Lodge says, “I just don’t want anyone injured. And I don’t want this expedition disrupted by trouble of any kind.”

  I think he’s eager to get rid of the police detective and reporters who are investigating the murder case in which he’s a suspect. “We’ll watch over Mick,” I say.

  Anjali stands close to Mick. “So will I.”

  Dr. Lodge frowns. “Anjali, I need your help with my experiment.”

  Anjali sighs. “Yes, Father.” As she reluctantly accompanies him back to the magnetometer, she casts a longing glance at a forlorn Mick.

  I wonder if Dr. Lodge is afraid that Mick will take liberties with Anjali or that she’ll tell him something that pertains to the murder, something Dr. Lodge wants to keep secret.

  Mick and I are photographing the scene, and Sally is interviewing Dr. Lodge about his magnetometer, when angry voices blare from the tunnel. Leonora Firth screams, “Stop them!”

  Jean Ritchie, dressed in a long, violet wool cape and a feather-trimmed black hat, marches into the room with another woman who’s fair and pretty, with upswept blond h
air and a royal-blue hat and coat. They carry megaphones. I’m surprised to see Jean, because if she doesn’t believe in ghosts, why come to a ghost-hunting expedition?

  Leonora Firth rushes up to Jean. “How dare you show your face here?”

  “Oh, I’ve enough gall to show my face anywhere I like,” Jean says with a flippant smile.

  Mrs. Firth utters an indignant cry and points to the exit. “Get out!”

  “We’ve as much right to be here as you.” The blond woman speaks with an Irish lilt. Now I recognize Diana Kelly minus the luminescent green face paint. “This isn’t your private property.”

  Mrs. Firth grabs Jean by the arm. Diana hits Mrs. Firth with her megaphone and shrieks, “Leave her alone, you crazy bitch!”

  The crowd flocks around them to watch. Barrett, the only law officer present, says, “Hey! Break it up!” He wades into the melee and shoves the combatants apart. They glare at him. “Who are you?” he asks Jean.

  “I’m the president of the Ladies’ Society for Rational Thought.” Jean indicates Diana. “This is my second-in-command.”

  “Ha! The Harridans’ Society for Libel and Slander would be more apt,” Mrs. Firth says.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Barrett says.

  “She tried to ruin my husband.” Mrs. Firth lunges at Jean. I grab her and restrain her.

  “He and his kind have ruined people by cheating them of their life’s savings,” Diana says.

  “The spiritualist movement is too strong for you to destroy with your screeds and lawsuits,” Mrs. Firth huffs. “So you took it a step further.” She says to Barrett, “She killed my husband. Arrest her!”

  Jean regards Mrs. Firth with scorn. “Oh, stop acting the bereaved widow. You had more reason than I to want him dead. Wasn’t it humiliating to watch him lavish his attention on everyone except you? Especially when the objects of his attention were female?”

  Mrs. Firth gasps and clutches her chest as if she’s been shot. “Charles was always a devoted husband to me.”

  Diana sniffs. “A devoted husband who squandered money on other women who were down on their luck. And how do you suppose they repaid his generosity?”

  This is an ugly portrayal of Charles Firth. Am I but one of many women who gained at his wife’s expense? Did he intend to extort sexual favors from me, after selling me photography equipment at a discount had put me deep enough in his debt? I don’t want to believe it’s true.

  “I wager you got rid of him so he couldn’t land both of you in the poorhouse,” Diana says.

  Mrs. Firth sputters. “You’re just bitter, jealous old maids.”

  “Better old maids than a fool,” Jean retorts.

  “Ladies, ladies. This is neither the time nor the place for a squabble.” Richard Trevelyan steps into the scene, a noble peacemaker between battle lines. “Miss Ritchie, if you and your friends would please …” He extends his arm as if to usher them out.

  Jean turns on him. “Oh, you’d like us gone before your reason for wanting Charles Firth dead comes to light. You can make extra money now from the sales of his books, with all the publicity surrounding his death.”

  Mr. Trevelyan grimaces and hunches his shoulders. Dr. Lodge calls to Jean, “Please remove yourselves. You’re creating a hostile atmosphere for my experiment.”

  She laughs. “If ghosts really existed, you wouldn’t need a gadget made of scrap iron to detect them. Oh, by the way—didn’t you have your own grudge against Charles Firth? I heard he was a member of a faction that wanted to oust you from the presidency of your society.”

  Dr. Lodge pretends not to hear, but he twists a knob on his magnetometer so hard that it breaks off in his hand.

  “Did you get all that, Mrs. Barrett?” Jean says with a sly smile. She beckons Diana and says, “Onward!”

  As I marvel that she’s handed us three additional motives for three murder suspects, the pair march out of the room and into the tunnel beyond, shouting through their megaphones, “Attention, everyone! Ghosts aren’t real! They’re a hoax perpetuated on you by charlatans!”

  Mrs. Firth sobs, and the women from her séance circle bear her away. More people crowd into the room, and Dr. Lodge says, “This is a disgraceful mob scene. Richard, can’t you find a way to barricade the entrance?”

  Mr. Trevelyan departs, a man swimming against the flood tide. Reporters accost him, and he stops to give an interview.

  Barrett looks around the room. “Where’s Mick?”

  “I don’t see him, or Anjali. They must have sneaked off together.” I see the flashlamp and supplies by the magnetometer, where Mick left them. I don’t put much stock in Anjali’s visions, but I’m alarmed nonetheless. “Sally is gone too.”

  “We’d better find them,” Barrett says.

