Boston Metaphysical Society Page 3

  Where his father had been a big bear of a man with the strength of a coal miner, Mallory had a slight almost feminine body. When he was a boy, many mistook his appearance for weakness. They were mistaken. For what he lacked in physical strength, he made up in deviousness and intelligence. Classmates who crossed him often found themselves set up for humiliation and expulsion. They could never prove he had done it, but everyone knew. Mallory needed to improve his physical conditioning and took up a rigorous routine of boxing and calisthenics as soon as he hit puberty. The result was a wiry man with sinuous muscle layered upon his body.

  When Andrew entered the room, Detective Mallory saw a middle-aged man who would be an old man much sooner than he should. However, he had no control over that nor did he care. Andrew was there to give him a unique perspective on crime scenes. Between his photographs and his other “ability,” Mallory had cleared all of his cases, much to his colleagues chagrin. And he didn’t mind letting them know it. Mallory knew that one day his arrogance would get him killed, but for now relished rubbing his colleague’s noses into it.

  The detective crooked his finger at Andrew to follow him. Andrew shifted the camera on his neck as he re-balanced his bag full of plates. A tripod stuck out of the top. He followed Mallory towards the servant’s quarters. Constable Strong followed until Mallory put his slender hand on bigger man’s chest and gave him a look that would stop a man cold. Not sure whether to be angry or afraid, the Constable stopped. “I’ll wait outside. Take in the sights.”

  Mallory watched the constable leave then turned to Andrew. “Does he suspect what you can do yet?”

  “Nay, Detective Mallory.” Andrew shook his head. “That one be more scared of his own shadow then the likes of me. And if it’s not out-of-place, sir, that one not be too bright.”

  “Good,” Mallory chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. When they have an ounce of intelligence, then they start asking questions. And we can’t have that, can we, Andrew?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Come, it’s this way.” Detective Mallory turned and headed in the direction of the servant’s quarters.

  They wound their way through the lower section of the house. It was clean and functional by Beacon Hill standards, but not the lap of luxury. Walls painted a plain ivory color and wooden floors with not a piece of gold, copper or even pewter in sight. It was typical of the culture among those of extreme wealth. They would not allow those who worked for them to possess or display anything that signified other than their station in life. To do so resulted in the loss of one’s position or arrest.

  Andrew followed Detective Mallory through the maze of hallways until they stopped near a storage room where two other constables stood guard on each side of the closed door. “Anyone enter?” Mallory asked. The eldest of the constables, shook his head.

  Mallory motioned for both of them to leave. Neither of them even glanced at Andrew as they hurried away. Andrew smiled to himself. He was amazed at man’s capacity to ignore what they did not wish to see or acknowledge.

  “Andrew?” Mallory beckoned to him as he opened the door. Before Mallory entered, he noticed a young man ushering a sobbing stout older woman down the hall. Dressed in a black and gray dress with tiny accents of copper on her collar, he ascertained that she was the head housekeeper. He noticed the hem of her dress was wet and made a mental note to talk to her later.

  Andrew walked over bracing himself for whatever he was to see.

  His eyes were drawn to a trail of blood staining the hardwood floor. Andrew’s first thought was that they would have to tear the flooring out to remove the stain though he guessed the masters of the house would make some poor housemaid try to scrub it out first.

  The trail of blood led to a pair of man’s boots. Mud was ground into the soles. Dirt and grass stained his work pants. Next to them were the unadorned leather shoes of a housemaid. Her bloody body draped over his like they had been dancing before they met this very gruesome end. The man had a gaping wound from his groin to his chest while she had one that severed her spine; sticking out of it was a large butcher knife.

  Andrew hoped they had been doing something that brought them happiness before this.

  “Well?” Mallory asked.

  “Give me a minute,” Andrew pleaded. Mallory tapped his foot and scowled.

  Andrew took one step forward when he felt an overwhelming nausea. He staggered then steadied himself. He knew what was coming next and braced himself against the wall. With his eyes closed, he took a deep breath and concentrated.

  A misty blue color seeped into his brain, then swirls of gray and black shot with iridescent violet and green. The colors coalesced into images.

  He opened his eyes to see the ghostlike image of the young maid screaming. Blood on her chest and hands. Then a young man. A butler? A footman? No. A gardener. His hands calloused. Dirt under his fingernails. Was he the killer? No. He was already dead. His body crumpled and lifeless as the young maid stood screaming over him, then hugging him. Her lover? She caught a flash out of the corner of her eye. A knife. It plunged into her back. She fell lifeless over the corpse of the gardener. Their blood pooling together. Their lives co-mingling in death where it could not in life. Then someone dipped their fingertip into the blood and touched the maid’s cheek. The vision faded.

  Andrew gasped as a sharp pain in his head caused him to wince and stumble backwards. Mallory caught him by the elbow. He hung on just long enough to steady Andrew then released him not bothering to hide his distaste at being forced to touch someone.

  “What did you see?”

  “The young man be dead when she entered. His spirit’s gone. I could get nothing from him. But I think someone dipped their finger in the blood then touched the girl there.” Andrew pointed at a small smear of blood on the housemaid’s cheek then wiped the sweat from his face. “The pictures will tell me more.”

