The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  Dear Simon. He has waited upon her like a hired hand – and she cannot even afford to pay him for the medicine.

  ‘How is Mamma? Cedric will be expecting his supper, we always try to eat that together and read a story …’

  Simon takes a deep breath. ‘They are asleep.’

  No light shines through the paper silhouettes tacked to the window panes; their shapes blend into the black of the night outside. It is far later than she had reckoned.

  ‘I have kept you too long, Simon. You have better things to do. Other patients … and who will have fed your little dog?’

  A thin smile. ‘Morpheus will manage well enough without me. Come, drink your tea. I want to see you settled before I take my leave.’

  Obediently, she reaches for the cup. The liquid is too hot, but she forces it down.

  ‘Simon, if news of this murder gets out … and no doubt it will …’ She takes another gulp. ‘I worry it might lend a certain notoriety to my business.’

  ‘There will be time enough to discuss that later.’

  This is hardly comforting. Her mind teems with questions and worries – it would be a relief to talk them over with Simon, but she has known him for long enough to recognise the professional closure in his face. This man is no longer her ally but ‘Dr Carfax’, who absolutely forbids excitement.

  Instead she swallows the last of the tea, tasting nothing but heat, and takes a bite of dry cake. Simon hands her the opiates and she drinks them down as a bitter final course.

  ‘Now you must go straight to bed.’ He looks as if he could use a long sleep himself. In the firelight, his eyes are bloodshot. ‘Promise me.’

  ‘I will. But first let me see you out.’

  She lights a candle and they leave the parlour to-gether.

  A chill breeze rushes in the moment she opens the front door, forcing her to cup a hand around the flame of the candle. The rain has stopped, but its metallic scent lingers. The street lamps cast sulphur pools on the pavements.

  It is horrible to think of Simon venturing out there alone, with a murderer on the loose.

  ‘Be careful, Simon. Walk quickly.’

  He bows – a proper bow, one leg slightly behind the other. Even with his girth, he has more grace than the police sergeant.

  ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Darken.’

  Placing his hat upon his head, he turns. Agnes watches him walk away, his shape articulated against the light of the street lamp.

  Always ‘Miss Darken’. They have known each other since childhood; he is practically a brother to her, yet still there is this constraint between them.

  Damp air sneaks around the abbey and touches her cheek. As the sound of Simon’s footsteps die out, she shuts the door and bolts it.

  The walls exhale.

  Quietly, she begins to climb the stairs. Straight to bed, Simon said, but practice has taught her she has ten minutes, at least, before the opiates begin to drag.

  She must look. Just once.

  The doors to Mamma’s and Cedric’s bedchambers are closed. Neither of them makes a sound in their sleep. Avoiding the creaky floorboard, Agnes creeps past the threshold leading to her own cold bed and enters her studio.

  It is the only place in the house where the air feels alive. Even at night, lit by the wavering flame of her candle, her workplace emits a sort of radiance. Perhaps it is the brass glow of the various machines and apparatus she has acquired over the course of her labour: a physiognotrace with its long pole and a camera obscura amongst them. They were necessary purchases. The modern public want machines, not people: something more like a daguerreotype.

  Agnes does not see the appeal. A copper plate, a bit of mercury and they call it art. She is one of a dying breed who would rather have something drawn with soft pencils, or painted lovingly with the stroke of a brush.

  So was Mr Boyle. But he will have had his image immortalised by now. Policemen always seem to be photographing crime scenes these days. She swallows against an ache in her throat, tries not to imagine Mr Boyle translated into chemical shades of silver and grey, his blood a vast, inky pool.

  She places the candle on her battered desk. Pushing aside bladders of paint, moving stacks of paper, she finally locates the item she seeks: a great leather-bound book, as big as the family Bible. Her album of duplicates: a copy of all the shadows she has captured.

  She does not begin at the start, where her early work resides. It embarrasses her to look upon those blunt cuts of Constance and acknowledge them as her own. Instead, she flips far to the back. On and on she turns. The little black figures flash before her eyes, seem to move. At last she finds a piece of paper pushed inside the album hurriedly, unstuck: the head and shoulders of Mr Boyle.

