Portrait of Peril Read online

  But I know from personal experience that children aren’t always asleep when they’re supposed to be, and they see and hear more than adults realize. “Perhaps we could talk to them?”

  “They would be of no help, and children shouldn’t be interrogated about a murder. Daniel and Lucie are particularly sensitive children, and Lucie is already very upset, as you saw.” The vicar then says to Barrett, “Isn’t it high time for you and your new bride to attend your wedding breakfast?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Our wedding breakfast is in the church hall, located a block from St. Peter’s. As Barrett and I walk there, he draws my arm through his. I glance around to see if anyone is watching this display of intimacy—and then remember that it doesn’t matter anymore. When we were single, I was embarrassed to flaunt our relationship and think people were speculating about the nature of it; now, it’s completely aboveboard. We smile at each other, and I feel as though we’re radiating light, outshining everyone around us, and I’m secure after a lifetime of insecurity. Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder.

  When we enter the church hall, I experience a sudden stage fright. All the guests are waiting, and I’m the center of attention again. Cheers and applause greet Barrett and me.

  Barrett’s father hurries up to us. “Did you solve the murder?” A retired police constable, he loves to talk shop and enjoys living vicariously through his son.

  “Not yet,” Barrett says.

  Mr. Barrett and his police cronies hasten to offer their theory that the killer is a member of one or another East End gang. Mrs. Barrett interrupts, “Please, dear, none of your morbid police chatter now. It’s time to eat.”

  She herds everyone to tables that she’s decorated with white linen cloths, ribbons, and roses. When I told her I wanted a simple celebration, she said, “Don’t be silly. A girl wants things special on her day, and since you haven’t a mother to help you, leave everything to me.” Now I’m thankful, because the decorations are lovely, and I hope they mean she’s trying to overcome her dislike of me. Barrett and I sit at the main table with his parents, Sir Gerald, and Sally. It’s not a company designed for easy conversation. I have little in common with Mr. and Mrs. Barrett, and her disapproval makes me tense and quiet. And although I like Sir Gerald and I’m thankful to him for my job and the generous salary he pays Hugh, Mick, and me, his presence is equally inhibiting. I’m glad to have Sally for moral support, but she’s shy with Sir Gerald and the Barretts, none of whom she knows well.

  Sir Gerald stands and raises his glass. “A toast to the new Mr. and Mrs. Barrett. May they live a long, prosperous, and happy life together.”

  Amid cheers, we drink champagne that Sir Gerald has provided. The liquor calms me. I take a deep breath for the first time all day, and the horror of Charles Firth’s murder recedes a little. My mother-in-law is positively giddy about having Sir Gerald at her son’s nuptials. I’m surprised he’s stayed this long, for he must have important business to attend to, but of course even England’s wealthiest, most powerful men need to eat.

  When he tastes the first course, creamed rice soup with vegetables, he says, “Delicious.”

  Mrs. Barrett preens. “Thank you; I made it myself. The menu is based on Princess Beatrice’s wedding breakfast.” She laughs gaily. “I’m a big admirer of the royal family.”

  She overruled my suggestion of sandwiches, cake, and tea. I tried to explain that Barrett and I needed to save money to furnish our new home, but she said he was her only child and this would be her only chance to organize a wedding, so we let her have her way and paid the bills. She economized by doing the cooking herself, with the help of her sisters and nieces. They must have been up all night. As we progress through lamb cutlets with mushrooms and beef filet wrapped in bacon, I’m glad everyone seems to be enjoying it. The whole day has an air of unreality. The conversation around me goes in one ear and out the other …

  Until Mrs. Barrett says to Sir Gerald, “Will you be very sorry when Sarah leaves the Daily World?”

  “I wasn’t aware that she’s leaving,” Sir Gerald says.

  They both turn to me. “I’m not,” I say.

  “You mean you’re going to keep working now that you’re married?” Mrs. Barrett speaks as if I’d announced my intention to become a circus performer.

  “Yes.” It’s obvious she assumed I would stop and that Barrett hasn’t told her otherwise. When I catch his eye, his sheepish expression says he wanted to avoid her reaction.

