The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  ‘I suppose the miasma …’ she begins dully.

  ‘No,’ Simon replies. He takes a moment, seems to be grappling with some powerful emotion. ‘The phosphorus entered the body through the stomach.’

  The stomach. Like that suicide weeks ago, the man who ate matches. ‘But how—’

  ‘I do not like to tell you this, Miss Darken. It will distress you, but I would rather you hear it from me than another source. You mentioned a glow around the young girl. An – what word do those numbskulls give it? – ectoplasm?’

  She swallows. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That glow was manufactured. Miss West achieved it, it appears, by crushing match heads and concealing them in jam to mask their unpleasant taste.’ He takes a breath. ‘She then fed the poisoned jam to her sister. Whole jars of the contaminated substance were found at the property on Walcot Street.’

  Agnes sways.

  Miss West killed her sister.

  Poisoned her.

  Can such wickedness exist in the world?

  When Agnes thinks back, the clues were all there: Miss West’s frustration and aversion to the obligations thrust upon her; her preoccupation with money; Pearl’s strange, sickly glow. If she was clever like Simon, she would have realised.

  She could have helped.

  But as with her own sister, she did not spot the signs until it was too late.

  ‘How could she do it?’ she gasps. ‘After seeing what phosphorus did to her stepfather … How could Miss West feed her little sister matches?’

  Simon places a hand on her shoulder, holds her steady. ‘Miss West proved to be a very bitter young woman indeed.’

  Footsteps sound on the tiles. Sergeant Redmayne paces towards them. ‘Is she …’

  Simon assesses Agnes and nods to the policeman without saying a word.

  ‘Well, I’ll be brief, sir. I mentioned to you the likelihood of a blade being used in the killings. We found one. In Walcot Street. She’d used it to … ah …’ Agnes has never seen Sergeant Redmayne hesitant like this before. He keeps sliding her wary glances, as if he fears his words might capsize her. ‘Miss West had another victim, sir. Her stepfather was discovered cut and … well. You can imagine.’

  Mr Meers, cut? Just what happened before Pearl turned up at Orange Grove?

  Agnes remembers the girl sobbing I tried and I’m sorry as she sought to contact her father. She presumed it was an apology for inadequate nursing, but this opens up a new possibility: that Mr Meers did not succumb to his illness at all. That what Pearl had tried to prevent was Miss West and her murderous intentions!

  It is staggering. Even though she deemed Miss West malicious, she could not have imagined her poisoning a child and stabbing a man in cold blood.

  ‘Is there another body requiring examination?’ Simon asks wearily.

  ‘No, there’s no call for you to get involved. We don’t need your help with—’ Sergeant Redmayne breaks off and fiddles with a large brass button on his coat.

  She can see him pushing words back. Evidently he did not believe they required Simon’s help examining Pearl either, but Simon had still managed to insinuate himself into the post-mortem. She is glad he did. If she heard of Miss West’s wicked deeds from another mouth, she would not have believed them.

  ‘You had best get the lady home,’ Sergeant Redmayne tries instead. ‘This has been a shock to her.’

  He is not wrong.

  She wants to sleep. To lose time, as she sometimes does, while another person takes over the responsibilities.

  ‘Yes,’ she pleads. ‘Yes, Simon, take me home. I have not spoken to Mamma since …’ Her memory turns blank. Where is Mamma?

  ‘Gently, Miss Darken.’

  ‘I must go,’ she moans. ‘I have so many chores to perform.’

  Like tidying the parlour where Pearl dropped down lifeless. She thinks of the scattered cushions and the tang of vomit. The grandfather clock spinning. What will she do if the terrifying shadow still lingers there?

  ‘I must … I will …’ She attempts to stand, but her legs are fluid.

  ‘Miss Darken!’ Simon says from somewhere distant.

  She slumps against him. His shirt smells bitter with carbolic and something else.

  Dead flesh.

  ‘Simon …’

  He guides her back to her own feet. She imagines that hand, touching Pearl’s corpse, and the last candle in her mind winks out.

