I drag myself out of bed early the next morning after another rubbish night’s sleep. I’ve always had vivid dreams, nightmares even, though I have plenty more fuel for them now than I ever did before. It’s my day at the museum and I’m looking forward to distracting myself from thoughts of serial attackers and creepy Victorian myths.
Unfortunately, the museum is full of the latter.
It’s only just past opening time and Geoffrey and I have the place to ourselves. I can’t see Tommy and I’m too embarrassed to ask Geoffrey; maybe he doesn’t start until later. I wonder what he does when he’s not working here, apart from going to the theatre that is. In the meantime, I’m trying to get to know the place, which means following Geoffrey around and letting him give me a history lesson.
Now, he stops in front of a narrow booth that reeks of musty velvet and bad decisions. A faded poster, edges soft and tattered, declares it was once home to “Madame Josephine, the most gifted fortune teller in London Town”.
Next to it is a display case crammed with what Geoffrey would call curios. A dusty spotlight draws my attention to a lone cushion, its golden tassels moth-eaten but otherwise well preserved. A pale, porcelain hand sits lightly on top of it and I edge closer, the fleshy mounds and crenellations beckoning to me in the creeping light.
“What’s this, Geoffrey?”
“Oh, yes.” Geoffrey removes his top hat and places it carefully on the glass case. He slides open the door and picks up the hand, cradling it gently. “You can hold it. It was once a fortune-telling device, popular in this era. If you look closely, you can read the original markings.”
The hand is cool, delicate and disturbingly lifelike in my own. Geoffrey is still talking, telling me what each line represents and how the fingers each relate to an element, but I can’t concentrate on any of that. The museum shrinks away from me as a strange sensation shoots up my arm, a hundred tiny arrows that restrict my chest and puncture my windpipe. I gasp as a cool, mineral taste chokes the back of my throat and I forget that I’m holding something delicate, something almost two centuries old; I just want the damn thing away from me. I drop it quickly into Geoffrey’s waiting palm and the world rushes back like a slap to the face.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.
“Yes, yes, quite a charming little item, isn’t it? We have all sorts of occult objects here,” he twinkles, blatantly unaware of how unsettling his artefact is. “Ah!” He fixes on something behind me and straightens up. “Our first tour group has arrived. Are you ready for your debut, Miss Jane?” An echo of unease follows his words and I shudder. “I know you are shadowing me today, so I don’t expect you to answer any of the questions and whatnot, but please do excuse me if I become carried away and introduce you.”
I nod mutely, convincing myself that what I feel isn’t actually fear and foreboding, but nerves. I’ve never acted at such close quarters before.
“Wonderful,” he announces, replacing his hat and striding to greet his audience. “Good morning, dear friends,” he booms. “Happy tidings to you all.”
I follow the group on their tour. Geoffrey presents his version of a Victorian gentleman, which is pretty wonderful, plus he knows just about everything about the museum, so they are rapt.
Soon, we approach the dressing room where the portrait of Jane Alsop is displayed. My palms are damp and sticky, but I’m not sure whether it’s because of the lingering feeling of dread, or because I know Geoffrey is going to try and make me join in now. My skirt whispers across the stone floor as I wipe my hands on it, desperate to clear my throat. I put up with the choking feeling instead. I’m not quite ready for the attention, yet.
Thankfully, when we get there Geoffrey gives me a look that seems to say “Ready?” and I shake my head so fast I almost pull a muscle. My shoulders release as he tips me a tiny, knowing nod and carries on, all without breaking his stride.
“This room was thought to belong to a wealthy young lady who lived in the home attached to this building, the daughter of the factory owner. Not much is known of her life, though we do have records of both her birth and untimely death.”
My ears prick up.
He gestures to the picture behind him. “This portrait of Jane Alsop was commissioned shortly before her sixteenth birthday, as was common at the time. The Victorians liked to commemorate a significant life event in some, ah, unusual ways. Please, come closer.” The crowd, including me, step forward as one, tethered to his story. “You can see a few of the details are missing. The lace detail on her sleeves, some of the curls in her hair. They were left unfinished. The portrait – abandoned.”
“Why?” A young man asks, one hand wrapped loosely in his partner’s. Something catches the corner of my eye and I see Tommy in my peripheral vision. He’s looking as enraptured as the rest of us, although he must have heard this story a thousand times.
Then I realize his attention isn’t on Geoffrey; it’s on me. My cheeks flame and I’m grateful the lights are dimming again. I adopt what I hope is a casual pose and pretend I haven’t seen him. Be cool, Niamh.
“There was a terrible accident.” Geoffrey’s voice is low and I have to strain to hear every word. “Much is unknown, although the death certificate does confirm the horrific way poor Miss Jane died.”
One of the kids in the crowd eyes me warily, looking between my costume and the painting and edging away. I make a mental note to surprise him around a dark corner later on.
“However, details emerged over time, adding up to a tragic story of forbidden love and untimely death that has survived alongside the artefacts. There were rumours that Jane had a secret love, a young man who worked on the factory floor. Someone, of course, who she would have been forbidden to marry due to her father’s high social status.”
I dart another glance at Tommy. His gaze is fixed on Geoffrey, lost in the story. I don’t know whether I feel relief or disappointment that he’s not looking at me any more.
“That’s so sad,” a woman in a raincoat murmurs. A quiet rumble of agreement ripples through the crowd.
“Yes, yes, it is.” Geoffrey sighs and hooks his thumbs through the lapels of his waistcoat. “And the story gets only more tragic, I am afraid. Jane crept down to the factory floor one evening, probably to attend a rendezvous with her paramour.”
“Or to meet her bloke in other words,” Tommy’s whisper in my ear makes my heart speed up, equal parts surprise and pure delight. I choke back a laugh and fight the urge to lean my weight back into the warmth of his body.
“It is presumed that they were together – perhaps, ah,distracted.” Tommy nudges me and I bite my lip, but when I glance at him, I see that his eyes are sad. “It is thought that Miss Jane’s hair somehow became tangled in a machine, and her death certificate suggests that she was dragged towards, or rather into, the mechanisms of a cotton spinner.” There is a sharp, collective gasp from the crowd. Geoffrey continues with relish. “Her mangled corpse was recovered the next morning.”
Talk about being able to hear a pin drop. Poor Jane.
“So, he just left her there?” The woman in the raincoat speaks again, her tone now dampened with tears. “Her lover?”
