by Susan Green
There was an artist’s impression of a scantily clad couple under a palm tree. The article continued.
Mr Flavell spoke of the terror of the wreck. He told of the courageous spirit of an unknown fellow passenger, a young man, who ceaselessly encouraged those who were struggling in the waves. He called to them repeatedly to hold on to whatever they could, and not let go.
A shiver ran down my spine. A young man? Saying “Hold on”? Could this somehow be Alexander? No, it wasn’t possible.
But my hand was shaking as I read on.
The search party will continue to search the coastline, which is wild and uninhabited, with many small islands such as the one on which the Flavells were discovered. No further bodies have been recovered, and as sharks are plentiful in these tropic seas, it may be assumed that they have
I’d read all I needed to. I folded the paper quickly and looked up to find Mrs Morcom’s sharp, beady eyes on me.
“This is good news,” I said. “Some passengers did survive the wreck.”
She nodded, and her wrinkled little monkey’s face softened. “SP will do all he can. He won’t give up until … until–”
“Until he finds Papa.”
“Of course.”
I knew she meant to comfort me. But I could tell she didn’t think Papa was coming back. She thought I was fooling myself.
I took a deep breath and remembered what Connie had said in her letter. I repeated it to myself. “Hope is an anchor,” I whispered. And I had to hold on.
Meanwhile, there were things to do, and I was glad of the distraction.
The most important, according to Miss Deane, was to see to my health. Judith’s doctor, Dr Oddly, took a good look at me. He listened to my heart and lungs, made me poke out my tongue and peered into my eyes and ears. He then lectured me on the dangers of tightly laced corsets.
“But I’m not tight-laced,” I said to him. To tell the truth, I wasn’t laced at all.
“I know you are not,” he said. “I rejoice in it. You are not a victim of fashion. I’ve seen young women with their interior organs squeezed all out of place, barely able to breathe, fainting at the slightest exertion …” He went on a bit longer before he pronounced, “You, young lady, are fit as a fiddle.” As if he couldn’t bear to give only good news, he added, “Though a little undersized for your age.”
“But the fainting?” asked Miss Deane. “The sleepwalking?”
“Young girls can be prone to such things,” he said. “See me again if it continues.”
And that was that, apart from the bill.
Next on our list was the meeting with Andrew Ross. Luckily, Miss Deane was able to arrange an interview straightaway, so we took the train into the city, and then a cab to his office in East Melbourne. There was no fuss and bother with the office boy this time. We were shown straight up to his room. And, it seemed, almost straight down again, for our meeting was short and sweet. No. Actually, it was not sweet at all. Mr Ross had not received our envelope with the mysterious “2” envelope enclosed, and he was very angry.
“What kind of investigators are you?” he stormed in a red-headed temper. “You should have made a copy.”
My heart sank. Of course we should. It was something SP had taught me – whenever you have vital documents, always make several copies. In really sticky cases, he’d advised, the copies should be stored in separate locations. How could I have forgotten? On the night of the storm, Miss Deane and I had made a serious mistake.
“We’re very sorry. But I have an excellent memory, sir,” I told him. “I may have a word or two wrong, but he’d written something like this …” And I repeated what Alan had written.
“I’d have liked to have seen it myself. The reading room at the library – what could he have been looking at in there? And what was the shocking discovery?” He thought for a few seconds, and then thumped his fist on his desk. “Your carelessness is unforgiveable,” he said. “Unprofessional, and–”
I cut him off and tried to tell him what I’d learned about Lavinia and the spirit photograph, but he lost his temper again.
“Haunted? Poppycock! What was Alan’s letter about then? He’d found out something and was prepared to act. I’ll bet my boots it wasn’t some ridiculous ghost story.” He shook his head. “It seems I was correct in my first judgement. I should never have entrusted this investigation to a pair of females.” He stared challengingly at Miss Deane, but she met his gaze.
“I hope we can prove you wrong, sir,” she said.
“You expect to continue with the case after this appalling bungle?”
“Why not? We have several promising leads–”
“I’ll give you a week,” he interrupted.
“Two,” said Miss Deane.
