Read A Photographic Death Online
Authors: Judi Culbertson
I
WAITED UNTIL
Colin had kissed me good-bye and left, then took out my phone and pressed Jane’s office number.
She answered right away.
“Janie, it’s her. It has to be. But she’s pretty!”
“I never said she wasn’t.”
“Oh.” I had been the one seeing the nanny as a fairy-tale witch. “She’s turning away from the camera, but I’ve got her in profile. I’m leaving the university now and I’ll e-mail the photo to you as soon as I get home.”
“She’s real,” Jane marveled. “I didn’t make her up.”
“Of course you didn’t. But what I need to do now is go back to Stratford.”
“Can I come? I’ll pay my own way.”
“Of course you can come. And I’m paying.”
An intake of laughter. “You don’t—”
“No, I mean it.”
Easy to be generous with Bruce’s money.
“I can go anytime, Mom. I never take vacations. My boss will just have to live without me for a week.”
I had never asked about her relationship with her supervisor. Jane dated a parade of Lances, Justins, and Bryans—men her age and younger, whom she called her “guys.” They went to clubs and sports bars, attended plays and art openings, and Jane exchanged them as often as she switched handbags. Though she was my daughter, I didn’t really know where she stashed her deepest emotions.
“I’ll make the travel arrangements,” I said. “We won’t need more than a week there.”
“What about Hannah?”
What about Hannah?
“She’s still finishing up the semester. Besides . . .”
“Yeah, right. It’s just she’ll be upset that we’re doing something without her. Does Daddy know?”
“Not yet.” It was then I realized how pursuing Caitlin had the potential for splitting the family apart. Was looking for her worth creating bitterness that might never be resolved? I knew families who had not spoken to each other in years. Was I about to toss a hand grenade into the center of my own? How far could I go before realizing I had to abandon the quest?
“Mom?”
“I told him about your experience. He doesn’t believe in hypnosis. I don’t understand him. It’s as if Caitlin is someone he knew briefly in the past and has no interest in meeting up with again. The idea of blood means nothing to him.”
“Wow. He’s so involved with the rest of us. He texts me all the time.”
“He
knows
you. If he felt indifferent toward Jason, he wouldn’t be so furious with him. If only he knew Caitlin.” I stopped, choked up. It hadn’t been
her
fault, my poor little girl, that someone had broken our connection as surely as if they’d disconnected a cell phone and thrown it into the sea. “Let me go now so I can scan the photo for you.”
But sitting in the parking garage, I couldn’t resist dialing my sister Patience’s office number. I was excited to let her know everything we’d found out. Would she want to go to Stratford too? We hadn’t traveled together since we were teenagers.
Pat was available, though her assistant first answered the phone.
“Delhi?” Patience sounded surprised.
“Yes, hi. Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to let you know what’s happening with Caitlin. We’re actually making progress.”
“Before you get into it, I’ve been thinking about the situation a lot. That, and talking to other people.” She paused as if waiting for an army of them to get in line behind her. “I think you should just let things be.”
“
What?
”
“You need to get on with your life. Keep living in the present. You said the police in England were satisfied with what happened, you believed it yourself when you came home. Why stir it all up again only to get disappointed?”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Just people. No one you know.”
“But now we know what happened that day. Jane remembers a woman telling her to tell me Caitlin had fallen into the river.”
“And?”
“Think about it.” I remembered what Jane had told me. “If you saw a baby fall into your pool, what would you do? Jump in and rescue her or at least raise the alarm. This woman just told her to tell me and left. Taking Caitlin.”
“You know for a fact?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. We even have a photo of the woman. I just developed it. All we need to do now is find her. Jane and I are going to Stratford.”
“Now? Before Christmas? Is Colin going?”
Ask him yourself.
But maybe Colin hadn’t been the one to influence her. Ben had not seemed anxious to get involved. Besides, Patience was quite capable of changing her mind on her own, of turning oppositional just when I was feeling warm about having a sister. I’d had a lifetime of Patience in action, agreeing to do something with me, then getting a better offer and going with that instead.
“I thought you were on my side,” I pleaded. “You said we were in this together.”
“I
am
on your side. I’m telling you what I think is best for you.”
Thank God I had not approached her for money. Was that the subtext here, that she thought I would ask her to finance the search?
“Good luck,” she added, as if I were an acquaintance leaving for a new job.
That was all my twin was willing to give me.
I
BOOKED A
flight for Tuesday night, returning Sunday. It did not come cheaply. After looking at inns and bed-and-breakfasts online, I settled on the White Swan Hotel in the center of Stratford-upon-Avon. It was within walking distance of the river, the local newspaper archives, and the police station—a necessity since I didn’t want to rent a car.
