Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  The older woman was fidgeting. She interrupted the young detective to ask if she might be on her way. She was traveling north to visit her sister, and she needed to make the proper train connections. Knowing everything he needed to about the woman, he let her go. I offered to accompany her to the station, but Detective Cubb detailed some uniformed men to do that. The younger woman and I wished her good-bye. I told her that I hoped to meet her again in court at the trial of our attackers.

  With the older woman’s departure, our interrogation came to an informal end.

  The younger woman — and this is the last time I will refer to her in this impersonal way — requested to make a phone call. She was told to inquire of the sergeant out front.

  For my part, I was eager to be on my way.

  “Now, about my valise,” I said. “How do I get it back if it’s returned to you?”

  Detective Cubb had begun shuffling papers. He meant to indicate that he was about to get on to the next thing — probably, once we left, more gating out of the window.

  “We’ll notify you,” he said. “I have your address.”

  “That’s my London address. Suppose I’m not there?”

  “Where will you be?”

  “In Burkinwell.”

  “Oh yes. You said that, didn’t you?”

  “You can contact me there.”

  “Really? Where will you be staying?”

  “At an inn. Let’s see.” I pulled out the scrap of paper where I had it written. “Here it is,” I said. “The Starry Night.”

  “The Starry Night?” Cubb laughed.

  “That’s right. Do you know it?”

  “Oh, I know it.” Cubb laughed again. He craned his neck to see if anyone was listening. Then he gave me a little smirk of male confidentiality. “They call it the Starry Night,” he said. “But they should call it the Esmirelda.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s the main attraction, Miss Esmirelda.”

  “Main attraction?”

  “You’ll meet her soon enough. Of course, I don’t know if she likes Americans. Ha ha. What am I saying? There’s nothing she doesn’t like. Ha ha.”

  “I say, this place isn’t some kind of bawdy house?”

  “No, no, no.” Cubb giggled. “Perfectly respectable. Except for Esmirelda.”

  “What about her?”

  “Just stands out, she does. Not much else going on in Burkinwell. Pretty sleepy place. Hope you’re not going for excitement.”

  “Taking photographs.”

  “So you said. Land?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Taking photographs of land? Involved in real estate, you are?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Certain about that?”

  “That’s not my business.”

  “Well, you hear things, you know. About speculators. Rumors go around. There’s valuable minerals under Burkinwell, they say. Don’t know what. Coal. Mercury. Tinned fish. Just rumors, I suppose. People visit the town. Poke around. Americans sometimes. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Not a thing. But as far as I know, it’s not illegal.”

  “What’s not?”

  “Real estate speculation.”

  “I should say not. But if there’s anything going on down there, I’d like to get in on it. Talk about forming a syndicate sometimes, me and the boys. Making some investments.”

  I thought about my own sorry finances. “I’m the last person to consult about that sort of thing.”

  “Too bad.”

  And here re-entered the woman I’ll now introduce by her proper name: Linda Drain. Mrs. Linda Drain. She told us about herself as she made her statement to the detective.

  Mrs. Drain was the wife of a minister. She lived in Burkinwell. And she didn’t look like a minister’s wife was supposed to look. She was fresh, and shapely, and well turned out. In repose, her face had the proper dignity; but when she smiled, her eyes and nose and mouth crinkled into an adorable clown face.

  “What were you doing down in London?” Detective Cubb had asked her.

  “Seeing some shows, hearing some jazz.”

  “Hmmm. Minister’s wife, you say?”

  Mrs. Drain’s face crinkled. She laughed from the back of her throat. “Oh, my husband hates jazz. And he fidgets in the theater. So I go to London alone and stay with my sister when I want to have some fun. He’s quite grateful not to have to go.”

  Now she stood in the doorway. She was wearing an ink-blue chemise, with a pattern of small, dark triangles, and a flounce that stopped just below her silk-stockinged knees. A smooth white cap with a little point on the crown clung to her head like an inverted buttercup.

  Several times, as we spoke, she lifted her cap and smoothed the crinkly, bobbed hair beneath.

  “Can I give you a ride, Mr. Castle?” she asked.

  “What? Do you have a car?”

  “My husband will. He’s coming to pick me up.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “My trunk is rather large. Will you have room?”

  We took our leave of Detective Cubb and went outside.

  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  We sat down on a low wall outside the police headquarters.

  “Oh, no trouble,” she said. “Depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “What kind of car.”

  “Yes?”

  “That is to say, what kind of car my husband can borrow.”

  “He has to borrow a car?”

  “He doesn’t own one. Doesn’t like them.”

  “How does he get around?”

  “He walks or — this may sound strange.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “He runs.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He strips off his shirt and runs. He’s a physical culturist.”

  “You mean exercises and all that?”

  “Always. He’s always doing exercises.”

  “And he’s a minister? What does his congregation say?”

  “They’re used to it. Besides, he’s got the theology to support it. Written articles about it. The body as a temple of the perfect spirit. Exercise as prayer. I haven’t read them myself.”