  She holds the profile to the light.

  She did not take enough care placing it inside the book. The weight of pages has squashed her work. Mr Boyle is creased. Crumpled. The outline of his face is bent, almost as if …

  Her hand begins to shake.

  It is too cruel. A barbarous coincidence. The lines of Mr Boyle, his forehead and his nose, are not preserved at all. His shade has suffered the fate of his mortal physiognomy.

  It looks exactly as if it has been hit with a mallet.

  CHAPTER 2

  It’s Pearl’s first time.

  She sits in the cabinet as usual, behind its black damask curtain, but already she feels like someone else. Tonight she hasn’t got the floor-length veil over her face and there aren’t any ashes smeared on her skin. She isn’t playing a spirit guide now: she’s the Main Event.

  She worries about how it will feel when the ghosts take possession of her. Myrtle used to screw up her face and roll her eyes – but that was all for show. Myrtle freely admits it.

  ‘I’m a Sensitive,’ she told Pearl. ‘I hear the voices. But that ain’t enough for ladies and gents. They want a thrill. Tables rocking. Materialisation.’

  The spirits have since whispered to Myrtle that her real power lies in manipulating auras and controlling the universal force: Myrtle is a mesmerist.

  It’s Pearl who possesses the Gift of Mediumship: she’s the Genuine Article.

  She closes her eyes and inhales the familiar scent of lilies – waxy, like the black candles that stand beside them in the parlour. It doesn’t calm her nerves.

  Myrtle’s voice echoes in the hallway, tuned to the pitch of sympathy. A woman answers her. Pearl gleans what she can – she’s in the habit of professional eavesdropping – and gathers that there are two women coming in: Mrs Boyle and Mrs Parker. They’ve both lost a man.

  Was he their husband and father? Son and brother? Either way, the bonds seem close. She hopes she can satisfy them. It would be dreadful to let the mourners down. But if she succeeds …

  A man will possess her. Speak through her mouth, see through her eyes. What if he doesn’t go away again? He might occupy her for the rest of her life, use her like some sort of devilish puppet.

  Pearl swallows her bile.

  She shouldn’t fear the dead. She’s tasted death, as Myrtle’s fond of reminding her. ‘You did the dying part, before you were even born,’ she says. But Pearl doesn’t remember that, any more than she remembers the mother who lost her life bringing her into this world.

  Footsteps sound in the parlour, followed by the movement of chair legs. Pearl ventures to open her eyes. Myrtle’s turned down the lamps. She doesn’t need to squint from the pain of their light any longer.

  ‘Mrs Boyle, Mrs Parker. I must ask you to take your seats and remain in perfect silence. She will come to us presently.’

  It’s that breathy way of speaking that Myrtle has perfected. She ought to have been on the stage.

  ‘But how—’

  ‘She’ll know. Leave the glove upon the table. If she requires anything further of you, she’ll ask.’

  Upholstery squeaks as they sit down. A little shuffling, settling in. The candles will be lit by now, their fiery eyes reflected in the crystal ball.

&n
bsp; Still, it’s not time to go out there yet.

  Pearl takes a deep breath, longs to run from the cabinet and never come back. But she’s eleven now, no longer a child. She has to work for the family like everyone else. She clenches her hands into fists. Waits until the silence begins to crackle.

  Now.

  She rings the bell. It cuts through the hush like lightning.

  ‘Ladies!’ Myrtle announces, ‘The White Sylph arrives.’

  Slowly, slowly, Pearl eases the curtain aside and steps out into the darkness.

  There’s always that little shock, the intake of breath when the mourners see her. But today, respect mingles with their awe. She has the Power – they can see it flowing from her in waves. Beside her they’re desolate things: pinched and tear-stained, their clothes blending into the false night of the parlour.

  She takes her seat. No one can see how her knees tremble beneath the tablecloth.

  ‘Please, join hands.’ Pearl uses the gentle, fluting voice Myrtle made her practise. Already, she’s given up a part of herself. She swallows some more, tries not to think of what will happen next.

  Gingerly, the women stretch out their fingers and clasp hers.