I was excited to be traveling again, to be leaving the country for England. I might have preferred India or Japan, but I felt the same kind of exhilaration I had in the darkroom, as if some long-hibernating part of me had started to stir and was coming back to life. One way or another, I would be changed by this quest.
Marty wasn’t happy that Susie would be left in charge of Port Lewis Books for a week, though when pressured, he admitted she was doing an okay job. The stolen books had all of us on edge, scrutinizing whoever came into the shop, never leaving the front room unattended. My other worry, besides book theft, was Susie’s plan for decorating the shop windows if I didn’t get them done myself. Margaret Weller, the original owner, had always done a beautiful job, and I was determined to carry on the tradition.
My plan was to use beautiful books and vintage toys loaned from Dock Street Antiques. If I didn’t finish the windows by Tuesday morning, Susie would bring in her ceramic village and Precious Moments figurines. She already was campaigning to set up a pink artificial Christmas tree with silver balls and could not understand why it did not belong in the upscale front room.
There was added pressure to create an old-fashioned Christmas look because the Charles Dickens Festival started on Friday night. The celebration filled the village with carolers dressed in costume, high teas, and readings from
A Christmas Carol
. There were concerts and a house tour. Port Lewis thoroughly enjoyed a past the village had never actually experienced, though that detail had never stopped us before. We had old-fashioned red telephone booths on street corners, though Victorian London had no more connection to our seafaring history than Charles Dickens himself. But everyone loved the festival weekend and I felt inspired to do my part.
I
W
O
K
E
E
A
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L
Y
Tuesday morning and packed several changes of clothes. I had already arranged to stop the
Times
and given my neighbor’s daughter a key to come in and feed Raj and Miss T, and was at Dock Street Antiques as soon as it opened. Jen, the owner, helped me pick out a china doll and high chair, a Steiff monkey, a spelling board with movable wooden letters, and, of course, a multitude of lithographed tin toys. My favorite was the Ferris wheel, which still circled slowly when wound. A discreet white card in the front of the display would explain that the toys were available for purchase from Dock Street.
When Susie came in at noon, she marveled at the decorated windows. There were never any hard feelings with her. She saw the world as good-hearted, a collection of people as eager to help their neighbors as her pioneer forebears had been. When I looked at her I saw wheat fields and hoedowns. I hadn’t told either Susie or Marty why I was going to England, saying only it was a family matter.
“You want me to pick up some Shakespeareana?” I’d asked Marty.
He snorted. “In Stratford-upon-Avon? That would be like buying a watch in Times Square. You’re better off looking in some old barn outside London. A sixteenth-century farmhouse where they used pages from his playbills to plaster the walls. Shakespeare is the most
discovered
author in existence.”
“I take your point.”
I doubted I would have much time for book hunting anyway. Yet like a drinker touring the Guinness factory, I knew it would be hard to abstain. I had already made a list of five or six promising bookshops in Stratford and left room in my carry-on bag for any finds.
J
A
N
E
AND
I met at the AirTrain at four. Our flight wasn’t until nearly seven, but I’d heard so many horror stories about delays in getting through security that I didn’t want to be caught in that web. It had been an easy ride on the Long Island Rail Road for me, and the subway for Jane. The AirTrain, no more than a collection of several silver cars, was arriving when we reached the platform and we were quickly at Terminal One.
Everything was going much too well. I wondered if the Virgin Atlantic flight would be canceled or delayed, but the departure board said it was scheduled to leave on time. That left only the 747 breaking apart over the Atlantic or overshooting the runway at Heathrow and ending engulfed by flames. Of course there was still the smaller connecting plane that would take us to Birmingham Airport. Everyone knew how dangerous little planes were.
Actually I loved flying. Yet each time the plane dropped its wheels like a weary traveler and cruised smoothly onto the tarmac, it seemed a biblical miracle. Not on the level of the parting of the Red Sea, perhaps, but at least as important as turning water into wine.
With wine in mind, we stopped at an Irish bar near our departure gate. I took half a Dramamine with my Chardonnay and nibbled at the potato skins Jane had impulsively ordered.
She took a sip of Sauvignon Blanc. “So what did Dad say about us going?”
“I knew there was something else I had to do.”
“Mom! You haven’t told him?”
“I figured I’d wait until we were safely on the plane.”
“What—like he’d kidnap us in the terminal?” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “You give him too much power.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“And what about Hannah?”
“I sent her an e-mail this morning telling her I had to go to England and saying I’d call her when I got there.”