  “Then take them. I want to see what demon would dare to enter this house.”

  “There not be demons here, detective. They won’t appear for you. This be a man that done this. Let me see what I can get on the negative plates,” Andrew responded.

  “Fine. Get it done. I want to get this case cleared. Wouldn’t do to mar my perfect record, would it?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mallory left the room to wait just outside the door. “Finish before the damn house supervisor complains about us not letting them clean up.”

  Andrew set up his tripod and camera. He inserted the glass plate into it then adjusted the camera angle to get as much of the scene as possible. Done with one angle, he rotated the camera around inserting new plates taking pictures of the entire scene.

  The noise of leather shoes distracted him. He heard voices outside the room. One was Mallory. The other was the house supervisor complaining they were taking too long. They always did that. It wasn’t that they were being disrespectful it was simply their job to keep the house running without any problems. No one wanted to lose their job over a dead person.

  Andrew packed up the camera and the plates then walked over to the door.

  A sturdy middle-aged house supervisor wearing the black and gray livery towered over Mallory. His voice boomed demands, but his face and body grieved. “Are you taking pictures? That’s… that’s an abomination. How dare you?” The house supervisor moved to enter the room, but Mallory stepped in his way.

  “This is how I do my job,” said Mallory. “Was that the head house keeper I just saw? Did she find the bodies? I’ll need to speak to her.”

  “She’s too distraught. What kind of policeman are you to ask such a thing?”

  “The kind that solves cases. Now, what do you want?”

  The aggrieved house supervisor clenched his hands in anger, but kept them at his side. “The mistress wants them out of the house so that a proper cleaning can be done.”

  Mallory glared at him. “Mistress Bridgeworth will have to wait until my investigation is over. Even she has to
obey the law.”

  “I would give you the time you would need, but… ” the house supervisor tried to explain, but Mallory cut him off.

  “This is no debate. Go tell your mistress that I’ll need to talk to the staff as well.”

  The house supervisor sagged in defeat and worry. “As you wish, sir.” He shuffled away.

  Andrew remained stoic throughout the exchange. Mallory eyed him.

  “You think I’m a heartless bastard, don’t you?”

  “You just be doing your job. Though I reckon one day one of them’s gonna put your head on a spit,” Andrew remarked.

  Mallory stared at him for a moment then burst out laughing. “I do like you, Andrew. Now go develop those and meet me back at my office. I have more interviewing to do. Oh, and by the way….” The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a lemon. “I filched this for you.” He tossed it at Andrew who caught it with one hand, slipped it into his pocket and headed out.

  WITH THE EXPOSED PLATES STACKED on his workbench, Andrew reached under it to bring out three of his most prized possessions—three deep-dish glass trays: One for developing, one for fixing and the last for stopping the action of the developer. Andrew pulled the lemon out of his pocket and set it aside. Then he went to work mixing a potassium bromide solution together with a pinch of sea salt. Andrew poured it into the first glass dish. With a small thin knife, he sliced off a tiny section of lemon, just enough for juice to pucker up out of the pulp. The second one he coated with a thin slice of lemon and added clean water. For the last one he poured in a mixture of water and ammonium carbonate.

  Andrew put on his sturdy leather gloves, picked up one of the plates and eased it into the first dish. He rocked it back and forth letting the solution wash over it. As the images began to emerge, he saw the body of the young maid first. Her body sprawled over the gardener’s as if it were posed. Andrew moved the plate to the second bath and swirled it around in the acidic solution. Here was where he would know if he had succeeded or not.

  The girl’s spirit began to emerge. First her hands, then the edge of her dress then the rest of her body. Faces were always the last. Andrew never understood why.

  He studied her expression. There was anguish, hurt and loss. All reflected in a single moment. Something about her posture told him she had just found the body of the gardener. The image of her spirit faded. He placed the plate into the dish with the stopper to finish the process then laid it to dry. Andrew hoped the next plate could tell him more.

  A breeze brushed by him. “Don’t be bothering me now, Duncan.” Intent on his task, Andrew ignored the sometimes bothersome ghost.

  Andrew repeated the process. This time she had turned to face someone. There was a look of relief on her face as if help had come. Once again, the image faded.

  The third plate revealed her back turned to her assailant, but with the horror of shock and pain on her face. Andrew examined it more closely and saw that her back had been slit severing her spine.

  These images made a couple of things were clear to Andrew: The attacker was strong and the girl knew who attacked her. The ghostly image faded.

  He slumped onto his stool and shook his head in frustration. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find the right developing solution to hold the images of human spirits for long. Except for demons. He had better luck developing and keeping them. Something in that developing solution held the key, but he did not have time to figure it out. He needed to print these images and get them to the detective as soon as possible. The detective valued speed and paid for it.

