His face betrays none of his suffering. I see him note that Hugh is absent, but he doesn’t inquire after him. Hugh also tells me that Sir Gerald blames him for “corrupting” Tristan; Sir Gerald wrongly thinks Tristan didn’t become a homosexual until he met Hugh. Sir Gerald bears a grudge against Hugh for dashing his other hope—that Tristan would marry a woman and sire the next heir to the Mariner business empire. I want to ask Sir Gerald if he’s heard from Tristan; I’ve seen Hugh search the post every day for a letter that never comes. But Sir Gerald rarely welcomes personal discussions.
“What’ve you got?” Having seen the photograph in my hands, he cuts right to the chase.
I lay the photograph on his desk. Sir Gerald’s eyebrows rise. His finger jabs at the pale shape. “Are you telling me that this is a ghost stabbing Charles Firth?”
“I think it’s a person wearing white,” I say.
“People have heard that the church is haunted,” Mick says. “The killer coulda dressed up as a ghost, for a disguise.”
Chin in hand, studying the photograph, Sir Gerald says, “Now that the Sleeping Beauty case is wrapped up, we need another big story.”
The Sleeping Beauty case involved a woman found unconscious by the river, her face slashed. Barrett, my friends, and I identified her and her would-be killer. The ache in my shoulder reminds me of the consequences.
“I’ll run it on the front page tomorrow,” Sir Gerald says, “with the headline ‘Murder by a Ghost?’ ”
He means to publish the story ahead of whatever facts the investigation turns up. I hesitate to challenge him; he’s not only powerful but dangerous. I know of at least one instance where he killed, with his own hands, someone who ran afoul of him. Still, I feel obligated to speak up, and I think that the experiences we have in common—and the secrets we share—give me the right.
“But there’s no proof that it’s true,” I say.
Sir Gerald responds with a sly smile; he’s unpredictable, and sometimes, rather than taking umbrage when people stand up to him, he likes it. “When has that ever stopped a newspaper from publishing a story?”
Mick nods; we all know that newspaper articles are often as much fiction as fact. But I have to say, “A story that says there’s a murderous ghost at large could bring in false tips.”
“It could also bring in genuine leads,” Sir Gerald points out. “At any rate, that’s why I’ll put the question mark in the headline—so that if it turns out the killer’s an ordinary human, I won’t be laughed out of town for publishing nonsense.”
I note the word if in his statement. “So you think it could be a ghost?” I’m surprised that a worldly, practical man like him could entertain the possibility.
“I’m not ruling it out.” Sir Gerald narrows his eyes at me. “You’re obviously a disbeliever, Mrs. Barrett.”
It’s his first acknowledgment that he attended my wedding today. For the first time I wonder what effect my marriage will have on my job. I’m beginning to feel pulled in different directions—between Sir Gerald, who expects me to photograph crime scenes at all hours of the day and night, and Barrett’s mother, who expects a conventional daughter-in-law. Intimidated by Sir Gerald’s critical tone, I’m also compelled to poke the wolf.
“I think ghosts are imaginary.”
Sir Gerald shrugs, taking no offense. “You’ve a right to your opinion.”
I recall once hearing him say, “I didn’t get where I am by listening only to people who agree with me.” I respect him for that, along with his strength and ruthlessness, which I also fear.
“But in my travels around the world, I’ve seen a man killed by a witch’s curse, and I’ve seen the dead come back to life. So although I’ve never seen ghosts, I’m willing to consider the possibility that they’re real. You should keep an open mind.”
His words are a reminder that although he takes dissenting opinions into account, he brooks no opposition when he thinks he’s right. He hands me the photograph. “Tell the engravers to have this ready for the morning paper. Oh, and I’m taking you and Mick and Lord Hugh off crime scene duty so you can investigate the murder.”
It’s a mixed blessing. My friends and I will have time to hunt Charles Firth’s killer, but Sir Gerald also didn’t get where he is by keeping people on his payroll who don’t deliver results. Moreover, he’s invested a fortune in his growing newspaper empire and staked his reputation on it. Sometimes I feel sorry for this rich, powerful man upon whom my livelihood depends. Fortune and reputation are all he has left now that he’s lost his son, his stake in the future.
“Keep me posted,” Sir Gerald says. “I want to be the first to know if there’s anything to the ghost angle.”
CHAPTER 6
Mick unlocks the door to our studio, in a row of eighteenth-century shop buildings on Whitechapel high street, and I smile with pride at the sign, painted in gold letters over the display window: S. BAIN PHOTOGRAPHER & CO.
By day, this is the respectable part of Whitechapel. Now, at night, when the shops are closed, the traffic diminished, and most of the buildings dark, it embodies Whitechapel’s reputation as the hunting ground of Jack the Ripper. Beneath the gas lamps whose yellow glow diffuses in the cold fog, streetwalkers from the nearby slums wander into the Angel, White Hart, and Red Lion public houses. They come out accompanied by men. The couples duck into alleys for amorous congress. Drunken laughter punctuates the rumble of trains, and the fetid stench from the slaughterhouses drifts through the smoke and chemical fumes. But this is home, and the knowledge that I’ll be leaving soon brings tears to my eyes.
Inside the studio, Mick puts the photography equipment away. The tears blur my view of the room that he and Hugh helped me furnish. With its Turkey carpet, crystal gas chandelier, and carved furniture, it could be an elegant parlor if not for the cameras on tripods, the rolled backdrops on a stand, and the gallery of my photographs on the wall near the door to the darkroom. After I move, I can return to use the studio and visit my friends, but it won’t be the same.
“I’m goin’ back to Bethnal Green to look for witnesses,” Mick says.
“Don’t you have school at the Working Lads Institute?” I say.
His formal education has been sporadic since he began living on the streets at age eight. It consisted of stints at an orphanage, from which he repeatedly ran away, and at a local school. He hates sitting still in class, being treated like a child. My attempts to persuade him that he needed an education went nowhere until after his quarrel with Catherine. Then he decided that an education would help him become a man of means, compete with her other suitors, and win her hand. Now he attends the Working Lads Institute, which provides classes that employed youths can fit into their spare time. It aims to draw the boys away from the evils of the streets and qualify them for better jobs.
“I’m takin’ the night off,” Mick says.
We go upstairs, and he opens the drawer in the table in the parlor. There lie four identical pistols—one each for Mick, Hugh, Barrett, and me. Barrett keeps his here because police don’t carry guns and he hasn’t a secure place to store his at the barracks. Mick removes his, loads it, and tucks it in his pocket. The gunshot wound in my shoulder suddenly aches.