Jane shook her head. “At least call Dad now. He has to know we’re out of the country.”
“Maybe he’ll be teaching.” I reached into my woven bag for my phone.
It was not to be.
“Hey-lo!” He always answered his cell the same way.
“Colin? It’s Delhi. You’ll never guess where we are.”
Jane closed her eyes.
T
HE LAST TIME
I saw Warwickshire was in the lush flowering of an English summer when the gardens were rainbows fallen across the earth and fountains tossed up diamonds against blue skies. Every scene had been deserving of a calendar photograph.
December’s grass was a patchier green. The bright hollyhocks and roses were a memory now, and the trees had relinquished their leaves. A few fall wreaths waited on doors to be replaced by evergreen boughs, and a haze of melancholy hung over the world as we drove from Birmingham Airport. Jet-lagged and disoriented, I felt this boded poorly for our quest. At least we had remembered to get pounds and silver at the airport ATM. Having the right currency made me feel marginally better.
“Coming for the Christmas Market, are ye?” asked our driver, a cheerful man of a certain age with rosy cheeks and a tweed flat cap.
I leaned back in my seat, not interested in talking.
Jane asked, “What’s that?”
“Oh, they come from all over for it. Booths on Henley Street and everything done up with lights. Do all your holiday shopping near t’your hotel.”
I wasn’t interested in buying gifts here though I thought Jane might be.
“Your first time in these parts?” He was relentless.
“No. We came here once when I was a little girl. Not that I remember much.”
When I’d told Colin about our pilgrimage to Stratford from the table in McDonough’s Pub, he didn’t get it at first. “Why Stratford? Why not London?”
“There’s something I want to check.”
“Oh. But why is Jane going?”
He must have had a hard day.
“She’s doing a term paper on Shakespeare’s finances.”
“Delhi . . .”
“She needs a vacation. And I wanted the company.”
“I hope she’s not paying for this!”
“No. My treat.”
“If business has been
that
good—”
Give it a rest, Colin.
“You can reach us on Jane’s phone if anything comes up.” I pressed disconnect. “He’s fine with it,” I’d told Jane.
On the outskirts of the village, I pointed to our left. “We stayed over there, in a residence that had been a grand manor.” Although it had appeared to still be a beautiful mansion from the outside, three stories with bow windows and porticos, the sixteen bedrooms on the second and third floors had felt like a dormitory. Besides the matrimonial bed, our room held a set of bunk beds and a tiny cot. I had been worried about Jane falling from the top berth, but she’d loved clambering up the ladder at bedtime and insisted she would be fine. The twins snuggled together in the lower bunk. In half a day, the cot was buried under a mountain of toys, clothes, books, and laundry soap.
The hostel catered to longer-stay academic conferences and assumed you would be happy just to have a place to stay. They didn’t make the beds for you or clean the bathrooms, and served basic meals family-style. There had been a lot of brown meat in gravy, and at breakfast the odd choice of “Orange juice or cornflakes?” But we had been young and relished sitting outside on the back patio in the evenings, draining pitchers of ale while the children played around us. It gave the academics who would become the archeological establishment of the next generation a chance to form alliances. I’d reveled in the communal-style living and friendships—right up to the moment when Caitlin disappeared.
“We’d walk along the river to Bancroft Gardens,” I told Jane, “not quite in the center of Stratford. You always wanted to bring bread to feed the ducks and swans.”
“Not allowed now,” our driver butted in. “You must leave the wildlife alone!”
Jane and I burst out laughing.
T
HE
W
H
I
T
E
S
W
AN
I
nn
was located on Rother Street in the center of town, a half-timbered, white-stucco hotel. Check-in was a strict 3 p.m., so we left our bags with reception and wandered through the cobbled streets. The cold felt more assertive here than it had at home, a cheerless, leaden chill that took its right to dominate for granted. It knifed through our down jackets. People on the sidewalk moved briskly, not looking at anyone else.
Still the shop windows made you want to linger. We gaped at a toy shop scene of a happy family on Christmas morning, as elaborate as the Lord & Taylor holiday windows in New York City. The greenery arrangements in the florists’ windows were exquisite.
Stratford-upon-Avon was a large and prosperous town, though civilization had made a few more inroads than I’d remembered. Jane pointed out a building that Shakespeare himself might have lounged in front of, except for the “Pizza Hut” logo over the door.
It made me suggest lunch.
She gave a longing look at a McDonald’s—“I bet it tastes different here than at home”—but I steered us into a lovely, deliberately shabby pub.
