A Shadow on the Lens
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Synopsis
The Postmaster looked over my shoulder. As I turned to look I saw a flicker of movement from across the street. I felt unseen eyes peer at me.
He walked away without another word. I watched as he climbed onto his bicycle and sped away down the street. I turned back and looked over my shoulder.
Someone had been watching us.
1904. Thomas Bexley, one of the first forensic photographers, is called to the sleepy and remote Welsh village of Dinas Powys, several miles down the coast from the thriving port of Cardiff. A young girl by the name of Betsan Tilny has been found murdered in the woodland — her body bound and horribly burnt. But the crime scene appears to have been staged, and worse still: the locals are reluctant to help.
As the strange case unfolds, Thomas senses a growing presence watching him, and try as he may, the villagers seem intent on keeping their secret. Then one night, in the grip of a fever, he develops the photographic plates from the crime scene in a makeshift darkroom in the cellar of his lodgings. There, he finds a face dimly visible in the photographs; a face hovering around the body of the dead girl — the face of Betsan Tilny.
Release date: September 5, 2019
Publisher: Orion
Print pages: 221
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A Shadow on the Lens
Sam Hurcom
My Arrival – June 17th, 1904
I embarked by train on a fine summer morning. The small windows in the first-class carriage were propped open, and as the steamer gained pace, charging through the green pastures and twisting through the rolling landscape with thunderous rapture, a warm breeze, lined with mill dust and soot, ebbed and swirled about me.
It was a Friday; that Tuesday past I had apprehended a killer. The case in Oxford had taken longer than anticipated and had not been without its challenges. But my work had been done, and seeing a guilty man taken into custody rejuvenated me in a manner that no great elixir ever could. After only two short days at my residence in London (during which time I had received a letter asking for my assistance with a murder enquiry in South Wales), I was eager to return to my duties.
Hence my fine mood upon departing from Paddington, greeting the kindly conductor who inspected my ticket as though he were an old friend. Following my connection at Chepstow I must have dozed, however, for no sooner had I set my gaze out southerly, watching with a strange sense of envy as labourers toiled lazily in the fields, I was stirred by the clatter and rattle of the locomotive dropping speed and pulling into the station at Cardiff. It had been little more than an hour and a half, and whilst the day remained fine, the crisp blue sky had dulled substantially.
I alighted at the short platform as a near endless stream of coal transports ran along the mainline back toward London. Many were headed from the valley routes in the north, the deep pits of the Rhondda and Ebbw Vale. Even over the din of freighters, the hustle of clerks and businessmen rushing to and fro across the narrow platform, I heard the tremendous booming and racket of the great docks just out of sight, little more than a mile south from where I stood. Above the grimy rows of terraced houses compacted and sprawling outward towards the dockyards, I made out the black pillars and white clouds of steam, the dragon’s breath of industry, the goliaths that sailed across the Commonwealth from this mighty place. And a mighty place it was, for stood there amidst the chaos of it all, one could not help but feel a little overcome. This was the furnace, the heartbeat, of the greatest Empire in the world.
After descending into the station fully, I enquired about my connection, and made haste towards the furthest track from the mainline. A fine locomotive, with two stumpy carriages in tow, began pulling from the station as I clambered the final few steps to the platform. In calamitous fashion and with the aid of a young station assistant, I bundled onto the second carriage.
It seemed deserted and I saw no real need to park my travel case and camera equipment in the racks. They sat in the aisle, rocking gently, as I caught my breath and the train followed the line, bending out of the station.
I watched the world roll past us through the grubby carriage window as we made our way from the centre of the city. We clattered by ever more lengthy rows of terraced houses, the streets a hive of activity, with women busy at their work and children scampering in droves like packs of rabid dogs. The brickwork, walkways and roads were all darkened and dirtied by smoke and fumes, comparable perhaps only to the streets of Brixton town or the ghettos of Spitalfields (my former home). Beyond the workers’ houses, I saw the dockyards in greater view and fleets of trawlers and cargo vessels hauled at anchor. The world, it seemed, was darkened ever more in that direction.
It would seem apt to explain the details of my journey, and the full nature of my employment. My trade as a photographer had been passed down to me from my father. I enjoyed the work, though even in the capital the money was poor. After my apprenticeship, and several years of unsteady work, an opportunity had been offered to me by the Metropolitan Police. I’m not ashamed to admit that this securing of work was more a case of whom one knows rather than what one knows, for the man who hired me was something of an acquaintance. I take no shame in saying his loose friendship played a vital role in starting my career – too often men let pride get in the way of common sense when it comes to these matters. To turn him down would have been to waste the greatest opportunity ever afforded me.
