The Goddess: a Demon
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 8: The Recognition of the Photograph
When I had succeeded in extricating Mr. Morley from the clutches of Inspector Symonds, after a considerable wordy warfare, during which I had difficulty in keeping the inspector’s language within parliamentary bounds, I started on a little errand of my own.
The inspector appeared to be under the impression that, for some malevolent reason, I wished to interfere with the due and proper execution of the law; and he told me, quite frankly, that so soon as Mr. Morley was off my premises he would bring, not only the old gentleman, but, so far as I understood, myself also, to book. Therefore, feeling that, under such circumstances, two might be better than one, so soon as the interview was ended, I proceeded, since his way was mine, to escort Mr. Morley at least part of his way home.
The old gentleman was in a condition of great mental perturbation. He was sorry, for his master’s sake, that he had said as much as he had done to the inspector, and he was also sorry, for his own sake, that he had not said more; for he was uncomfortably conscious that, by his comparative reticence, he had incurred the officer’s resentment.
“Do you think, sir,” he said, as we were parting—and I thought, as he was speaking, how old he seemed and tremulous—”that that Mr. Symonds will hunt me up, and worry me, as he as good as said he would? Because I know that I shan’t be able to stand it, if he does; my nerves are not what they were, and I never dreamed that I should have trouble with the police at my time of life.”
I endeavoured to reassure him.
“Mr. Morley, be at ease; fear nothing. You are the sole proprietor of your own tongue, use it to preserve silence; no one can force you to speak unless you choose.”
I was not by any means so sure of this, in my own mind; but this was a detail. My object was to comfort Mr. Morley.
It was at the door of the house in Arlington Street that we parted; after all, I went with him the whole way—it was practically mine. I waited while he inquired if his master had returned. The face of the old lady who opened the door, and who I immediately concluded was Mrs. Morley, was answer enough; she looked as if she bore all the trouble of the world upon her shoulders. He had not; nothing had been seen or heard of him.
The point at which I was aiming was the photographer’s. As I walked away from Philip Lawrence’s house, I could not but feel conscious that every moment he remained absent made the case look blacker. What reason could he have to stay away, save one?
An assistant came forward to greet me, as I crossed the threshold of the building which housed that famous firm of photographers.
“I want you to tell me who is the original of one of your portraits.”
“We don’t, as a rule, sir, give the names of sitters, without their express permission.”
“This is one of the exceptions to the rule. Here is the portrait—who is the lady it represents?”
I handed him the photograph which I had taken off Edwin Lawrence’s mantelshelf. So soon as he saw it he smiled; looking up at me with what was suspiciously like a twinkle in his eye.
“As you say, this is one of the exceptions to the rule. I certainly have no objection to tell you who this lady is; that is, if you don’t know already. In which case I should imagine that you are one of the few persons in London who does not.”
“What on earth do you mean? Who is the lady?”
“You are not a theatre-goer, sir?”
“Why do you say that? I suppose I go to the theatres as often as other people.”
“You haven’t been to the Pandora lately.”
“The Pandora? I’ve been there three times within the last month or so.”
“Then, on the occasion of your visits was Miss Bessie Moore not acting?”
“Miss Bessie Moore!”
“This is the portrait of Miss Bessie Moore, and an excellent likeness, too. She has honoured us several times with sittings, and this is about the most favourable result we have had so far. It is not easy to do justice to the lady.”
Bessie Moore! The assistant was a much smaller man than I; but if, at that moment, he had given me a push, though ever such a gentle one, I believe he would have pushed me over. What an idiot I had been! No wonder that her face had seemed familiar. Bessie Moore—admittedly one of the loveliest women in town, whose name was on every tongue, who was honoured by all the world! At that moment her acting was drawing all London to the Pandora Theatre. I had seen something of theatres, whatever that assistant might suppose to the contrary, but I had never before seen such acting as hers, nor had I ever seen so lovely a woman! And it was Bessie Moore who had come through my bedroom window, at dead of night, in that plum-coloured cloak. Every moment the wonder grew.
Either the expression of my face or something else about me appeared to afford that assistant considerable amusement. In the midst of my bewilderment I was conscious that he grinned.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“It is possible for persons of even ripened years to feel surprised, as you will discover when you yourself attain to years of discretion.”
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