  Mrs. Barrett demands of him, “And you’re letting her?”

  “Sarah and I both think it’s a good idea.” Barrett’s tone is apologetic. “We could use the money.”

  “Money is good reason,” Sir Gerald says.

  My biggest reasons for keeping my job are more personal. Given my history, I’m loath to give up my financial independence and rely on a man for support as other married women do. That’s a sensitive subject I’ve not discussed with Barrett. Now it occurs to me that perhaps he would rather I quit my job. It’s certainly caused him enough trouble in the past.

  “And you’re going to photograph more dead bodies and chase more murderers?” Mrs. Barrett says to me, lowering her angry voice so that guests at other tables won’t hear.

  Her husband is busily eating, not wanting to get drawn into the argument. I don’t want to fight with my mother-in-law on my wedding day, but I’m not about to back down. “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s not only improper but dangerous. Look how many times you’ve almost been killed!”

  She knows about my exploits, at least the details that have been published. She doesn’t know that I have an affinity for danger, a quirk in my otherwise sedate nature. Although danger scares me, it also excites me and makes me feel alive. A dangerous person or situation is like a sleeping wolf that I feel an irresistible urge to poke and wake up.

  “Sarah has solved crimes and delivered criminals to justice,” pipes up Sally, my loyal admirer. “She’s a heroine.”

  “You’re just as bad as she is,” Mrs. Barrett says. “Working for the newspaper, following in her footsteps! You’ll be lucky to get a husband.”

  Sally flushes and looks at her plate. She’s twenty-three, and she’s said she would like to marry, but she hasn’t any suitors. Before she recently began working for the Daily World, she was a maid in a wealthy family’s house, and her prospects were limited. She’s achieved her dream of becoming a writer, but marriage still isn’t in the picture.

  “Don’t you talk to my sister that way,” I say to Mrs. Barrett. Sally is dearer to me than she would be if we’d grown up together instead of learning of each other’s existence less than two years ago. I couldn’t love her more if we shared a mother as well as a father. The common factor in our pasts has formed a unique bond between us.

  Mrs. Barrett ignores my sharp retort and Sally’s discomfort. “When you find out how much work it is to take care of your husband and your home, you’ll be glad to quit your job.”

  “Since we don’t have a home yet, my job won’t get in the way of my domestic responsibilities,” I say.

  Mrs. Barrett’s jaw drops. “What do you mean, you don’t have a home yet?”

  I frown at Barrett. Here’s another thing he neglected to tell his mother. As he winces, she says to him in an accusing tone, “I thought you’d rented a flat. I thought you’d moved in already and Sarah would be joining you there today.”

  Barrett’s shoulders hunch up to his ears. “I didn’t actually say that. I let you think so because I didn’t want you to worry. I’m still living in the police barracks.”

  “We haven’t been able to find a flat,” I say. I want one close to Hugh and Mick, and decent flats in Whitechapel are hard to come by.

  Mrs. Barrett gasps. “Do you mean that until you find one, you’re going to keep on living with those males?”

  That’s how she refers to my friends. She hates that Mick is a former street urchin with a history of petty cr
ime and Hugh a homosexual. She thought it disgraceful enough that her son’s fiancée lived with two single men of such bad character; now she’s even more scandalized that her daughter-in-law will do so.

  “They’re my family,” I say, vexed by her conventionality, defensive on my friends’ behalf as well as my own. After my father disappeared, I had no friends until I met Hugh and Mick more than twenty years later. They’re as dear to me as Sally and my father, who are my only blood kin. “If you would get to know them, you would learn what good men they are.”

  “But what will people think?” Mrs. Barrett wails.

  “I don’t care what they think.” Beneath my demure facade, I have a temper, and I’m on the verge of losing it and telling her that I don’t care what she thinks.

  Barrett clears his throat. “Sarah, why don’t you and I visit with our guests?”

  “Good idea,” Sir Gerald says. With more kindly tact than I thought he had, he says to Mrs. Barrett, “What did you think of Princess Beatrice’s wedding gown?”

