The Parliament of Blood (9 page)

George was grateful for the arrival of Pennyman, who brought the printed photographs of the canopic casket and jars. Since the photographer's assistant had already learned that there was something distinctly odd about the photographs his erstwhile employer had taken for Sir William, George couldn't see there would be any harm in showing him the pictures from the archive file.

Pennyman was rather more self-assured and confident than he had been the previous evening. He was evidently getting over the loss of his employer, and he was happy to look at the photographs for George.

‘Well, process-wise they seem fine,' he said. ‘But dear oh me – who took these then?'

‘Does it matter?' George asked. ‘Lots of people, I expect. Is there a problem?'

Pennyman sniffed. ‘I'll say there is. I mean, I'm no expert, not on composition and such. But look at this one.'

He reached for a picture of a group of people. It had been taken in a garden. A large hedge formed the background, and about twenty people were standing in a
group. Or rather, they were standing in two groups, a narrow gap between them.

‘Why's he done that, then?' Pennyman asked, tapping each of the groups of people in turn. ‘Makes no sense. They should all be standing together. And look here.' He pulled another photograph from the untidy pile. This one showed three children and a large chair. There was a girl standing beside the chair and two younger boys sitting on the floor in front of it. ‘What's the chair for?'

‘It's like there's something missing,' George said slowly. ‘Something or someone.'

Pennyman dropped the photograph back on the pile. ‘I don't know, maybe they're practice shots. Like a rehearsal for a play. Mr Denning does that sometimes, to check the lighting and arrangement and everything. Not usually with people though. But some photographers might. Then they take the real photograph when all the parties are present, knowing the conditions are right and favourable.'

‘Maybe,' George said, but he wasn't convinced that was the answer.

‘As for the process used and whether there's anything odd about that …' Pennyman gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘I know what to do, but I don't understand how or why it all works. You need to talk to an expert. Mr Denning would have known. Or –' He broke off and clicked his fingers. ‘You need to talk to Nathaniel Blake,' he said.

Nathaniel Blake's voice was as stretched and cracked as his ancient face. ‘I worked with him back in the forties,' he said. The skin was baggy and lined and the flesh of his neck was bulging out over the top of his collar. What little hair he had was a white wisp that stirred in the chill breeze. He huddled deeper into the blanket draped over his shoulders.

‘So you understand the photographic process?' George prompted. He was feeling the cold himself, despite his heavy coat.

The two of them were sitting on a bench away from the main house. The gardens were well kept, with many narrow paths through the lawns and flower beds. Several of the guests at the home for retired and infirm gentlepeople were walking slowly round the grounds. One old man had a nurse steadying his elbow as he shuffled past the bench.

‘Grandson, Nathaniel?' the old man asked in a husky voice.

Blake didn't answer. ‘He was working on his book,' he told George. ‘
The Pencil of Nature
. That was how Fox Talbot saw photography. Everyone called him Fox. He hated that. William Henry Fox Talbot.' Blake broke off so as to let loose a cannonade of rasping coughs. ‘Yes, I understand the silver process. Helped him refine it. He saw it as a tool, a mechanism. Not an art. Not like these fancy boys now who pose everything. You had to back then, with such long exposure times. No need now. You can catch nature in the act. So why don't they? Eh?'

‘Well,' George said. ‘Er, quite.'

‘Exactly.' Blake nodded. ‘Exactly. What did you say your name was?'

‘Archer, sir. George Archer.'

‘Sir George Archer?' Blake seemed impressed.

‘Um, no. Just plain Mr.'

‘Oh,' Blake said, disappointed. ‘Never mind. Maybe one day … What do you want, anyway?'

‘I wondered if you would look at some photographs for me,' George said. ‘There may be something strange about the way they have been created. The process.'

Blake gave a grunt and adjusted his blanket. ‘Suppose I could,' he muttered. ‘You said you are from the British Museum,' he added, with a hint of suspicion in his tone.

‘That's right. I'm afraid the photographs have to stay at the Museum, but perhaps you could come and look at them there. I can send a carriage,' he added, hoping that this would indeed be possible. ‘Tomorrow?'

‘Trip out, eh?' Blake seemed interested. ‘British Museum. How grand.' He nodded slowly. ‘So long as that harpy Mrs Eggerton lets me escape for a day.'

‘I'm sure it will be fine,' George said, though he did not relish speaking with Mrs Eggerton. The large, severe woman who ran the home had met him at the door and subjected him to a loud, intense questioning before allowing him to see Blake.

‘Strangest thing I ever saw,' Blake said, ‘to do with weird photography …' His voice faded and he stared out across the grounds.

‘Yes?' George said.

‘I've seen double exposures, where you get two pictures all muddled up together. Fogged plates where the light got in. Even a picture of a séance where there's spirits above the medium, though I expect that was faked up in the processing. There's always an explanation, a technical explanation. But the strangest thing was when I was with Talbot, all those years ago. When he was refining the process, looking at using silver and taking his first photographs.'

‘And what was it?'

Blake seemed lost in his memories, and George had to prompt him again before he went on. ‘There was a man. Came all the way out to Lacock one night to see us. From London. Well, to see Talbot. Offered him money.' Blake laughed, but his mirth turned to coughing and it took him several moments to recover. ‘Tried to talk Talbot out of it. Told him the process would never work, though we could show him it did. Then he offered Talbot money. A lot of money. Just to stop, do something else, abandon his work. Most peculiar.'