Forensic photography, as it remains to be called, was something of a fledgling enterprise, a new and specialist field, now incorporated into the wider forensic sciences. Many avoided it, due to the unseemly nature of the work. Though indeed the scenes I saw were ugly (occasionally barbaric), I was vested with one sentiment – there would always be crime, and the need to record it.
Some years passed – I worked at crime scenes throughout the city and I studied in The Yard’s dark rooms, morgues and laboratories. In time I earned quite the reputation, both for my forensic expertise and surprising investigatory skill. Many in the force began to see me as an Inspector (a title I feel I do not deserve) in my own right, capable of not only assisting with enquiries but taking on my own cases. My keen eye for detail when examining crime scenes, and a surprising talent for piecing together evidence, brought many a guilty man and woman before judge and jury.
In recent years, and owing to my rather unique skillset, The Yard had relieved me of many of my in-house forensic duties, holding me on retainer as a specialised investigator, consulting on serious crime cases nationwide, often those for which I was requested. Receiving correspondence at my private residence from police forces and constabularies up and down the country was not uncommon at this time in my life. Travelling to assist with a murder enquiry in a small Welsh village was nothing out of the ordinary.
When we arrived in the village of Dinas Powys, the pearlescent blue heavens had re-emerged fully. I breathed in heavily, letting the scorching sun beat down upon my brow as I alighted and stood upon the platform. It was deserted. I checked my pocket watch as the steamer departed with a short screech of its whistle – I was some forty-five minutes early for my meeting. It didn’t seem to matter and with an air of calm and relaxation (the last time I should ever feel such ease) I made my way out of the station.
Crossing a wide dirt road, I ascended a gentle set of steps, passing a cottage of some antiquity. Its thatched roof was all but destroyed, revealing the twisted, rotten skeleton of oak timbers and exposed chimneys. A faded sign on the wall read ‘Malthouse’, though it seemed the place had been abandoned for some time.
A thin trail wound around the derelict, leading to a few more cottages in far better standing. Stretching above the thatched and slated rooftops, I made out the three spires of a dull grey church, each tipped with simple, unembellished crosses. I guessed then that this trail would lead me to the heart of the hamlet, though I chose not to follow it, instead ascending further up the hillock away from the station, where a wide grass verge spread away and out of sight. I would learn that this was the edge of the village common, and as I carried my heavy cases up and over the verge, I realised just how wide an expanse it was.
All was quite pleasant, if not a little inert. Some twenty yards from where I stood, two women, dressed in none of the high fashions of central London, but smart gowns and neat blouses nonetheless, walked side by side along a visible trodden path in the grass. The shorter of the women was barked and yipped at by a small terrier, tethered to her wrist by a thin length of twisted rope. Further off, some four hundred yards perhaps, a young man with flaxen curls rode a fine pony on a dirt road skirting the common’s northern edge. With each quick step, the pony shot white and cream dust out behind its hooves.
Perhaps my enthusiasm and good mood got the better of me, for I approached the women too keenly, catching the shorter lady’s eye and smiling a little. Innocent as my intentions were, under the circumstances my approach was indelicate. She fell silent and still at the sight of me. With a brief nod of acknowledgement, she pulled with little subtlety on her companion’s arm. The pair sharply turned and walked quickly away from me without even a glance over their shoulders, the miserable terrier yanked and heaved by the neck with ruthless thrusts of its leash.
I watched after them for a moment, only turning my gaze away at the sound of hooves thumping quickly across compacted earth. The young man on his pony was out of sight in a flicker.
Somewhat dumbfounded, I walked further onto the common towards a wooden bench, whereupon I set my cases down gently. There was no one else in sight. I considered the encounter, reminding myself that a young woman in the village had recently been murdered and that people were likely nervous (nay, terrified) of anyone they may not recognise. It seemed foolish of me to have expected open arms and warm greetings.
In spite of my eagerness to head into the village, for time is a pressing matter in serious cases such as these, I decided to wait on the common for the hour of my scheduled meeting. It seemed best not to alarm anyone or draw any greater attention to myself than I was already likely to incur. I removed my heavy coat and realised my copy of the Standard was still folded neatly in the large inside pocket. My copy was something of an inaccuracy. I had found the previous day’s paper unattended on the platform at Paddington. I browsed through an account of a meeting held in Manchester between local business leaders and the adopted Liberal MP Winston Churchill. On the page over, nestled in the far bottom corner, I noticed a short extract reporting the recent case in Oxford:
The perpetrator of several salacious murders in and around the Oxford city area has been thwarted by members of the Oxford City Police, working out of the Blue Boar Street station. The accused has not been named publicly but shall be brought before magistrates in the coming week. The Oxford City Force was assisted in their enquiries by Metropolitan Police Special Investigator Thomas Bexley.