  Thankful to escape, I accompany Barrett to other tables, and he introduces me to people whose names I immediately forget. Then I discover that his mother has seated Mick beside my friend Catherine Price, a beautiful young, blond actress. Mick is in love with Catherine, but she considers him an enemy.

  “There’s a good show at the Alhambra,” Mick says to her. “How ’bout I take you tomorrow night?”

  Catherine sniffs. “I’ve already seen it.” She’s angry because last winter he ruined her romance with a wealthy swain.

  “Aw, for cripes’ sake!” Mick says. “You’re lucky you found out that guy was no good. Ain’t you ever gonna forgive me?”

  Her blue eyes fix him with an icy glare. “Not in a million years.” She sees Barrett and me, smiles brightly, and says, “Congratulations!”

  We chat with her and the other guests while Mick broods. I feel bad because his problems with Catherine were a direct result of investigating a murder with me. At the next table, Hugh is arguing with one of Mr. Barrett’s police cronies.

  “If I’d had my way, I would’ve arrested you and thrown you in the nick along with the other degenerates,” says the crony, an older man with a squashed face like a bulldog’s. “But no—the boss said to let you go because you’re a lord.”

  My heart plummets. This man must have been on the vice squadron the night of the raid. Whenever the subject comes up, Hugh usually shrivels into mortified silence. Sometimes he manages to turn detractors into friends—such is the power of his charm. Normally a most courteous and kind person, he wouldn’t dream of quarreling at my wedding breakfast, but lately his demeanor has changed. He’s devastated by his recent breakup with Sir Gerald’s son Tristan Mariner, a former priest who fled to Switzerland. His usually sleek blond hair is mussed, his green eyes bleary, and his reddened complexion tells me that he’s been drowning his sorrows in too much champagne.

  “If I’d had my way,” Hugh says, “you would have caught Jack the Ripper. But no—you coppers are good for nothing except persecuting people who’ve never caused you any harm and scratching your behinds.”

  I want to clap my hand over Hugh’s mouth. The Ripper is a sensitive subject with the police, whose failure to catch the notorious killer made them the butt of public scorn. Hugh, Barrett, Mick, and I are among the few people who know why the Ripper has never been caught. It’s a deep, dark secret that, if revealed, could send us to the gallows.

  His adversary grabs Hugh by the lapels. “You take that back!”

  “Or what?” Hugh shoves the man away and laughs. “You’ll cry uncle while I tan your hide on behalf of all us degenerates?”

  An appalled hush descends on the room. I’m less upset about Hugh’s making a scene than worried about him. His troubles, like Mick’s, stem from our work, and nevertheless, both my friends have stuck with it—and with me. That’s no small act of friendship and loyalty. I would excuse almost any misbehavior from Hugh and Mick. As I start toward Hugh, intending to escort him from the room, the thin, gray-haired man seated beside him rises, takes him by the arm, and says, “Let’s go home.” It’s Fitzmorris, officially Hugh’s valet, unofficially our housekeeper, manager, cook, and accountant.

  As Fitzmorris leads Hugh out of the room, Mrs. Barrett glares after them, then forces a smile and announces, “It’s time to cut the cake.”

  Pretending nothing happened, everyone gathers around the huge cake decorated with white frosting scrolls and flowers. Mick takes photographs as Barrett and I cut into it with a silver knife.

  A man barges into the hall. Big and thickset, in his forties, he’s dressed in an old tweed jacket that strains across his paunch. His curly, graying brown hair and beard are longer and shaggier than when I last saw him a few weeks ago. He’s John Porter, once a police constable and Barrett’s assistant. His ruddy face wears an ugly smile.

  Barrett frowns at him. “You weren’t invited.”

  “I just stopped by to pay my respects to the blushing bride.” Porter’s smile turns contemptuous as he beholds me. “I wouldn’t wish the likes of you on anybody except him. Bet he ends up hoping ‘death do you part’ happens sooner rather than later.”

  Porter was fired from the police force and blames Barrett and me, although it was his own fault, the result of a scheme to sabotage our last investigation. My temper, already vexed by my mother-in-law, flares at Porter. That he would try to spoil my wedding day!