‘Indeed,' George agreed, wondering whether the man was just rambling now.

‘But Talbot would have none of it. Stubborn, was Fox. He said he'd prove to the gent – and he
was
a gent. Very highly placed, I remember. Fox said he'd show him it worked, and he had me set up a camera in the next room. There was an adjoining door, and he opened it just a little. Just enough for me to point the camera into the room without being seen. And this fellow was sat in a chair by the window, while Talbot said he had to go out for a
minute and would he wait. That's when I did it. I took the photograph, with that man sitting plain as daylight, nice and still, in the chair by the brightest lamp. Fox was going to post it to him afterwards, just to make the point.'

‘And did he?' George wondered.

Blake's watery eyes widened slightly and the flabby skin at his neck shivered. ‘Did he what?'

‘Send the photograph.'

‘No,' Blake said. ‘And you know why? Because when I developed that photograph, when I printed it up, it showed the lamp and the chair plain as anything. But the man, the man who wanted Talbot to cease his work …'

Blake shuddered, perhaps with the cold. He pulled his blanket tight round him.

‘The man,' he went on, ‘wasn't there. The chair was empty. I took his photograph, I know I did. But he just didn't appear in it. Like he was invisible to the camera. Darnedest thing I ever saw,' he said. ‘Or didn't see. British Museum,' he added, nodding. ‘Yes, I'd like that.'

But George hardly heard him.

The morning was as cold and bleak as their mood. Eve was pale, and Mikey wouldn't look at any of them. Jack, for once, was not grinning. He wasn't even smiling, and that seemed to Eddie to be the most poignant expression of grief from any of them.

‘Did anyone say what happened?' Eddie asked.

‘They just found him,' Eve said. ‘Down by the river. Reckon he fell in.'

‘Once a mudlark, always a mudlark,' Jack said. ‘Wouldn't let us see him. Poor Charlie lying dead and they wouldn't let none of his friends go and look.'

‘So, what happened – he drowned?' Eddie asked. It seemed so unreal. He could remember laughing and joking with Charlie just the other day. Could remember the lad's cheeky grin and mop of tangled sandy hair. Charlie was about the same age as Eddie, and that just made it so much more unfair.

‘Connie says they don't know how it happened,' Eve was saying. ‘She was there when the peelers found him on the
bank. She says he looked just like he was asleep or resting. Only pale – so pale.' Eve swallowed and blinked back her tears. She was staring down at her feet as she spoke. ‘Connie says the man with the peelers, the man they took to see Charlie, said he'd been dead all night, maybe longer. And something else too, though I think Connie made it up.'

‘What?' Eddie asked. ‘What did she say?'

Eve looked up, and she was crying properly now. She wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing the tears away. ‘Connie says Charlie's body was drained of blood.'

There was silence for a moment, then Jack laughed. It wasn't the sort of laugh that meant he thought it was funny. It was nervous and incredulous. ‘Connie's been listening to those stories,' he said. ‘She's been sneaking in the Dog and Whistle again and listening to the gin-talk and the gossip. Everyone's been talking about it.'

‘About what?' Eddie demanded. ‘First I've heard.'

‘Bloodless bodies,' Jack told him. ‘There's a bloke down the market swears it's Spring-Heeled Jack back for revenge.'

‘I heard it was a plague brought on a ship from China,' Eve said. ‘But it don't matter what it is,' she went on impatiently. ‘Just gossip, probably.' She shook her head. ‘Time we was going.'

‘Going where?'

‘To church,' Eve said. ‘We're all going. It's Sunday. Going to pray for Charlie's soul. And you should too, Eddie Hopkins.'

‘And what do you think you lot are doing hiding round here when it's time for church?' a voice demanded.

Eddie swung round to find another boy leaning on the corner of the wall a few yards away. He was tall and lanky – older than Eddie by a few years. There was a sneer of utter contempt plastered across his face. ‘Mr Pearce ain't going to be too happy with you if you're late,' he said. ‘Reckon he'll learn you a lesson.' He pushed himself away from the wall and walked slowly towards them. ‘Reckon I'll learn you a lesson first.'

Jack was shuffling nervously. Mikey was cowering with visible fear. Only Eve seemed unperturbed – Eve and Eddie.

‘Get lost, John Remick,' Eve said. ‘We were just coming anyway.'

Perhaps because he didn't seem at all scared, Remick glared at Eddie. ‘And who are you?'

‘Who wants to know?'

‘We don't want no trouble,' Jack assured Remick as the lad took a step towards Eddie. ‘We'll be right there.'

‘You'd better be, or I'll find a use for my belt you won't like.' He raised his hand. ‘Go on, get along with you.' He cuffed Jack across the ears.

‘Want a use for your belt?' Eddie said defiantly. ‘I'll give you one. Belt up!'

Remick's eyes were blazing as he walked slowly towards Eddie. Eddie stood his ground, hands bunched into hard fists at his sides.

‘Eddie!' Eve warned.

‘It's all right,' Eddie assured her as he squared up to Remick. ‘You get off to church, all of you. Pray for Charlie. And pray for this lout too.'

Remick launched himself at Eddie. But Eddie wasn't there. He stepped neatly out of the way and the larger boy's fists pummelled the air.