I thought he was going to blow his top again, but after glaring at us both he said yes.
At least I’d done one thing right, I thought as we exited his office. I’d remembered the address on the back of the photograph in Mrs O’Day’s bedroom. If nothing else, we might be able to solve the mystery of the two Alans.
“Tomorrow,” I said to Miss Deane, “we should go to see Mr Gabriel Riva, Maindample Buildings, Carlton.”
As we walked up the steep flight of stairs to Gabriel Riva’s first-floor studio, I wondered what kind of man we’d find. Was Mr Riva a fake, using the tricks of his trade to squeeze money out of his victims? Or a genuine spirit photographer, someone who could make portraits of the living dead? I didn’t know which I was hoping for.
Mr Riva’s assistant, Fred – a cheerful young man with sandy whiskers – showed us into a waiting room. He told us that Mr Riva wouldn’t be long. Miss Deane sat on the sofa, but I walked around the room with Mrs Morcom, looking at the framed photographs that lined the walls. Did I mention that she’d come along with us? She had no interest in the case, but was curious about the art of photography.
“I’ve been thinking about photographing plants,” she said. “It would be a great help with short-lived flowers. After you’ve finished with Mr Riva, I will pick his brain.”
His pictures were all portraits. Young beauties with bare shoulders and glittering jewels were hung next to old hags. Portly bewhiskered gents in fine suits with gold watch chains were set beside tramps. There were groups of larrikins, manly young footballers, Chinese children such as we’d seen in Little Bourke Street, and an Aboriginal man with patterns of scars on his chest. What a world of contrasts, I thought. Mr Riva must have a very interesting view of life. I wondered if it extended to life after death?
“Good morning, ladies.” The voice was crisp, clear and very confident. I turned round. A tall, slim man stood in the doorway to the studio. He was handsome and well-dressed, with a moustache and pointed beard. “How may I help you?”
Miss Deane introduced the three of us, and told him she wanted to ask him some questions about a photograph he’d taken. He raised his eyebrows. “I know it is not of you, ma’am, or either of your friends. I never forget a face.”
“No,” said Miss Deane. “It’s not any of us.”
She slipped a quick look my way and nodded. It was my cue – a bit obvious, but never mind that – to pay close attention when she named the sitters. I was to watch for anything suspicious in his reaction.
But when Miss Deane said “Mr Alan Ross and Mrs Lavinia O’Day”, Mr Riva simply smiled.
“A very handsome pair,” he said. “Just what a betrothed couple should be. Tell me, are they married yet?”
Miss Deane shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Ross died recently. He drowned not long after the picture was taken.”
“Oh no.” Mr Riva groaned. “They were so in love. It is a tragedy, a real tragedy.” He seemed to me to be completely sincere. Either that, or he was a very good actor.
“You don’t, by any chance, take more … more unusual photographs for your clients?” asked Miss Deane.
“I am a respectable man, ma’am.” He suddenly looked very stern
. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“This.” And Miss Deane produced the picture with the two Alans.
“Ah, yes. How Mr Ross laughed when he saw it. He said he was twice the man for being engaged to her.” Mr Riva looked at the photograph with a sad expression on his face. “It was a joke, you see.”
I spoke for the first time. Pointing to the extra figure, I said, “So this was an accident that happened when you developed the film?”
“No, not at all. It was quite deliberate. Mr Ross asked me to do it.”
I was astonished. Lavinia was already fearful about spirit photographs, so why would Alan deliberately alter the engagement portrait so that it looked like one? I tried to remember the letter. Alan had written something about having “proof positive” before he could act. Was this picture part of his plan?
“Do you know why?” I asked. “Did he tell you what he wanted it for?”
“No. I thought that it was just one of those little jokes that couples have. I did what he asked, and didn’t inquire further.”
Miss Deane wanted to pin him down once and for all. “So it’s not a spirit photograph?”