  “It’s not us you should hate,” I tell him. “Inspector Reid put you up to the scheme.” Reid is Barrett’s superior, another person with a grudge against us. “When it went awry, he let you take the punishment.”

  Barrett stares Porter down and speaks in a quiet, ominous voice. “Get out.”

  As everyone watches in fearful yet eager suspense, my heart pounds, sending currents of dread and excitement through me. I tighten my fingers around the cake knife. When a fight starts, I don’t sit on the sidelines; I pitch in.

  Sir Gerald’s two bodyguards advance on Porter. Their heft and menacing expressions brook no defiance. Even as Porter backs away, he jabs his finger at Barrett and me. “I’m going to make you both pay. Just see if I don’t.”

  He stalks out, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. Everyone consumes cake and coffee; nobody mentions him; but the festivities are over.

  “Your carriage is here,” Sally says to me.

  Guests gather outside to see Barrett and me into the carriage we hired to take us to the hotel where we’ll spend our wedding night. We didn’t have time to plan a honeymoon.

  Amid the farewells, Mrs. Barrett squeezes my hand hard, kisses my cheek, and whispers, “You’ll think about what I said, won’t you, dear?”

  Inside the carriage, riding away from the church, Barrett and I slump back against the seat, exhausted. “Porter will make more trouble,” I say.

  Barrett pats my hand. “If the worst he can think of is to crash our wedding breakfast, I don’t think we need to worry.”

  Instead of letting the driver take us to the hotel, I tell him to stop at the train station. I have an important rendezvous. Barrett says, “I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s not a good idea.” Seeing displeasure cloud his expression again, I remind him, “You know why.”

  “All right.” He kisses me, helps me out of the carriage, and says, “I’ll see you tonight.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I take the train across the River Thames to Battersea and emerge from the station into a fog that’s much thicker and colder than in the East End. Battersea is on the bank of the river, engulfed by its moist breath and steam from the waterfront factories. The perpetual darkness of winter starts early here, and although it’s just past one o’clock in the afternoon, it looks as if twilight is descending. A horse-drawn omnibus materializes out of the smoke and fog, and I jump backward just in time to avoid being run over. Dodging porters with handcarts and men in sandwich boards, I make my way to the rank of cabs for hire.

 
A brief ride takes me to a public house named the Gladstone Arms. Signs on the front advertise Watney ales and rooms to let. I stroll up and down the busy thoroughfare, pretending to browse the shop windows. The grocer’s is stocked with barrels of apples for bobbing at Halloween parties and roasting on sticks over bonfires. I dawdle until I’m sure I don’t see anyone I know and nobody seems to recognize me. Then I dart along the alley to the back door of the Gladstone Arms. I slip in and tiptoe up the back stairs. On the second floor, I find closed doors along a dim passage. I knock on the door numbered 3. There’s no answer. I knock again and again while panic tightens my chest. Then I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, I turn, and there stands my father, Benjamin Bain, a stocky man with white whiskers.

  “Sarah.” His smile crinkles eyes narrowed from a lifetime of peering through a camera viewfinder. “I’m sorry—have you been waiting long? I went to the kitchen for some hot water.” He holds up a teakettle.

  My body goes limp with relief. “No, I just arrived.”

  One day when I was ten, he didn’t come home. He was just gone, without warning. My mother told me he’d been killed in a riot during a workers’ protest demonstration he’d organized. Two years ago I learned that he was still alive. Last month, after a harrowing search, I found him. Our reunion was a dream come true. Now I realize how afraid I am of losing him again.

  He sees my thoughts on my face, his expression turns rueful, and he hugs me. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  He smells the same as I remember from childhood—clean, with a bitter tang of the photographic chemicals that have permanently discolored his hands. It recalls his gentleness and patience while he was teaching me photography, opening my eyes to the beauty and secrets of the visual world. As I embrace him, he feels solid, real. The memory of his love was a steadying force in my life after he disappeared. The knowledge that somebody had once cherished me helped me bear the many years when nobody did, until Hugh and Mick became my friends. When I let go of my father, I fight the impulse to hold on so he can’t vanish into thin air.