“Can we keep it quiet until the test results come in?” Barrett says.
“A wise idea,” Dr. Phillips says.
“I won’t tell Sir Gerald yet,” I add.
“If he finds out later that you withheld information, he’ll be angry,” Barrett says.
Sir Gerald might fire me, which would please Barrett’s mother. “But if I tell him, his next headline will say, ‘Ectoplasm Found on Murdered Spirit Photographer.’ ”
“All the more reason to solve the case fast,” Barrett says.
* * *
The Savoy Hotel towers nine stories high above the Strand. The wind from the river ripples the flags on its roof, and its domed turrets dissolve in the fog. Its glazed white brick walls and the lights in its countless windows shimmer, mirage-like, amid the dark city.
The cab lets Barrett and me off in the courtyard. The tinkling of the fountain in the center greets us. We’ve traveled three miles from morgue to palace, from the lowest depth to which humankind can sink to the heights of its worldly aspiration.
“We should have gone someplace cheaper,” I say, afraid the hotel is too fine for our budget and the likes of me.
“My bride deserves the best.” Barrett’s smile says he’s willing to put aside our differences so that we can enjoy our wedding night. He tells the uniformed doorman that we’ve booked a room for the night.
The doorman ushers us into the hotel, bows, and says, “Enjoy your stay, sir and madam.”
I’m impressed because Barrett seems as confident as if he’s at home. But of course he’s a policeman, accustomed to barging in wherever he chooses, whether he’s welcome or not.
In the lobby, our footsteps echo from the black-and-white marble floor throughout a vast space decorated with potted palms and fresh flower arrangements. Square white pillars that look to be twenty feet high, crowned with gilded capitals, support a white coffered ceiling from which hangs a giant crystal chandelier. A clock somewhere chimes ten times. At this late hour, few other guests are coming or going.
The suave clerk at the desk says, “Ah, yes, Mr. and Mrs. Barrett. Your room is waiting, and the baggage you sent has arrived safely. I see that you reserved a table for dinner. I’m sorry to say the restaurant is closed.”
“That’s all right,” I say. The visit to the morgue has taken away my appetite.
The clerk signals a bellhop, who escorts us to the lift. I’ve ridden in the one Sir Gerald installed at the Daily World building, but this is larger, with wood paneling, a mirror, carpet, and an upholstered settee. We glide up to the seventh floor and proceed down a wide, hushed corridor. When the bellhop opens the door to our room, the sweet scent of flowers welcomes us. He reaches inside and flicks a switch on the wall, illuminating the room.
“The Savoy has electricity and central heating,” he says.
The room is the warmest, coziest place I’ve been all day. My feet sink into thick, plush carpet. The canopied bed has a gold satin duvet, and tapestries and gold-framed landscape paintings decorate the walls. A bouquet of fresh gardenias and roses graces the mantel. The bellhop shows us a bathroom with porcelain fixtures and marble walls and floor, fit for a Roman emperor.
“There’s hot and cold running water twenty-four hours a day.” He steps over to the window, which is festooned with gold-and-white brocade curtains. “You’ll have a fine view from your balcony in the morning.”
Barrett and I exchange delighted smiles; we can’t believe this luxury is ours, even for just one night. Now I’m glad he splurged.
“If you need anything, feel free to use the speaking tube.” The bellhop demonstrates how to operate the round metal mouthpiece on the wall, then wishes us good-night and departs.
On the rare occasions when we have complete privacy, we usually plunge into immediate, frantic lovemaking. But tonight, a discomfort left over from the argument we had at the morgue inhibits us, as does the novelty of the situation. Barrett flicks the switches, chuckling as he turns the electric lights on and off. I turn on the tap in the bathroom sink; the water is steaming hot. Barrett skims the menu, talks into the speaking tube, and orders food. At last we turn to each other. He raises his eyebrow, and I blush as desire flares between us. We realize that there’s no hurry to finish making love before we’re interrupted, and our wedding night calls for a little more ceremony than usual.
“I’ll get ready,” I say.
In the armoire, I find my empty suitcase and my things neatly unpacked. I carry my nightgown and toiletries into the bathroom, run water in the tub, throw in pink bath salts from a jar on the shelf, and undress. Then I lie in the hot, rose-scented suds and revel in the most luxurious soak I’ve ever had. I contemplate the gold ring on my finger. This has been one of the strangest days in my life, and that’s saying a lot. When I climb out of the tub, I dry myself on a fluffy white towel, then put on my new nightgown. It’s daringly sleeveless, white satin trimmed with lace. I unbraid my hair and brush the long waves. Then I go out to the bedroom.
“Thomas?” I say, feeling shy as I call him by his Christian name for the first time.
He’s drawn back the duvet, and he’s lying on the bed in his shirt, trousers, and socks, fast asleep.
He looks so peaceful that I don’t want to disturb him. I turn off the lights and lie down beside him, thinking I’ll just rest a while, and then I’ll wake him up, and …
Drowsiness closes my eyes, and I’m asleep before I finish the thought.
CHAPTER 7
“What time is it?” Barrett exclaims, bolting upright in bed.
I open my eyes to faint daylight and look out the window. Lights twinkle through the fog, from buildings and streetlamps by the river.
Barrett glances at the clock and groans. “Six thirty! Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I fell asleep too.”
We begin to laugh, vexed but amused because we wasted the night. Because both of us are due at work soon we hurriedly wash, dress, and pack. As we’re leaving, I see a covered tray in the hall—the food Barrett ordered last night. Whoever delivered it must have knocked but failed to rouse us.
Downstairs, when we check out, the clerk says, “Did you enjoy your stay?”
“Very much, thank you,” Barrett says with a wry smile.
On the street, newsboys cry, “Man murdered by a ghost! Read all about it!” I buy a copy of the Daily World, whose front-page article has Sally’s byline and ends with a request for anyone with information about the murder to report it to the police. As we walk to the underground train station, I show Barrett our wedding photograph on the second page.
“We’ll never look that sweet again,” he says.
In the train, we’re mashed up against other passengers as we cling to the straps. We part ways at my studio, after he carries my baggage upstairs, and he says, “I’ll drop by tonight.”
Mick and Fitzmorris are at the breakfast table, eggs and toast on their plates. “Lord Hugh went out last night and hasn’t come home,” Fitzmorris says.
“Oh, no.”
When Hugh is troubled, he roams the city, drinking too much. I fear that he’ll fall prey to cutpurses, or engage in intimate relations with shady characters, or be attacked by people who hate men of his kind. Worse, Tristan’s desertion could propel him into the same black depression that came upon him when he was exposed as a homosexual and disowned by his family. Back then, he tried to commit suicide and was rescued. If he tries again … I read the same unspeakable thought in Mick’s and Fitzmorris’s eyes. After all the times Hugh made bad jokes that brightened dark moments, all the times his optimism rallied us during crises, we can’t bear to lose him.