Mr Riva looked almost offended. “Not at all. I have seen many examples of so-called spirit photography, and I can tell you here and now that they are, each and every one of them, fakes. Double exposures, alterations to the photographic plate, the addition of extra photographic material – there are many ways to create the effect, and not one of them involves spirits. Unless the photographer takes a little whisky as he works.” He laughed at his own joke. “No, no. I assure you, Mr Alan Ross asked me to do this.” He picked it up and studied it. “And it’s rather convincing, if I do say so myself.”
“Thank you, Mr Riva,” said Miss Deane, putting the picture back in her valise. “You have been very helpful. We won’t take up any more of your valuable time.”
“You ladies did not wish to have your photographs taken?”
We shook our heads, but Mr Riva said coaxingly, “The sitting is gratis – absolutely free – as is the first print. I have an irresistible curiosity about the human face – as you can see by my work out there in the waiting room. I would like to add you to my collection. You are all, if I may say so, very distinct types.”
“No, no,” said Mrs Morcom. “I’m distinctly old, that’s all. I shall want a talk with you, once you’ve finished with these girls.” She poked him in the chest with her gloved finger. “I’ve had a quick look at some of your pictures here, and you’re quite good, you know. Almost an artist.”
Mr Riva didn’t really know what to say to that, but he gave a bow. “It will be my pleasure. You, Miss Sparks …”
What on earth could he find to say about me? I wasn’t distinctively anything either.
“… are a bit of a mystery. A demure young girl, but I wonder what else your portrait might reveal? And Miss Deane here has a true Celtic beauty, very unusual in such a pure form.”
Who could resist being called an unusually pure Celtic beauty? Mr Riva was a very clever salesman, I thought.
Fred set up the studio for Miss Deane’s portrait with fake rosebushes, papier-mâché columns and a backdrop of puffy clouds in a pale blue sky.
“Are you interested in photography?” Mr Riva asked me as we waited.
“Very much,” I said.
“Perhaps you would like to know how a camera works? The box, or body of the camera contains a dark chamber and a lens. I put my head under the black cloth to line up the sitter and focus the lens – like this.” He demonstrated. “Next, I slide in the plate. Of course it isn’t a china plate.” I laughed politely at his joke. “What we call the plate is really a piece of glass which has been coated with a special light-sensitive emulsion. That is why my assistant brings me the plates in a plate-holder, so the light can’t get at them. It’s at this stage that a bit of photographic trickery can be done to produce a spirit or two.” Mr Riva’s voice was dripping with scorn. He went on to explain that the plate could have a pre-exposed extra figure already on it, or that a plate with a positive image could be already hidden in the plate-holder. Or – and this is what he had done to produce the picture of Lavinia with the two Alans – the fakery could come at the other end of the photographic process.
“One can double-print the final picture from two separate negatives. Do you understand?”
To tell the truth, I didn’t. My brain was overloaded, but what I did understand was that Mr Riva was not, in any shape or form, a spirit photographer.
“And now,” he went on. “It’s only when I want to take the picture that I remove the shutter from the plate and let light enter through the lens.”
“Stand still please, ma’am,” Fred said to Miss Deane, “while Mr Riva counts down.”
Ten seconds might not sound like long, but it is when you have to be a statue. Miss Deane breathed a sigh of relief and shook herself when, with a click, Mr Riva replaced the slide back over the camera. Miss Deane’s sitting was over.
“And now for the young lady,” said Fred.
Posing against the artificial rosebushes, I felt I’d been captured like a butterfly on a pin. But even worse was the terrible sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach. I was scared. But of what?
Click. Mr Riva slid the plate holder out of the camera. I would have to wait until he exposed the plate and printed the image to see if …
I could hardly admit it. Mr Riva had carefully explained to me the process of photography. He’d told me the tricks by which fakes and frauds were produced, and his opinion about ghostly extras was scathing. And yet still, I had a tiny lingering fear. You know the kind. A little seed of doubt, which niggles away at you and won’t let you be.
I wanted to believe that Alexander was reaching out from beyond the grave, saving Papa, helping me. I wanted to hang on to that anchor of hope. But I had to admit that I was afraid. Afraid that when the photograph was developed, I would see beside me another figure, a misty shape with broad shoulders, a mane of greyish hair and a well-trimmed beard. And I would know that Papa was never coming home.