  CHAPTER 34

  It is a bright, crisp morning in Alfred Street. Not much traffic passes down towards the Assembly Rooms this early in the day, and if Agnes listens carefully, she can hear a robin sing. She swings gently in the rocking chair. Honeyed light dribbles through the window onto her lap, where Morpheus is curled up.

  The dog resisted her caresses earlier, but he has a good sense of time and always reconsiders his allegiances around the hour the breakfast tray is due to arrive.

  As the carriage clock chimes, Simon’s charwoman shuffles in and sets down the food on a table. She tips Agnes a wink. ‘Got it for you. Tucked under the egg plate. You make sure to give it back to me when you’re done.’

  Agnes thanks her. It is difficult not to betray the agitation that she feels, but Morpheus must sense it, for he stirs on her legs.

  ‘That will be my reading for the train journey up to Gloucester,’ the charwoman continues. ‘Going to visit my brother in a couple of weeks for the holidays. Just as well this nasty business has come to a close before I leave, because I’d be loath to miss anything while I’m away.’

  Of course, it is Advent already, and soon Christmas will come. She has lost track of time without attending church each week. Surely Cedric must be out of the hospital by now? She needs to convince Simon she is well enough to see him. Just one glimpse of his face would help her nerves to settle.

  ‘I trust you will have a pleasant stay with your family, Mrs Muckle,’ says Agnes, hoping she will soon be with her own. ‘However shall we manage without you?’

  The charwoman pinks with pride, but she brushes the compliment away. ‘You’ll get along well enough. Dr Carfax is a capable gent, much more orderly than most of them. Worth hanging on to,’ she adds slyly.

  Agnes pretends not to hear her.

  When the domestic is safely out of the room, she reaches for the plate of coddled eggs and squeezes it onto her lap beside Morpheus. He starts to snaffle the food up at once.

  Left behind on the tray is a newspaper, its pages ready-cut. A ring of grease marks the front.

  Her heart pumps like a piston.

  Simon has said that she requires absolute quiet and detachment from the outside world, and she has tried to be a good patient. But he cannot appreciate how much she frets while she does not know what is occurring in her absence. She has so many unanswered questions niggling inside her. The solutions offered by the press will not be entirely trustworthy, but at least they will give her some idea.

  Picking up the paper, she draws in a steadying breath. As she suspected, the story occupies pride of place. She begins to read:

  The regular reader might be forgiven for supposing no further calamity could befall the beleaguered Darken’s Silhouette Parlour, Orange Grove, following the twin misfortunes of a client’s violent demise and the proprietor’s discovery of a murdered body less than a month afterwards. Fate, however, proves capricious, and it is this paper’s solemn duty to report the sad expiration of a female child upon the very premises.

  It will be recalled that on the 23rd September this year Miss Darken, native to Bath, was the last known person to see the late Solomon Boyle, of Queen Square, alive. The unfortunate gentleman’s remains were found mutilated in the Gravel Walk not one week later.

  A further mistreated corpse was discovered buried beneath snow in Royal Victoria Park on 18th October. The body was later identified as belonging to one Edward Lewis of Weston. At the time, Sergeant Redmayne of the Central Police Station, Market Place, advised this paper that a connection between Boyle’s and Lewis�
��s killings was probable, given the identical method of execution, which was uncovered despite concerted efforts on the part of the murderer to conceal it. Each gentleman suffered a single, horizontal laceration to the throat.

  The latest instalment in this serial of tragedy took place on 3rd December, when police were summoned to Orange Grove and later dispatched from thence to Walcot Street, in order to investigate the sudden death of eleven-year-old Miss Meers.

  Miss Meers, a child known to Miss Darken, was a professed ‘spirit medium’, living and trading on Walcot Street in the company of her elder half-sister, Miss West. The observant reader will recognise Miss West’s name in connection to yet another death: the drowning of Commander Hargreaves in mid-October. Miss West allegedly spotted the Commander’s body in the water whilst crossing Dredge’s Victoria Bridge and raised the alarm. She was present when the corpse was finally stopped and retrieved at Weston Lock.