  “Sounds like muscular Christianity.”

  “Very muscular. Lithe. And well-proportioned.”

  Crinkling irreverently, she took off her hat and dropped it in her lap. Then she began fussing with the pins in her hair. It occurred to me that a longer hairstyle might have been easier to take care of. But maybe constant fussing was the point. I watched the sunlight playing on the wispy golden strands.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Are you a physical culturist?”

  “Not at all. But I do get exercise. You know how the song goes: ‘Dance and Grow Thin’? I dance as often as possible. I just adore jazz.”

  “Lots of it in London,” I observed.

  “Gobs,” said Linda. “My ears are still ringing.”

  There was a building boom going on in Devving. No prosperity was visible. Just building. At least a third of the buildings we could see were either under construction or they were being torn down. Not far from where we sat, brick walls were going up around a steel frame. A steam apparatus chugged inside the frame. There was a near-constant hammering sound. Work spilled into the street. Men mixed cement, measured pipe, and cut wood across impromptu sawhorses.

  “There’s my husband,” said Mrs. Drain.

  A fortyish man in clerical black strode briskly across the street. He was hatless and cleanly bald on top of his head. As he came up to the building under construction, he paused. Two workers were hauling bags of cement off the back of a truck. The bags were large and unwieldy and the wor
kers were huffing and wheezing. The Rev. Drain hailed them and came up around the back of the truck. He easily hoisted first one bag, then another onto his shoulders; and then, as steady as a Sunday stroller, he followed the two workmen into the building.

  A few minutes later he reappeared, dusting his hands and sharing a laugh with the workmen. Before leaving them, he handed them both what appeared to be religious tracts.

  Linda hopped down from the wall to greet him.

  “Hello, dear,” he said, taking her hands. “Had a bit of trouble, then?”

  “Nothing, really,” Linda said, hitting her husband with the flat of her hand. The Rev. Drain fell back a little. Linda hit him again and again on the chest, arms, and back.

  I wondered what was going on. Then I realized that she was beating the dust off his clerical outfit.

  “You’ve got to stay out of those construction sites,” she said.

  Drain said nothing. He barely flinched under the rain of feminine blows. His head with its attractively tanned dome stood stolidly. His eyes narrowed with amusement. Linda’s blows made a good solid thwacking sound. There was a strong torso under that black coat. Drain smiled at me over his wife’s shoulder.

  “How do you do?” he asked.

  Chapter Nine

  How I First Saw the Garden

  Rev. drain’s borrowed motorcar was a capacious old Crollier sedan. The roof was patched, bits of straw clung to the running board, and the bonnet was speckled with what appeared to be chicken droppings.

  There was plenty of room for my trunk in back. I hauled it in beside myself, while Linda settled herself in front, and her husband went out to crank the engine.

  “Don’t make a big thing about the robbers,” Linda whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t tell my husband what happened. Let me do the talking.”

  “Why?”

  “If he thinks it’s dangerous, he won’t let me go to London anymore.”

  I nodded my understanding. A gentle deception. But not wise, I thought. If Paolo and Shorty were caught, her husband would find out the truth.

  Did Linda have a boyfriend in London? A young fellow who liked jazz?

  Rev. Drain’s head bobbed once over the crank. The engine came to life. As he swung into the driver’s seat, Linda gave me another look to insure my cooperation. It was insured.

  Rev. Drain ground the gears. We were off. He was clearly an inexperienced driver.

  On the road to Burkinwell, Linda narrated her version of the day’s events. As she told it, Paolo and Shorty were something in the way of overgrown Boy Scouts who’d accidentally walked off with one of my bags. She’d been detained at the police headquarters simply to give a description of the two.

  Drain seemed to buy it. “Most unfortunate,” he said. “Were there valuables in the valise?”

  I had two views of Drain from the backseat. Straight ahead, I could see the back of his head, with its shadowy fringe of shaved bristle under the bald part. To see his eyes, I had to look into the rearview mirror.

  He addressed his looks to me through the mirror.

  “There were some legal papers in the valise,” I said. “If I don’t get them back, my business will be delayed.”

  Drain looked at Linda. “Didn’t you say he was a photographer, dear?”

  “He is,” said Linda. “Aren’t you, Mr. Castle?”

  “Yes. The legal papers are business things. Photography is my business.”

  “How did your instruments get broken?” Drain asked.

  Linda answered for me. “He was late for the train. And he tripped over the trunk getting on board.”

  “That’s that smell you probably smell,” I said. “Lots of chemicals got spilled.”

  “Some of them must have got on you, dear,” said Drain, sniffing in the direction of his wife.

  “Possibly. Ha ha. While I was helping Mr. Castle get his trunk off the train.”

  “Oh,” said Drain. “I hope the broken things are replaceable. I know how expensive photographic things are.”

  “Yes,” I said. “They are. Quite.”

  “We had a camera once,” said Drain. “And some darkroom equipment. I bought it for Linda. Do you remember your interest in photography, dear?”

