“The policeman said there were negative plates in Charles’s cameras at the church. He mentioned the wedding.” Mrs. Firth fixes her hopeful, eager gaze on me. “You must be his wife. He said you were going to develop the negatives. Have you? Was there anything on them?”
So that’s why she let us in—to find out if her husband photographed any ghosts. I reach in my satchel, take out the print of Charles Firth, and warn her, “I’m afraid this may be disturbing to you.” Then I lay the print on the table.
Mrs. Firth gasps as she touches her fingertip to the pale, blurred figure assailing her husband. She looks up, her eyes shining with elation. “He captured the image of a spirit!” Then sorrow crumples her face. “A spirit that killed him.”
My friends and I don’t try to contradict her; I doubt she would listen. I say, “Did you know that your husband was planning to spend the night in the church?”
“Oh, yes. I had heard that St. Peter’s is haunted, and I told Charles it would be a good place for spirit photography. If I hadn’t sent him there, he would still be alive.” She covers her face with her hands and quakes with sobs. Her hands are large, the joints knobby, with a ring on each finger. The plain gold wedding band looks out of place amid others set with chunky garnets, turquoises, and opals. “It’s my fault he’s dead!”
Perhaps it’s her fault in a different way than she means. When a married person is murdered, the spouse is a logical suspect. Mick slips out of the room, presumably to search the house for clues. As Mrs. Firth mops her face with a black-bordered white handkerchief, Hugh asks, “Where were you the night before last?”
She doesn’t seem to notice that Mick is gone. “I already told the policeman I was at home by myself. He didn’t say so, but I know he suspects I killed Charles.” She utters a woebegone laugh. “Of course I didn’t. And here’s proof.” She touches the “ghost” in the photograph.
But she hasn’t an alibi. “How long were you married?” I say.
“Eleven years.”
“Have you any children?” I’m seeking other people who might have information germane to his murder, and even youngsters might. I remember the vicar’s grandchildren, whom I suspect know more than they’ve been allowed to tell.
“No.”
“Was your marriage happy?” Hugh says.
Mrs. Firth plays with her rings. “Yes.” She tugs the wedding band over her knuckle, then pushes it back into place. “We had our troubles, but yes.”
Glancing toward the bookshelves, Hugh wiggles his eyebrows at me. I look over there and see a knife lying in front of some books. It appears to be an antique, with a carved ivory handle. I notice other knives on other shelves, a veritable collection. I wonder if Mrs. Firth cleaned the murder weapon and hid it in plain sight.
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted your husband dead?” I say.
“No. He was well liked.” Then she bursts out, “Why are you bothering me with these questions? My husband was murdered by a spirit.”
I struggle to be tactful. “We’re helping the police investigate the murder. We need to explore all the possibilities and determine precisely what happened in the crypt last night.”
“I’ll ask my husband. He was there. He saw everything.”
I remember the fake medium from my childhood, and anger rises like a wall in me. “Do you propose to conduct a séance?”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t the gift for summoning the spirits. I can only wait for them to come to me of their own volition. They speak to me through automatic writing.” Mrs. Firth goes to a desk, fetches a sheet of white letter paper and a pen, and brings them to the table. She sits down, takes up the pen, and rests the nib on the paper. “If the spirits are willing, they take control of my hand and write messages.”
While I struggle to conceal my revulsion, Hugh says, “Does it really work?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a famous example. When Mr. Charles Dickens, the author, died in 1870, he left his last novel unfinished. Only the first six installments were published. His spirit was troubled because he’d left his readers desperate to know how the story ended. He channeled the conclusion through an American named Thomas Power James. Mr. James was an uneducated man, barely literate. He couldn’t have written it, let alone imitated Mr. Dickens’s style.”
“Remarkable.” Hugh widens his eyes, as if he’s impressed, but there’s a flat note to his voice.
My opinion can’t be uttered in polite company. Mr. James must have engineered a hoax somehow. I think that if Charles Firth didn’t believe in the supernatural, he should have tried to dissuade his wife from believing. Some compromises are too big to make, even for love.
“Now, please, be very quiet.” Mrs. Firth breathes deeply, swaying from side to side and back and forth, as if her body is a net trying to catch her husband’s spirit as it swims in the ether. “Charles, are you there?” she says in a hushed voice. “It is I, Leonora.”
The incense smoke stings my eyes, infiltrates my lungs. I begin to feel light-headed, and I hear whispery sounds. Hugh looks queasy, as if he’s experiencing the same phenomena. It can’t be spirits; probably something in the incense causes hallucinations.
Mrs. Firth’s hand jerks. The pen zigzags across the paper, as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer, then draws a crooked heart. A smile trembles on her lips, and tears leak from her eyes. “He’s here. He says he loves me.”
I’m torn between anger and pity. She draws wavy lines that spiral around the page into the center, where they form two blobs. My eyes water from the smoke, blurring my vision. The pen scribbles letters of the alphabet in seemingly random groups and positions. Mrs. Firth shudders and whimpers while jagged marks cover the blobs. Her arm stiffens, and her hand flings the pen across the room. She slumps over, hands pressed against the table. She gasps and blinks, mouth agape, like a woman who was drowning in the ocean and has been flung ashore by a wave.
Hugh gets to his feet. “I say, Mrs. Firth, are you all right?”
I open the curtains and the window, letting in light and fresh air. Mrs. Firth grabs the paper, crying, “Look! Charles drew his murder. That’s the spirit that killed him!” She points at one of the blobs. “I told you so!”
If I strain my imagination, it and the other blob have vaguely human shapes, but I think Mrs. Firth, either intentionally or subconsciously, copied the photograph that’s still lying on the table.
She touches the jagged marks. “The ghost is stabbing Charles with mystical energy. And see these words.” Her finger moves around the page, tapping the scribbled letters. “Thief, hide, gold, steal. The ghost was once a thief who buried his loot where the church now stands. He thought Charles was trying to steal it. Now we know what happened!”
Scorn vies with my pity. The whole alphabet is there; she could spell out any words she liked and interpret them in countless ways. The “message” is as false a clue as I expected.
Mrs. Firth spells out more words. “ ‘Good-bye until we meet again.’ ” She looks up, her eyes luminous. “Charles will be coming back.”
“Rubbish!” Hugh slams his hands down on the table.