  DETECTIVE MALLORY ATTEMPTED TO INTERVIEW the staff. The house supervisor was correct. Mistress Bridgeworth did not appreciate any interruptions to the smooth operations of her house. It wasn’t until Mallory insinuated that a possible scandal might ensue if he leaked this to the press, and the resulting stock drop of their bank shares did the lady relent. He took temporary possession of the house supervisor’s office and interviewed the staff one by one. The usual picture presented itself of a household staff unwilling to talk except to say how much they loved the master and mistress and how well treated they were. They had no idea who might have killed the housemaid, whose name was Anna and the young gardener, whose name was Jack. Though one teary-eyed housemaid admitted that the young couple fancied each other, but insisted they were doing nothing indecent.

  The Mistress Bridgeworth interview was another matter. It was only after it became apparent the detective was going to continue to disrupt her staff did she deign to speak to him.

  Mallory stood outside two large iron doors to the parlor while a butler announced him. He knew his request was granted when the massive gears behind the doors began to creak as two houseboys cranked them open. They struggled with the gears, but once the teeth were in motion, the door slid open. The room revealed itself to be better than standard for even the wealthiest of families.

  Steam-driven electrical lighting was placed on the walls around the room. A small crystal chandelier lit the room even though three large bay windows let in plenty of sunlight. The curtains were burgundy velvet with ropes made of gold thread. Mahogany coffee tables sat spaced around the room nestled between two loveseats upholstered with ivory silk and trimmed with brass fittings. Small but tasteful fresh flower arrangements sat on each table.

  The lady in question stood in the middle of this magnificent room.

  Tall for a woman, Mistress Emily Bridgeworth had braided her auburn gray-streaked hair with copper wire then tied it up in a bun. Her dress was the latest Victorian fashion of blue and gold silk brocade trimmed with gold scallops at the hem. With a lined angular face, her disapproval did not have to be voiced as her body language spoke volumes.

  Mallory gave her a cursory bow. Just enough to acknowledge her status yet not belittle his own. “Mistress Bridgeworth, how kind of you to see me.”

  “Detective Mallory, you have questions. Ask them and leave. I have more important things to attend to,” the lady demanded of him.

  Mallory took on his most charming façade. “Where were you and your husband last night?”

  Mistress Bridgeworth stared at him for a moment then answered without emotion. “At the Monplaisir’s dinner party. We arrived at seven and promptly left at eleven. We are not ones to overstay our welcome.”

  “Of course not,” Mallory replied. “Was anything amiss when you returned?”

  “Like a knife wielding man running rampant through the house? I should think not.” She kept her impatience in check. “Is that all?”

  “One more thing,” Mallory paused, “Where is your head house keeper?”

  “I’ve given her a brief holiday. This whole sorry incident has upset her too much.”

  “And she made this request herself?”

  “I’ve answered enough of your questions. You may leave now,” she said as her annoyance began to increase. “You can show yourself out.” She turned away from him.

  “Then she didn’t request it herself?”

  “Such requests come through our house supervisor.”

  “Thank you, Mistress Bridgeworth.” Mallory backed out and almost tripped over Edward Bridgeworth, the son and heir. He was tall and angular like his mother with the same auburn hair, but where she had an attitude of indifference, Mallory could feel his resentment at his presence.

  “You heard my mother, detective. You’re done here,” Edward proclaimed.

  Mallory gave him a slight bow and left.

  ANDREW CLUTCHED HIS BAGS OF prints to his chest while he sat outside Mallory’s office at police headquarters on a wooden bench reserved for criminals awaiting trial. It was the constables’ way of attempting to humiliate Andrew and annoy Mallory. The detective didn’t care, and neither did Andrew. So when the detective returned, he motioned for Andrew to follow him.

  Inside the office were a plain oak desk and a steam-powered incandescent light hanging from the ceiling. Several wooden file cabinets were lined up against one wall, each
labeled by alphabet. Every paper and pencil was in a precise place. Mallory’s prized possession sat in the middle of the desk. It was a steam-powered typewriter. The keys were so powerful they could emboss metal. The only other person who possessed one was the chief of police.

  Mallory displayed it prominently to remind everyone that even though he could never be a chief inspector, he had enough leverage to get pretty much anything else he wanted.

  Andrew pulled out his photos and lined them up on the edge of the desk.

  “Before I lost the images I saw that here she found the poor lad.” He pointed to the next one. “Here she thinks someone has come to help.” The third one he kept his finger on. “And this is where he stabs her. But I recall in my vision I saw someone dipped his finger in blood and touch her cheek. Gentle like.”

  “She knew her killer.”

  “I think you be right, Detective.”

  Mallory leaned over and examined the photos. “The head house keeper found the body, but she is conveniently on holiday.”

  “That be most rare.”

  The detective frowned. “It might be Edward Bridgeworth.”

  “If it be the Master’s son, you’ll never be able to arrest the likes of him.” Andrew scowled.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s take a closer look at what you’ve got.” Mallory put on a pair of magnifying goggles and hunched over the photos. Each lens could be manipulated to whatever magnification the user wanted. Mallory fussed with them then focused his attention on the every minute detail of the photos. After a few moments, Mallory gasped.

  “Andrew, did you see this?” the detective pointed to a smudge on the side of maid’s blouse. “I think it’s a hand print. Can you make out the dimensions?”