Footsteps echo down the passage outside the room. Reverend Thornton enters and says, “I’ve discovered something important. You’d better come with me.”
CHAPTER 2
While Mick finishes taking photographs, Barrett and I go upstairs with the vicar. In the vestry we fetch my leather satchel and our outdoor garments—Barrett his black coat and top hat, I my plain gray coat that covers my wedding dress. I remove my veil and don my gray felt hat.
The parish clerk is waiting inside the door of the empty sanctuary. “Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Barrett, you need to sign the parish registry.”
I’m startled to be addressed, for the first time, as Mrs. Barrett. My new husband and I look at each other, chagrined because we forgot this last bit of official wedding business. After we sign, Barrett says, “Sarah, you go on to the wedding breakfast. Our guests are waiting. At least one of us needs to be there.”
“They can wait a little longer,” I say. “I need to find out what’s going on.”
“Sir Gerald doesn’t expect you to cover the story,” Barrett says.
“I know. But it’s personal, because I knew Charles Firth.” Unable to consider him a friend, I suppose I could call him my patron or benefactor.
“Well.” A slight frown clouds Barrett’s expression. “All right.”
It’s not rare for us to disagree and for me to do as I choose instead of yielding to his wishes, so I don’t understand why he seems more irritated than usual. We accompany the vicar outside. The autumn fog has set in, not to lift entirely until spring. The chill air smells of bitter coal smoke, fumes from the factories, and foul vapor from the River Thames, and it’s so misty that I can’t see the end of the short road that extends from the front of the church between terraces of brick houses. The same fog concealed Jack the Ripper and helped him evade capture while the police and my friends and I pursued him through the streets of Whitechapel two years ago. Now we have a new murder to solve.
I’m brimful of questions, but the vicar looks sterner than ever, as if he’s angry about something. His jaw is tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead while he and Barrett and I walk along St. Peter Street. I glance back at the church. Romanesque in style, St. Peter’s is built of flint, stone, and brick, darkened by soot. Over the arched main entrance rises a square tower topped with an octagonal lantern and conical spire. Ravens perch on the eaves like gargoyles. Dark holly bushes crouch against the walls beneath the stained-glass windows. Within the black iron fence that encloses the churchyard, oak trees shed their brown leaves. We turn down a narrow lane and pass a schoolyard where girls are playing ring-around-the-rosy. One is wearing a disconcertingly sinister rabbit mask made of papier-mâché. Halloween is next week, and some children can’t wait to show off their costumes. The yard is enclosed on two sides by a brick compound with gables, mullioned Gothic windows set in stone arches, and many chimneys. St. Peter’s School occupies the large, three-story section. The smaller, two-story section is the vicarage, into which the Reverend Thornton leads Barrett and me.
The foyer smells of smoke, mildew, and cooked cabbage, a miasma soaked into the scuffed wood of the floor and staircase and the dingy tan-painted plaster walls. The oppressive air is brightened by a toy sailboat in the corner and child-sized red rubber boots on the shoe rack beneath the coats hung on pegs. Gasps, wheezes, and cries issue from the parlor. It sounds like someone being strangled. Barrett and I exchange glances of alarm.
The Reverend Thornton strides in ahead of us. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Thornton, hovers near a thin young man seated on a divan. His mouth is wide open one hand pressed to his concave chest as he struggles for breath, his white clerical collar loosened around his jerking Adam’s apple. His short brown hair recedes far back on the high, round dome of his scalp. When he sees the vicar, his eyes bulge with fright behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. His body spasms as he gasps.
“This is Clyde Nugent, my curate,” the vicar says in a frosty tone. “When he heard about the murder, he became a bit distraught.”
The ailing Mr. Nugent is obviously the cause of the vicar’s anger. Mrs. Thornton says to him, “It’s all right, dear. Just try to relax.”
Her voice is calm, soothing; during her years as a vicar’s wife, she must have tended to many distraught parishioners. Square and robust of figure, she has thin gray hair wound into a coil at the back of her head, with a short fringe in front. Her face is lined but rosy and healthy. A white apron covers the brown poplin frock she wore to my wedding. I like her because she’s been pleasant to me and hasn’t nagged me to attend her husband’s services.
She offers a cup of tea to Mr. Nugent. “Drink this.”
His hands shake so badly that she steadies them as he gulps the tea. He swallows, breathes easier, and lies back against the sofa. “Thank you.”
The vicar introduces Barrett and me and invites us to sit on the divan opposite the one occupied by Mr. Nugent. Our divan is upholstered in rose-patterned chintz, his in frayed brown horsehair. The whole room is furnished with mismatched items. Ornate modern chairs and tables clash with spindly antiques; the carpet is threadbare, the damask curtains faded. This is a poor parish that can’t afford luxuries for its vicarage, and the Thorntons either lack private resources or care little for material goods. The place is clean and comfortable enough, but cheerless.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Nugent says. “I get these attacks when I’m upset.”
The Reverend Thornton responds with a notably impatient lack of sympathy. “Detective Sergeant Barrett is investigating the murder. Tell him what you told me.”
Mr. Nugent cringes. “It was I who allowed Mr. Firth into the church last night. I lent him my key.”
That’s one question answered. Barrett asks another: “Did you kill him?” He sounds as if he doesn’t believe it. I don’t either.
Mr. Nugent’s eyes goggle. “No! But it’s my fault he was killed!” he wails. “I never should have let him in.”
“You’re right.” Disgust twists the vicar’s mouth. “I’ve warned you about thieves, and you gave a stranger the run of the church. Thank God none of our parishioners were injured.”
“Douglas, I’m sure Clyde didn’t mean any harm,” Mrs. Thornton says with mild reproach.
The vicar frowns and paces the floor, hands clenched behind his back. I think that a murder in his church after the rules were broken is legitimate reason for him to be angry. Barrett asks the curate, “How did you know Mr. Firth?”
“He came to a service two Sundays ago. Afterward, he introduced himself to me and asked if he could spend a night in the church.”
I picture Mr. Firth sitting in a pew, eyeing the vicar and the curate. With his talent for reading people, he would have known which man to ask for such a dubious favor.
“Why did he want to spend the night in the church?” Barrett says.
“He said he was a spirit photographer and had heard that St. Peter’s is haunted. He wanted to take pictures of the ghosts.”
This revelation disturbs me, although not because spirit photography is unusual. Even in our modern era, belief in the supernatural is widespread. Spiritualism is all the rage, and mediums, fortune-tellers, and all manner of other practitioners abound. Many folks think that although ghosts may be invisible to the eye, the camera can capture their images. Ghost photographs sell for high prices. But I am a skeptic who has never seen a ghost or heard convincing evidence that they exist. And I have reason to know that some spiritualists invent otherworldly manifestations to trick the gullible public. I’m appalled to learn that Mr. Firth was involved in a business that is rife with fraud.