Stephen Gallagher - The Bedlam Detective

In this cramped room, dominated by the projection apparatus and smelling of ozone and naphtha and nitrates, a young man was cranking a handle to rewind a film spool for the next show.

Sedgewick introduced him as Will. Just Will. The young man was in white shirtsleeves and a buttoned-up waistcoat. Barely out of his teens, he had a wisp of a mustache and beard.

It took Sebastian a moment to recognize him as the Second Lunatic from the short that he’d just seen. Sedgewick showed Will the Birtac camera and said, “Ever seen one of these? Don’t open it, there’s film inside.”

Will took it and looked it over, much as the older man had. He shook his head.

“It’s amateur’s kit. A new one on me, boss.”

Sedgewick went on, “We’re doing a good deed for those poor little girls. Sort this gentleman out with whatever he needs.”

Sebastian followed Will out of the Bioscope tent and into the part of the showground away from the public area. The growing noise of the crowd and the steady roar of the fairground organs seemed muted here; the noise of the steam traction engines did not. Sebastian had to duck through washing and avoid tripping on heavy cables as he followed Will through.

Will looked back over his shoulder and said, “We don’t develop much film these days. My father made a deal with Gaumont. They give us raw stock, we make the scenes, and they develop it for free. For that Dad lets them sell our subjects outside the area. Watch yourself. The third step’s loose.”

He was ascending to a door into a square-sided wagon that stood some yards apart from all the others. Despite the warning, Sebastian almost stumbled on the third step. Will switched on an electric light.

There was a bench down one side of the wagon. Strips of moving picture film hung from clotheslines above it, all of differing lengths, stirring in the draft from the door like the tails of so many kites. Metal film cans were stacked high on every surface, and on the wall a large hand-painted notice warned of the dangers of sparks and naked flames.

Will said, “This calls for the nuns’ drawers.”

“The what?” Sebastian said.

Will flushed slightly as he realized that he’d spoken without thinking. “Sorry,” he said.

He reached under the bench and produced a black velvet bag with two sleeves. The camera went inside, and the bag was sealed. Will then put his hands in through the sleeves, which were elasticated for a light-tight fit around his forearms.

He fiddled around inside the bag for a while. Sebastian heard the catch go, and the sound of the camera body coming open. Will made faces and stared off into nowhere as he explored the innards of the machine, like a blind man feeling his way around the works of a pocket watch.

“Yep,” he said. “It’s amateur gauge.”

“What does that mean?”

“Half the width of the film we use. Smaller film, smaller image, costs less money. Looks awful on a big screen but good enough in your living room.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Give me an hour.”

Miss Bancroft,” sir Owain said. “Never was there a fairer sight on a bicycle.”

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

“I barely did, you’ve so much changed. Quite the young city woman, now. Are you visiting your mother?”

“I am. But I want to talk to you about Grace Eccles.”

“Ah.”

They were in one of the house’s galleries, long and vaulted and painted in a deep red. Sir Owain had been cataloguing when she arrived. The gallery contained his collections of seashells and geological specimens, stuffed birds under glass, and sculpture of a morbid character.

Sir Owain was much changed from the man she remembered. He’d always been a figure of consequence in the area. A vigorous presence, he now seemed diminished. She was moved by his air of vulnerability.

She said, “Grace is my oldest friend.”

“Then perhaps,” Dr. Sibley said, “you might have some influence with her?”

Even without Grace’s forewarning, it would have taken Evangeline less than two minutes to form a dislike of Dr. Ernest Hubert Sibley.

She said, “To help you persuade her out of her home, do you mean? Quite the opposite. I’m here to ask you to leave her alone.”

“Now, Evangeline,” Sir Owain broke in. “Nobody wants to force her to anything.”

“However,” Dr. Sibley said firmly. Sir Owain fell silent.

Dr. Sibley went on, “You may know that I’m responsible for ensuring that Sir Owain manages his affairs with visible competence. I can tell you there really is no question over Sir Owain’s health. There are doubters, but they have their own motives. It’s essential not to provide them with the means to do him damage. You do understand?”

She didn’t understand. She said, “How does that concern Grace?”

“Grace Eccles is living on land that was granted to her father. The lease expired when her father died.”

“She inherited.”

“She imagines that.”

“Is it a matter of money? You must know she has none. I’ve seen how she lives. She can barely keep herself.”

“It’s not a matter of money. It’s a matter of good administration.”

“Pardon me,” Evangeline said. “But that sounds heartless.”

“It’s not heartless,” the doctor said, unhappy with the turn that this had taken; he seemed to be a man more used to giving instruction than to being met with argument. “It’s business. And an estate must be seen to be run in a businesslike manner.”

“God forbid that we should value human decency over bookkeeping.”

Sir Owain, who’d grown visibly uncomfortable, said to Evangeline, “But what would you have us do?”

“Just let her be,” Evangeline said, and she gestured to include the gallery and all its works and the great labyrinth of the house beyond it. “You have all this, and she has so little. Why would you deprive her of it?”

Dr. Sibley said, “I take it we needn’t look for help from you, then.”

“To see my best friend rendered destitute? No. And if your main concern is to keep your employer from looking bad, victimizing a tenant seems hardly the way to do it.”

That shut him up, for a moment.

Sir Owain said, “Evangeline-you said it yourself. She is destitute. I had fears for her life last winter.”

“With no home and no land for her horses, how would you expect her to live at all? Will you give her a job? Can you imagine Grace in service?”

“The parish would support her,” Dr. Sibley said. “And Sir Owain has long been a great supporter of the parish.”

“Then why not live and let live, and cut out the parish altogether?”

The doctor opened his mouth, found himself lost for a reply, and closed it again.

Then he tried a different tack. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed that a friend would help a friend. Especially two people who have been through so much.” And he put a meaningful emphasis on that final phrase, as if he expected her to understand what he meant by it.

“Grace and I have not met in years,” she said.

He persisted. “But some experiences can leave a permanent mark. Do you not find? Sometimes help is required to move forward. If you wish, I can offer you a consultation.”

She felt herself flush. She said, “You may be Sir Owain’s doctor, but you are not mine. So this is inappropriate.”

His face didn’t move. But his eyes went cold, as if she’d slapped it.

He made an as you wish gesture and withdrew from the discussion. He seated himself on a padded gallery bench and looked pointedly away, as Sir Owain inquired after her mother’s health and attempted to rescue the occasion to some degree.