I admit now (with some sense of shame for my arrogance, I might add), that seeing my name in print brought a smile to my face. It was not the first time I had been mentioned in a national newspaper, and I daresay I thought it would not be the last. Idling on such things seems so absurd looking back now.
Forty minutes later, as I began to gather some of my belongings to make my way toward the village proper, I caught sight of a man waving in my direction some two hundred yards from where I sat. With no one around me, I gingerly raised a hand and waved back to him. That spurred him on and he hurried towards me, half jogging over the fine-trimmed grass.
He was barely five feet five, no more than forty but carrying the weight and purple skin tone of a man who drinks too much and eats poorly. His gasping breaths preceded him and a thin veil of sweat shone dully in the blazing sun from his receding hairline to his heavy jowls. He wore a fine suit, better than the ragged three piece I had on that day. His was dark tan, checked and double breasted with a smart red dicky bow resting against his Adam’s apple. He beamed at me and my first impression was that he seemed a friendly type; his greeting was far removed from the earlier reception I had received. I smiled back at him and took a few steps in his direction.
‘I guessed you would wander up here from the station. Most do.’ He gasped out his words as a dog pants in such weather. He needed to take a breath and compose himself but seemed keen to talk more. ‘If you haven’t been here before, it’s easy to head onto the common rather than straight to the village.’ He stretched out a red and sweaty hand. I shook it with vigour, meaning to introduce myself.
‘How was your journey?’ he rasped at me.
‘Fine,’ I stammered, trying to wrench my hand from his sweaty grasp. ‘Lovely, in fact.’
‘Yah,’ he murmured. ‘Such a shame it is under these circumstances.’
I nodded and watched as he pulled a lime green handkerchief from inside his jacket. He rubbed his face and took several gulps of air.
‘Cummings. Robert Cummings, head of the local council.’ He smiled as thick, dark veins throbbed from his temples.
‘Thomas Bexley,’ I replied. He barely seemed to notice. He brazenly stepped past and reached for my luggage case. I moved fast to ensure he didn’t carry my camera equipment; the handle on the bespoke case I’d had made was a little loose and likely to break with too strong a pull.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of arranging your lodgings. I imagined the process would be done by tomorrow.’ He began walking off as he spoke, back in the direction he had appeared from. I moved after him, my camera case in one hand and coat in the other.
‘I’m afraid this will likely take three days, at least.’
He didn’t stop walking but remained silent momentarily. ‘Really, that long eh? Any reason in particular?’
‘No, it is simply not a process we should rush, Mr Cummings.’
He nodded without a word.
Crossing the common, we came to a short, steep incline that descended from the expanse of grass. Here, at the brow of the hill, Cummings pointed to a large detached house of fine design and proudly announced it was his. He explained that I could find him there should ever I need him, though from the manner in which he spoke I suspected he merely wanted to show off the property. As we made our way down the hill Cummings further explained how the village square was only a short distance away down Britway Road. Before I had time to get a word in, he began babbling about the history of the village. The man barely took time to breathe before rattling on to another subject.
‘How has everyone taken it?’ I asked quickly as Cummings paused between his short, haggard gasps for an instant. I thought of the two women who had near fled at the sight of me upon my arrival. Here again, I reminded myself that this was not the heart of a major city like London or Oxford. This was a tiny hamlet where a murder would have a devastating effect on many. ‘Awful thing under any circumstance.’
Cummings seemed to growl. ‘Dreadful, dreadful thing. It’s come as a surprise to some.’
I was taken aback a little by the man’s rather brazen tone. ‘But not to everyone?’
Cummings shrugged. ‘You may learn a few things about the people of Dinas Powys in your short stay here, Inspector.’
‘I’m not an Inspector.’ It seemed proper to correct Cummings from the outset. In spite of my skillset, I have always felt the title Inspector should be reserved for those who have diligently (often painfully) worked their way through the police force ranks. He stopped in the road and eyed me with an air of confusion.
‘The telegram from the Glamorgan Constabulary seemed to say you were. Chief Inspector Brent advised us that your services would be a necessity here.’
I shook my head a little. Either Cummings or Chief Inspector Brent, whose letter to my residence had been nothing but brief, was misinformed.
‘A misunderstanding, I am sure, one perhaps I should have clarified when I wired back to the Chief Inspector yesterday morning. Understand I’ll be heading up the enquiry now on behalf of the Glamorgan Constabulary – I’ll work to assist the Chief Inspector and his men but answer only to my superiors at Scotland Yard. Brent wrote to me with the instruction to meet with yourself and your local officer, Constable—’
‘Vaughn.’ Cummings beamed. ‘He’s young but has his theory on what happened.’
‘He has a suspect then?’ We were walking again at quite a pace; Cummings heaved and sighed with each speedy stride.