  ‘We’ll begin with a hymn,’ Myrtle sighs softly, like a girl in love.

  Myrtle insists upon this, says hymns help convince people they aren’t taking part in something sacrilegious. She opens her bow-shaped mouth and begins:

  Behold, a Stranger at the door!

  He gently knocks, has knocked before,

  Mrs Boyle and Mrs Parker join her in a feeble contralto:

  Has waited long, is waiting still:

  You treat no other friend so ill.

  Pearl doesn’t take part but instead sits, staring into the crystal ball. She’s always thought it’s cruel to make mourners sing. If there’s one thing she understands about grief, it’s how it chokes: the fingers of death, squeezing the throats of the living.

  At last, the hymn ends. The air grows taut.

  What now?

  Remembering Myrtle’s instructions, Pearl releases the mourners’ hands and takes up the gentleman’s glove that’s been left for her upon the table. It’s made of kidskin; warm from the candlelight, slightly stained on the palm. Is that a rip, by the ring finger? Hard to see. Her vision is clouding, as if she’s gazing through fog.

  She opens her mouth, exhales. A luminous ribbon flows out of it, drawing gasps. Her pulse goes wild. This has never happened before.

  The ghosts are coming. Her arms are glowing, her breath is glowing. She’s being swallowed.

  Myrtle says, ‘He’s here.’

  Something whispers, soft in her ear. Then cool, feathery hands touch her: dozens of them stroking her hair, patting her arms. She wants to scream but there’s a buzzing sensation in her jaw, holding it shut.

  A figure rises up from the mist. He’s trailing garments and has candle flames for eyes. Can Myrtle see him, too? She doesn’t know; the others are invisible to her and she’s alone in the dark with this – thing.

  The spirit parts his lips, revealing a great void.

  Pearl can’t take any more. Her mind pulls the shutters down.

  When she wakes up, the lamps are back on. Two black candlesticks stand before her on the table, smoking.

  The younger mourner has her arm about the shoulders of the elder. Both are sobbing.

  ‘He remembered!’ The old lady cries. ‘H-he always remembered.’

  Myrtle practically hums with delight. ‘Hmm. The message has significance for you?’

  ‘Yes! Today is the anniversary of our marriage.’

  A fresh burst of grief.

  Pearl feels bruised, hollow, as if the spirits have taken her up and dropped her from a great height. She folds her arms on the table, rests her head upon them.

  What happened? What did she say?

  ‘But if that was Papa,’ the younger woman reasons, furrowing her brow, ‘if it truly was him … He would have told us, would he not? That is the reason we came here.’

  Myrtle soothes them. ‘Ladies, please, speak softly. There’s no cause for quarrel. The language of the spirits is no more under our control than another mortal’s voice. Why, you might be in the same room as a person, but you can’t force them to talk to you. And if they do, you can’t compel them to tell the truth. The spirits keep their own secrets.’

  ‘Do not doubt, Harriet,’ the older lady chides her companion. ‘How can you question it? Look at the Sylph, how she glows!’

  ‘It’s the ectoplasm,’ Myrtle says wisely. ‘Spirit matter.’

  ‘A miracle. Truly a miracle.’

  Softly, the door shuts.

  Coins chink. Pearl hears the farewells; hears Mrs Boyle and Mrs Parker speaking through the window when they gain Walcot Street.

  ‘She could have looked up the marriage,’ Mrs Parker insists from the pavement. ‘And the murder was in the papers.’

  ‘I know you do not believe, Harriet, but it gives me comfort. I felt him, I am sure I did. Please do not pooh-pooh it.’

  ‘All I am saying is that she could not solve the crime, could she? Is that not rather convenient? Papa would not omit to tell us who killed him. He would be calling out for justice.’

  The footsteps peter out.

  Only one word remains with Pearl. Murder.

  Her mouth is dry. It feels sullied, unclean, like it’s been used without her consent.

  Myrtle returns and lowers the lamps back to a comfortable level. ‘All right, then. Bit of supper?’ The genteel accent assumed for customers slides away as easily as a cloak shrugged aside. ‘Got to keep your strength up, you know. Them spirits take it out of you.’