  However, the attractive appearance and outward virtue of Miss West proved to be a fallacy.

  It transpired that on the afternoon of 3rd December, just hours before she was due to perform the mummery of another séance, Miss West assailed her invalid stepfather with a knife. The child Miss Meers, having witnessed this attack, fled from her family home to the misguided refuge of Darken’s Silhouette Parlour. Before the night closed, Miss Meers would prove to be Miss West’s second victim, falling prey not to the blade, but to the cowardly weapon of poison.

  Miss Darken witnessed the collapse of her young guest around dusk and, unable to revive her, called upon the services of Dr Carfax of Alfred Street. As would be expected, the trained medical eye quickly spotted signs of foul play in the untimely death. A post-mortem examination revealed that the child had suffered from chronic phosphorus poisoning through the prolonged ingestion of match heads.

  Prompted by motives of wickedness the reader will scarcely be able to credit, Miss West, herself a former match girl, had been crushing and concealing the toxic articles in her sister’s victuals over the course of nearly four months. The aim was to produce a phosphorescent glow – or ectoplasm, to the credulous – which could fool the most ardent of ghost-grabbers. The murderess’s success was equalled only by her rapacity. This paper can reveal that Miss West’s name appears on the register of more than one Burial Club in the local area. Had her plans to kill Mr Meers and his child gone undetected, she would have stood to gain the substantial amount of £30 following their deaths – a sum more than sufficient to cover a simple child’s funeral costed at approximately £2.

  No further definite information has been obtained at the time of going to print, but this paper takes it upon itself to predict that the fair murderess will stand indicted for a number of additional charges. The deductive mind cannot help but remember that Mr Boyle and Mr Lewis received wounds consistent with a knife attack. Moreover, both gentlemen can be connected to Miss Darken – a lady whom, neighbours in Walcot Street report, Miss West nursed a peculiar antipathy towards and twice threw out of her premises.

  Could it be that the bewitching but dangerous Miss West sought to cast suspicion on an enemy through her actions? This paper will offer no further speculation, but awaits with impatience the next official report from our city’s esteemed Police Force.

  By the time Agnes has finished reading, Morpheus has licked the plate clean.

  She tosses the newspaper aside, praying Mamma does not read something similar. Simon has been so vague about how things stand at Orange Grove, simply assuring her that all the expected occupants are now present within the house and he is caring for them in her absence. But where did Mamma go, before? And how much do Agnes’s family know about Pearl?

  One thing is certain: Agnes’s days as a profitable silhouette artist are well and truly over. Unless she means to set herself up as a museum for the ghoulish – and those are the only people who will come now – she must rely on Simon for financial support.

  The realisation of this chafes, but not as much as she anticipated it would. She is bone-weary of depending on her own resources. This spell of illness has made her appreciate having someone to care for her; she does not want to struggle alone any more.

  There is a knock at the bedchamber door.

  ‘Come in,’ she calls.

  Simon enters rather gingerly, as has become his custom while she stays in his house. She suspects his embarrassment is not entirely caused by her informal attire of a nightdress and a plaid dressing gown: some of it may be attributed to the fact that this was once Constance’s room, Constance’s rocking chair.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Darken. I trust you slept well.’

  Too late, she realises the newspaper is lying splayed on the floor in plain sight.

  Simon sees her glance, follows it and offers a wry smile. ‘There is no need to attempt concealment. I was already aware. Mrs Muckle is a very able charwoman, but her career as a smuggler requires some development in the area of stealth.’

  ‘Poor woman. Do not blame her, for I am the culprit. Sorry, Simon. Do not be angry with me.’

  ‘No, I am not angry.’ He comes further into the room. Morpheus flumps off her lap to the floor, where he dawdles over towards his master. ‘Your nervous complaint has shown much improvement. I believe you are ready to hear further particulars …’

  She leans forward and places the clean plate back on the breakfast tray. ‘What is it? What has happened now? Has Cedric taken a turn for the worse?’