  I leave the camera and tripod with the other equipment so they won’t hamper us; I hope they’re safe enough. Barrett takes my hand, and as we head toward the tunnel that leads deeper into the prison, he says, “Stay with me. Don’t go wandering alone.”

  I think it wise to obey him this time. Beyond the octagon, the main tunnel is lit, but the cells and chambers are dark. People stray into dimmer branch tunnels, in which the lanterns hang at wider intervals with deep shadows between them. Eerie moans raise goose pimples on my skin.

  “It can’t be a ghost. It’s somebody pretending.” But I’m uncertain in spite of myself; the atmosphere breeds superstitious fear.

  Barrett frowns at some young toughs joking and shoving one another as they swig from whiskey bottles. “They’re from the Somers Town Boys gang. This could turn bad. As soon as we find Mick and Sally, we should go home.”

  “A splendid idea.” I’ve already gotten enough food for thought from Jean Ritchie.

  We venture along a dim, narrow branch tunnel and peer into the darker cells. We find a young couple kissing, but it’s not Mick and Anjali. As we push our way through the crowd in another tunnel, Barrett says, “There must be thousands of people down here.”

  Their numbers seem to be growing by the moment, and I smell liquor on breath that vaporizes in the air. Shrill cries of “Ghosts! Ghosts!” rise above the cacophony of voices.

  Half the crowd runs toward the cries, carrying me along; the other half flees in the other direction, taking Barrett. His hand rips loose from mine. I break free of the crowd as it spills into a junction between wider tunnels. Two children clad in tattered white sheets with cut-out holes for their eyes are running about, flapping their arms, and hooting like crazed owls. Spectators scold, laugh, or groan because they were tricked. I retrace my steps, looking for Barrett. He’s not where we parted; he must have gone in search of me. I head down the main tunnel, toward the octagon. The crowds have grown even larger, streaming in and out of tunnels. The atmosphere is as raucous as at a carnival, tense with expectancy, as if the main show is about to begin. Amid the roving strangers, some twenty feet distant, I see someone familiar. He’s wearing a wool coat instead of a gray smock, and a derby covers most of his blond hair, but I know that puffy-eyed, thick-lipped face. It’s Nat Quayle.

  Our gazes meet. He’s not alone; his companions are the inmate who led Mick and me into the trap at the workhouse and the piggish man who was among our attackers. With their faces partly in shadow, partly illuminated by the flickering lantern flames, they resemble ghouls in a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. They recognize me, and their expressions turn fierce, predatory.

  I turn and run. As I weave through the crowds, I hear the men’s footsteps pursuing me. What do they mean to do to me? Kill me because I set the police on them? If Quayle wasn’t the enemy yesterday, he is now. I shout for help, but people glance at me, then ignore me; they think it’s another ghost prank. Some women stand chattering and laughing near the entrance to a tunnel. I hide among them and watch, for a heart-pounding instant, while Quayle and his companions hesitate. Quayle points down the branch tunnel, and the three hurry into it. I race down the main corridor. If I can get to the octagon room, I sho
uld be safe; they wouldn’t dare attack me under bright lights in the presence of many other people. I pause only to glance into another branch tunnel in search of Barrett, Sally, and Mick. I see a man and woman together, her blond hair faintly shining in the light from a distant lantern. She’s turned away from me; all I can discern about the rest of her is the silhouette of her dark dress with its protruding bustle. The man is Richard Trevelyan. He and the woman stand intimately close, talking in loud, angry whispers.

  Dr. Lodge said he’d seen a blond woman accost Charles Firth after a Society meeting. Could this be the same woman? Curious to know who she is and what the argument is about, I steal into the tunnel. My shoe crunches on broken glass. Mr. Trevelyan sees me and frowns. As the woman starts to turn toward me, he mutters a warning, seizes her arm, and hurries her away down the tunnel. I follow. Then I see, in the distance beyond them, Nat Quayle and his friends coming toward me. The men quicken their steps, push past Mr. Trevelyan and the woman. I whirl and run. Turning corners, I lose my sense of direction. The crowds are sparser, the tunnels dimmer; I can’t find my way back to the octagon. The heavy footsteps behind me sound louder and nearer, quickening with malicious intent. Breathless, I force a burst of speed from my tired legs. On my left side are iron-grated doors to cells; on my right, a solid wall. I’ve reached the perimeter of the jail. There’s nobody else in sight. Ahead is a corner where the wall meets another wall. Just before I reach the junction, one of the inmates bounds past me and cuts off my escape.

  I skid to a halt, trapped in the corner. Nat Quayle and the other man catch up with us. As the three surround me like a pack of dogs who’ve run a deer to ground, I see an opening in the wall near me. It’s a tall, narrow slot carved into the stone, the space inside completely dark. Without thinking about what’s in there, I hurl myself into the slot.

  The men curse as darkness swallows me up. I grope along a passage so narrow that I can touch both sides without fully extending my arms. Rough bricks scrape my fingers, cobwebs graze my face, and a chill, damp draft moans like a madwoman in an asylum. This must be some sort of ventilation tunnel. Quayle and his friends aren’t following me. I see, in the far distance, a vertical band of light—an exit. But my relief is short-lived; they might intend to trap me when I come out. Beating them to the exit is my only hope of escape. I fumble blindly while the light at the exit grows larger by tiny increments. The tunnel is divided into sections separated by stone barriers with narrower, higher slots cut in them. I squeeze through the slots, my progress slow and laborious. The darkness and the enclosed space seem to compress my lungs; I gulp and choke on the draft. None too soon, the band of light at the end is large enough that I can see the stone floor on which I’m stumbling and the brick walls around me. If Quayle and his friends ambush me, so be it; if I stay in here, I’ll suffocate.