  A tumbler of whisky and water is thrust before her, followed by a slice of bread coated in blackcurrant jam. The objects flicker, double. Pearl blinks.

  ‘Thanks,’ she manages. ‘What … what happened?’

  Myrtle sits down and plucks at a lily in its vase. ‘You did it. Told you so. Genuine medium. Channelled the spirit of one Mr Boyle.’

  Pearl’s stomach cramps. ‘He was here? He spoke through me?’

  ‘Of course he did.’

  It would be less disturbing if she remembered this Mr Boyle, if she felt like she’d met him. But now she’s left with the sensation that something appalling has happened, and she’s the only person who didn’t see it.

  ‘D’you think it’s true, what the ladies were saying, Myrtle? That the man who spoke through me was murdered?’

  ‘I know it’s true. Read it in the paper.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me that!’

  Myrtle shrugs. ‘Didn’t think I needed to. The dead talk to you, don’t they?’

  ‘Through me,’ Pearl mutters. ‘Not to me. I never heard a sound.’

  ‘You will. Now you’ve started to bleed each month, the power will grow. You’ll harness it.’

  Pearl takes a steadying breath. Her ears tingle, the only parts of her left untouched.

  ‘Will I hear her?’ she asks quietly.

  Myrtle doesn’t like to speak of Mother. A spasm of pain crosses her face and she purses her lips. ‘I haven’t. But you might.’

  It would be worth it. Worth this awful, dirty feeling, to hear Mother just the once.

  She forces herself to sit up and nibble on the bread. ‘And so no one’s been scragged? For killing this Mr Boyle?’

  ‘No. The bluebottles don’t even have a suspect yet.’

  She shivers. ‘Then that means … There’s a murderer on the loose. Here, in Bath.’

  ‘Yes.’ Myrtle pats her hand, gives a wink. ‘That’s good for business, ain’t it?’

  CHAPTER 3

  For a sleepless night and half the next morning, Agnes debates taking Mr Boyle’s silhouette to the police station. Absurd as it sounds, she feels guilty keeping the discovery to herself, as though she is concealing evidence. When she looks in the mirror to fasten her hair, it is the haunted face of a criminal she sees: an accessory to murder.
r />   Of course they will tell her it is a coincidence. She could not have caused Mr Boyle’s death by scrunching up his silhouette. But is it not uncanny? Something beyond the realms of an everyday occurrence. She has never squashed a piece of work before; she has never had a client die before. The two hang together with an ominous weight.

  If not the police, then maybe she should seek out Mrs Boyle. Present her with the finished painting and include the ruined paper shade as an afterthought. Let the widow make the connection, determine some significance, if she can. Yes, perhaps that is the best course of action.

  She puts on a lace collar and fastens it with a brooch. It has been so long since she paid a social call that she has forgotten the correct hours, and the form. Well, Mrs Boyle will probably be too deep in grief to notice if Agnes does not observe the niceties. All the clocks in her house will be stopped.

  In the studio, Agnes wraps the glass oval and squashed silhouette in brown paper and string.

  She checks the address in her ledger one last time before descending the stairs.

  The grandfather clock ticks. Mamma dozes in the parlour with a rug spread across her knees. She has added fuel to the fire, again, wasting their scant resources while Agnes was upstairs. Cinders drop in the grate as if they are setting out to vex her, to show her how quickly it all turns to ash.

  But there is another noise rising above that of the flames. A pathetic peep. It is so forlorn that it makes her heart clench.

  Warily, she cracks open the front door.

  ‘Cedric? There you are! I missed you at breakfast.’

  Her nephew kneels beneath the portico, his breath misting the air. In his hand is the stick that he uses to propel his toy hoop. That hoop, however, is nowhere in sight. Instead he pokes tentatively at a magpie.

  ‘Whatever are you doing? Be a good boy and leave that nasty thing alone.’

  He carries on, regardless. ‘Aunt Aggie, it’s got a baby! Look!’

  She bends down to his height and instantly recoils.

  A pink, downy lump squirms on the ground, the stubs of its wings circling frantically. The eyes are sealed, bluish bumps; only the beak gapes wide.