27
BACK TO THE MOUNTAIN
I was feeling shaky by the time I got home. Even though the day was warm, I had begun to shiver. Miss Deane and Mrs Morcom were still chatting, and didn’t notice, but Kathleen came upstairs after me, and more or less ordered me to bed.
“There now,” she said, tucking a blanket around me. “You’re snug as an egg in a hen’s behind. Don’t you stir until the dinner bell, my girl, or I’ll give you a talkin’ to.” She bustled towards the door and then paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Miss Verity,” she said, with her Irish accent sounding stronger than ever. “I know you’re scared. I now you’re swingin’ like the clapper of a bell between hoping for the best and fearing the worst. Don’t you know that’s the way to make yourself sick?” She shook her finger at me. “And what use will you be to the master then?” She gave me a stern look, and added as she left my room, “An’ by the way, Mrs Reilly’s made you some of her consommy.”
Kathleen was right. I must do as Alexander had told me – and Connie too. I must hold on. So after dinner, instead of going back up to my bedroom to fret and worry, I asked Daniel if we could discuss the case with him. I knew he was too busy with Mr Usher to join us on Mount Macedon, but we needed help. It seemed as if we’d come to a dead end.
“What do you think, Daniel?” I asked him. “What should we do next?”
“Well,” he said. “It’s difficult to say.” He picked up the text of the Alan’s letter – I’d written it down for him – and read it again. “He says ‘shocking secret’. Any ideas?”
Miss Deane shrugged. “Other than something about Mrs O’Day’s two late husbands, no.” She sighed. “When a pretty young woman is widowed twice, there are bound to be rumours. You know how people talk. Alan may have heard some of this vicious gossip. It may have even turned him against his wife-to-be. And Andrew, in his grief, has fixed on it as an ex
planation for his brother’s death. But Verity and I both agree – Mrs O’Day is a most unlikely murderess.”
“Do either of you have any ideas about the photograph?”
I shook my head. “A joke, Mr Riva said. But she wouldn’t think it was funny. She took spirit photographs very seriously.”
“Ah, but obviously he didn’t. Perhaps he was trying to prove to her that such things can be faked.”
Miss Deane and I looked at each other. “What a clever suggestion,” I said.
“This Andrew Ross – I haven’t met him. What’s he like?”
“Grumpy,” said Miss Deane. “And by now, he’s rather angry as well. Called us wretched amateurs.”
“He’s convinced that Mrs O’Day killed his brother,” I said. “I agree, the letter did sound suspicious – but it proves nothing. Daniel, she’s so vague and nervous, I don’t see how she could kill anyone. She just doesn’t have it in her. Mr Ross says she’s acting guilty, and I believe I know why. But when I told him about the spirit photographs and Lavinia’s fear that her husbands will never let her go, he just laughed at the idea. I don’t know what else we can do, really.”
Daniel thought for a few seconds. “Well, as SP’s not here, I’ll make a decision. I’ll write to Mr Ross and tell him that our part in the case is finished.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, but I could see that Miss Deane was disappointed. She didn’t want to give up on the case.
“Don’t write just yet, Daniel. After all, Mr Ross has given us two weeks. And we have to return to Forest Edge to get Poppy and Lucifer and collect our things anyway.”
“All right,” said Daniel. “Who knows? You may be able to find out something that will convince Mr Ross you’re right.”
Not likely, I thought, remembering his angry face and the way he ran his hands through his red hair until it stood up on end.
I knew we had to return to Mount Macedon, but as far as I was concerned, the case was now closed.
My spirits began to droop as soon as I saw the humped shape of the Macedon Ranges from the train. In the hazy air I could just make out a thin plume of smoke rising from somewhere near the base. I remembered what Mr Bobbs had told me about the horror of bushfires. He’d been at Macedon one terrible February day more than twenty years ago when the whole mountain was consumed by huge sheets of flame. Black Thursday, the colonials called it, and I hoped this fire was under someone’s control. The Mount looked not blue but a leaden grey in the distance, and I felt grey and gloomy too.