  ‘No, no. Cedric is with your mother.’ Simon comes over to the window and stands in a pool of light. Bath looks pleasant today. The golden limestone seems to sing. ‘A request has arrived. I was inclined to turn it down immediately, but upon reflection I can see the benefits it may bring. It is plain that you need a definite resolution to this … sad matter.’

  ‘Whatever can you mean? You are speaking in riddles, Simon.’

  ‘My apologies. I was attempting to introduce the idea gently. The fact is that Miss West has asked to see you at the gaol, before her trial in January.’

  ‘Miss West!’ Anger and disgust squirm within her. ‘How dare that woman ask anything of me? She is a monster!’

  He tilts his head, appraising her. ‘A monster? Do you think so? I am wary of judging her as such. From what I can gather, she was deeply unhinged by grief. She lost her parents at a young age and was put under intolerable pressure caring for a newborn. It does not excuse her behaviour, precisely, but I have seen too many cases of imbalance not to feel a modicum of pity.’

  Agnes always knew that Simon was a worthier person than her, and this only goes to prove it. She may have sympathised with Miss West on that first visit, long ago, but she certainly does not now. ‘Her actions were calculated, Simon. She used the poison deliberately, to deceive and make money. Fools like me really believed …’

  ‘I have met at least one woman of a darker disposition,’ he says sourly.

  She chews her lip and considers. What strikes her is not his veiled reference to Constance, but the thought of the phosphorus. A sharper eye may have noticed that the glow surrounding Mr Meers and his daughter was suspiciously similar, but that is not all she founded her faith upon.

  ‘You are right, in one respect, Simon: I do need answers. It does not make sense to me. Pearl was not party to the phosphorus deception, I am sure, yet she said remarkable things … She manifested such believable symptoms … There must have been some truth in her power. I do not think Miss West’s abuse can explain Pearl’s behaviour at the séances.’

  ‘It can, though,’ he says sadly, folding his hands behind his back. ‘Miss West is a practitioner of Mesmerism. While that discipline is perfectly useless in curing physical ailments, it can readily supply a range of tricks. I have seen them myself in lectures. The mesmeric trance is a state of altered consciousness, Miss Darken, and it seems that your young friend was particularly susceptible to it. She was completely in her sister’s power. All Miss West needed to do was put her in a trance each morning and instil the things
she wanted Pearl to see, say and do. She may even have trained the girl’s unconscious to respond to certain cues and stimuli. It is impressive, in its way. Beyond the powers of an ordinary match girl. It is a shame Miss West did not put her talents to better use.’

  ‘But …’ Agnes stops and bites back her words. Simon sounds so certain that it was an elaborate hoax. No doubt parts of it were: Pearl’s unearthly lustre, the rocking table, the information about Commander Hargreaves taken from the newspaper and gingered up with the imitation of drowning.

  But she remembers how frightened Miss West looked when Ned manifested himself: her expressions were a little too good, even for an accomplished actress. And she was not present at the private séances. Miss West could have no influence upon the sights and sounds that reached Agnes then. She could not have staged the disturbing, incoherent exchange with Montague, or made the picture frames fall down at Orange Grove.

  A memory of Pearl flashes through her mind. The child gesturing towards the fireplace upstairs in Walcot Street and saying, I can’t do that alone.

  ‘You are sure,’ she asks cautiously, ‘that the Mesmerism was the only viable power at play? Pearl’s gift was all an utter humbug?’

  Simon bends down to scratch behind Morpheus’s ear. ‘I would stake my honour on it. Pearl’s colouration was albino and she suffered acutely from photosensitivity – but that is all. She was no different in any other respect from her peers.’

  Agnes frowns. There was definitely something in that upstairs room, and in the parlour at Orange Grove.

  If Pearl was not channelling the spirits … then who was?

  ‘This is the reason I did not reject the message outright,’ Simon goes on. ‘Speaking to Miss West may be your last chance to obtain the information you seek before she is hanged and takes her secrets with her.’

  ‘You believe she will be found guilty, then?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. And if you visit, you might take the opportunity to urge her towards confession of her other crimes. There can be little dispute that she was responsible for the deaths of your two unfortunate sitters.’