The interior of British pubs hadn’t changed in the past twenty years. There was still the heavy dark furniture, a dartboard in the back, and bad lighting. Fluorescent beer signs on the walls vied with forgettable art. We settled into thick pine captains’ chairs. I could picture the loo with its mineral-stained sink, and the door beyond it leading to a small garden with summertime tables. The smell of frying food mixed pleasantly with beer and a piney scent though I couldn’t see any evergreens. Most of the tables were filled with locals, predominantly men, chatting comfortably. A few tourists sat at the other tables looking pleased to be there.
We ordered potato-and-cheddar soup and Strongbow cider. I’d forgotten how much I liked English cider and how much I drank the last time we were here. I hadn’t yet developed a taste for wine, and being pregnant I tried to give up alcohol altogether. Somehow cider had slipped past the censors.
We relaxed until our food came, too spent to talk.
“What should we do first?” Jane asked, dipping an experimental spoon into her soup.
I had a list of what we needed to do but hadn’t put it into any order. I had found out as much as I could over the Internet beforehand so that we could move quickly once we were here. “Well, we have to look at the newspaper archives and visit the police station and see where that leads us.” I planned on showing them the note first thing—
Your daughter did not drown
—and hoped they could analyze it. “We need to go back to where it happened, of course.” That would be the hardest thing of all.
I’d brought photographs of Hannah at different ages, in case Caitlin was living in the area and someone might recognize her. The temptation to post them on an Internet site here was overwhelming. If it were local, a British site, Hannah would never need to know.
Across the table, Jane swirled a cube of dark bread through her soup.
The problem was, nothing on the Internet was local. Once it was out there it could never be retracted. More seriously, it was a breach of trust. I could not lose another daughter searching for the first. In the end, Jane had sent Hannah a text message from Heathrow to explain that she was with me, making it sound as if we were off for a brief jaunt so I could scout books and she could see London.
“We need to find a copy shop,” I told Jane.
“W
E
’
R
E
P
U
T
T
I
N
G
Y
O
U
in the Hamlet Room.” The young woman behind the counter beamed. “You’re fortunate, it books years in advance, but we’ve had a cancellation.”
I was sure she was trying to make me feel better about how much it was costing to sleep in the shadow of the melancholy Dane, but when I saw the room I was stunned.
Thank you, Bruce.
The white walls and ceiling, intersected by sixteenth-century dark beams, arched over a carved wooden bed, a leather sofa, and an intricately carved wooden desk. Next to the desk in a brick alcove there was a wood-burning stove. The bathroom was larger than many hotel rooms, with a freestanding copper-clad bathtub and a separate modern shower.
“I could live here,” I told Jane.
“I saw it first.” She collapsed in a chair next to the window. “This is the way to travel.”
“I thought you loved camping in the desert.”
“
Not.
”
Fighting the urge to curl up on the puffy white duvet and nap, I said, “Let’s find out where we can make photocopies.”
K
O
P
Y
K
A
T
W
A
S
SEVERAL
blocks away on New Broad Street. Borrowing a sheet of blank paper from the accommodating young salesman, I printed, “Do You Know Me?” across the top and my e-mail address asking for contact on the bottom. I explained that we were only here for a short time and were hoping to reunite with long-lost family members, but decided not to give our names. Then I arranged the photos facedown on the glass and placed the paper over them. One close-up showed Caitlin in her fishy shirt and corduroy pants. The others were of Hannah at several-year intervals, ending with last Christmas.
Color photocopies were pricey, but we made sixty to start.
I’d remembered to bring pushpins and tape, and Jane and I went off in separate directions, searching for shops with community bulletin boards, supermarkets, and launderettes. I left several flyers on a beauty salon table with the magazines, and taped a few to lampposts though I was sure they’d be quickly taken down. Churches and bookshops were a better bet, but that entailed telling the story, and I wasn’t up to that now. I hoped that by tomorrow I would be.
We met back at the White Swan an hour later, took our coats up to our room, and came back down to the lounge. Mugs of Fuller’s cider in hand, we nestled on a couch in front of an enthusiastic fire, under one of the ubiquitous paintings of swans. Gradually I was overtaken by the centuries of other lives lived in this village, the lamentations penned and tears shed, the echoes of laughter when nothing else would do.
Why should I feel exempt, different from people of five hundred years ago? Many of them had lost children. I remembered Shakespeare, whose own son, Hamnet, had died at eleven, evidently of bubonic plague. I had my own challenges, hopefully a longer life ahead, but my world held no guarantees. Before I finished the glass in my hand, I set it on the low table, leaned back against the soft headrest, and slept.