  “Yes. That was years ago.”

  “You took a few good pictures. I mean, where you could tell what you were looking at.”

  “I wasn’t very good at it.”

  “She wasn’t,” said Drain to me. “Whatever happened to that camera, dear?”

  “Oh, I gave it away.”

  “You gave away that expensive camera? Perhaps we could have sold it.”

  “Oh, Tom. You know it wasn’t that expensive.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Castle would have liked to have seen it.”

  “I’m sure he has much better cameras than that. Don’t you, Mr. Castle?”

  “Well, I — ”

  “Who did you give it to?” Drain asked. “I’m just curious.”

  “Well, there’s a dear story to it,” Linda said. “I gave the camera to the Templeton girls. Anna and Clara. Do you remember when they were over last year?”

  “But they’re just children,” Drain said.

  “I thought they might have fun with it. But I forgot all about it until last Sunday.”

  “Were they in church last Sunday?”

  “Yes. Will you let me go on? I asked the older one, Anna, if they had ever taken any pictures with the camera.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She got all excited. She said, ‘Oh yes, Mrs. Drain. We took pictures of the fairies in our garden.’ Isn’t that sweet?”

  I tried to coax the knot out of my throat. “So — ” I gulped. “Did you — ahem — see these pictures?”

  “What? Oh, it was all their imagination, I’m sure. I used to imagine that sort of thing all the time. When I was a little girl. Didn’t you, Tom? When you were young, I mean?”

  “What sort of thing?” asked Drain.

  “Fairies. And gnomes. And elves. I used to imagine that the world was swarming with little creatures.”

  “Boys don’t imagine that sort of thing,” said Drain. “Do they, Castle?”

  “No,” I agreed. “But did you see the pictures?”

  “You don’t really think — ” Linda laughed.

  “Now there’s something you might want to photograph,” Drain said.

  “What? What?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” Linda enthused. “Templeton’s garden. It’s about the best-looking garden in Burkinwell. Very much worth seeing.”

  “Is that where,” I was gulping ridiculously, “the girls took their — pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “I say, Castle,” said Drain, “I don’t usually care for flowers and all that much, but this garden is really quite nice.”

  “It’s strange,” I said, “but someone already suggested I might want to photograph there.”

  “Recommended?” said Linda. “By whom?”

  “A friend of mine. From Burkinwell.”

  “We know everyone in town. Who was it?”

  “A policeman. Michael Walsmear.”

  Husband and wife exchanged a look.

  “Do you know him?” I asked. “I mean, he’s not a dear friend of mine. More like an acquaintance.”

  “We know him, of course,” said Drain. “Blustery sort of fellow. I suppose he’s a good policeman.”

  “He’s an unhappy man, I think,” Linda said.

  “The accident, of course,” said Drain.

  “So many years ago,” said Linda.

  They both glanced at me to see if I knew about “the accident.”

  I recalled what Walsmear had said during our lunch two days earlier. Just befor
e he had told me not to press my luck.

  I took a stab. “The girls’ mother?” I said.

  “Yes.” Linda sighed. “So sad. So terrible. Funny coincidence, all this coming up in the conversation.”

  We were stopped at a crossroads.

  “You know,” Drain said. “If I loop over this way, it will take us right past the Templeton cottage. Would you like to see it?”

  I tried not to sound too eager. “Hmmm. That might be interesting.”

  Drain pounded the gas pedal. He turned the wheel hand over hand, and we headed down a rutted, bumpy country lane. Stone walls rose up and petered out. Ruined barns stood atop low hills.

  “Mostly farms hereabouts?” I asked.

  “There was some industry in the area,” said Drain. “Came in about twenty years ago.”

  “What kind?”

  “Some manufactories. Outposts of big factories from up north. There was some kind of notion that there was coal in the area. Or oil, or some other valuable resource. No one seems to remember anymore.”

  “Doesn’t look like coal country,” I said. Not that I knew what “coal country” looked like. Unless it were a lot of Pennsylvanians hanging around.

  “It isn’t,” Drain said sharply. “This is no place for industry. This is farm country. And it should be kept that way.”

  He was studying my reaction in the mirror. I guessed he thought I was an agent for some industrial or mining concern. Or a land speculator. Or some other sinister business figure that neither he nor I could adequately name.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t care to see that repeated,” I ventured, safely.

  Drain growled. “I wouldn’t. Tearing up the countryside. Young men lured away from healthy pursuits. Stinking smoke.”

  “Hmm.”

  “There is nothing valuable under the ground of Burkinwell, I assure you.” Drain was emphatic. “No reason to locate a factory here. Why, they’ve only recently run electrical lines to Burkinwell.”

  “Hmm,” I said again, noncommittally.

  It was perfectly all right with me if the minister thought I was something other than what I was. What was I supposed to tell him? I’m not interested in your coal, old fellow. I’m interested in your fairies.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” Drain sighed. “I do love our English countryside.”