‘Some travellers were camped in the woodlands between here and Michaelston-le-Pit, not far from where the body was found. They would be the obvious suspects in all of this. If you expect to be here three days, there’ll be plenty of time for you to view the evidence we have.’
‘In cases such as these, Councilman, I am afraid time is never on our side. When was the body found?’
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. ‘A week ago.’
‘Last Friday – the tenth?’ He concurred with a nod. I continued, ‘The body will need to be examined and documented immediately, along with any other evidence you may have.’
He barely acknowledged what I had said before he cleared his throat and started to prattle on about the village once more, pointing to cottages that we passed.
I interrupted him. ‘The girl was local – did she live in the village?’
‘Until last week she did.’ He chuckled a little, muttering under his breath. He stepped away from me as a cart, dragged by two haggard mules and loaded with a few large bales of dried straw, passed between us. As we continued to pace on he asked quite jovially if I had been to this beautiful part of the country before. He spoke as if no crime had been committed at all.
I deemed then that my first impressions of the man had been quite wrong. Cummings now seemed brash and irritable. I stood and watched after him for a moment or two before calling out to him. He seemed startled that I was not alongside him and waited for me to catch up. Abreast of the man, I lowered my camera case and spoke sternly.
‘Is Constable Vaughn available? I would like to speak with him as soon as possible.’
Cummings seemed taken aback by my tone.
‘He’s on a rest day today,’ he spluttered. ‘Besides, I’m sure I can deal with most of your queries.’
I shook my head and reached for my case.
‘He can rest when I am gone. I’ll require all the information he has so far.’ I gestured for Cummings to lead on and he did so, though his face seemed to darken to an unhealthy shade of crimson.
The short walk from the common had taken a little over five minutes (if that), yet in that time my opinion of Cummings had altered drastically. His ego was great; his outlook on the murder seemed lacklustre at best. I still did not know the victim’s name, and by Cummings’ tone and manner, I could already tell he thought little of the deceased woman.
We came into the village square and there I took a moment to pause and gather my bearings. Cummings informed me the village green – a triangular space of grass raised a little from the dirt roads and buildings surrounding it – was known to the locals as the Twyn. He pointed out a few key landmarks, including the school building, its rather large windows all closed in spite of the fine weather. I grew tired of the man’s company when he began to delve into his investment and influence in the village’s upkeep, hoping then that the young Constable Vaughn would be a more pleasurable (and professional) companion.
I felt the eyes of a few townspeople going about their business, follow my footfalls across the chalky dirt road as we passed the sparsely placed iron rod gas lamps and quaint rows of properties, each with well kept, neat gardens. My lodgings were to be in one of two inns built adjacent to each other. ‘The Three Feathers’ was emblazoned in black paint across the smooth cream façade. I was grateful to have arrived, not merely to part company with Cummings but also for the sake of my camera case. The handle seemed to be growing dangerously loose under the weight of the equipment I had brought with me.
Cummings continued to ramble on. As we stepped down into the inn’s sunken patio, I lowered my case to the floor. Inside my jacket was a smooth moleskin notebook and stubby granite pencil. I removed them, and interrupted Cummings quite abruptly once more.
‘An examination of the body will need to be carried out presently. Have Vaughn meet me here; where did you say the deceased was being kept? Time permitting, we shall inspect the scene of the crime this afternoon and begin carrying out questioning first thing tomorrow.’
Cummings shifted awkwardly, trying to smile but doing little more than grimacing at me as I fumbled for a clean page in my notebook.
‘What can you expect to find? The body was recovered from there seven days ago.’
I nodded absently. ‘There is always evidence left at the scene of a crime, though the eye may not notice it at first.’
Cummings cleared his throat. ‘I had imagined this would be a little less … intrusive. More a formality; checking our evidence, that sort of thing.’
I ignored him entirely. ‘Where is the body being held?’
‘A church – All Saints – in Michaelston-le-Pit. It’s a hamlet, but it’s always been closely connected to the village. About three miles away.’
I was completely baffled. ‘Why on earth would you choose to keep the body there?’
Cummings cleared his throat, seeming to hesitate before answering.
‘A few senior figures in the village were … uncomfortable with the body of a murdered girl being held amidst their homes and businesses. It may seem foolish, but people have their superstitions. The manner she was found in …’
‘What manner?’ My patience was beginning to wear thin.
‘Well, she was burnt.’
‘Burnt!’ I exclaimed, before jotting a single note down. ‘You have a whole body though?’
Cummings nodded. ‘She was also bound.’
I scowled at him. ‘How could her body be burnt yet remain bound?’
‘She had a chain wrapped around her.’ Cummings’ skin was draining of all its beetroot colour to a ghastly shade of pink. I sighed a little – the squeamish fellow would be no us. . .
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