A Gaze Beyond the Veil

Bloomsbury, London

1873

The parcel arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine. Miss Adelaide Harwood recognized the handwriting immediately, that of Dr. Blackwood, her late sister's physician. Her gloved hands trembled as she carried it to her writing desk, carefully untying the string and peeling away the paper.

Inside lay a wooden frame, face down, with a note affixed to the back:

"Miss Harwood, as requested, enclosed is the memorial photograph of your dear sister, Miss Catherine. May it bring you comfort in these trying times. My sincere condolences. —Dr. J. Blackwood"

Adelaide's throat tightened. Three weeks had passed since consumption had claimed Catherine, her only sibling and closest companion. Their parents had departed years earlier, leaving the sisters to rely solely upon each other. Now, at twenty-six, Adelaide was utterly alone in their modest townhouse in Bloomsbury.

She had commissioned the photograph according to current custom—a final image to remember Catherine by, arranged and posed as if she were sleeping. Postmortem photography had become quite the practice in recent years; a way to preserve the likeness of a loved one when no photograph had been taken during life. Catherine, always frail and frequently ill, had avoided the photographer's studio, claiming the chemicals and long exposure times would only worsen her condition.

Now this photograph was all Adelaide had left.

Catherine

With careful hands, she turned the frame over. The silver-tinted daguerreotype showed Catherine arranged on her bed, dressed in her finest blue silk gown, hands folded delicately across her chest, her dark hair arranged in careful curls upon the pillow. The photographer had done well to pose her peacefully, and Adelaide found comfort in the image.

The late afternoon light from the window caught the surface of the photograph, and Adelaide angled it away from the glare. That was when she noticed.

Catherine's eyes were open.

Adelaide nearly dropped the frame. This was wrong and completely improper. The deceased were always photographed with eyes closed, lending to the illusion of peaceful sleep. Had the photographer been so careless? So disrespectful?

She brought the image closer, studying her sister's face. Not only were Catherine's eyes open, but they appeared to be looking directly at the viewer with an intensity that made Adelaide's skin prickle beneath her mourning dress.

"It cannot be," she whispered into the quiet room.

She rang for her maid, Martha, who appeared moments later.

"Martha, look at this photograph of Catherine. Tell me what you see."

The maid took the frame, studied it briefly, and handed it back with a sympathetic smile. "A lovely remembrance of Miss Catherine, ma'am. The photographer has made her look quite peaceful."

"Her eyes, Martha. Do you not see her eyes?"

Martha peered again, confused. "Closed in eternal rest, ma'am, as is proper."

Adelaide snatched back the photograph. There were Catherine's eyes, wide open, staring directly at her. How could Martha not see?

"That will be all," Adelaide dismissed her, hands shaking.

That night, she placed the photograph face down on her bedside table, unable to bear those eyes watching her as she slept. Yet she found no rest, tossing beneath her counterpane until, near midnight, she lit a candle and lifted the frame once more.

In the flickering light, Catherine's gaze seemed even more pronounced. Adelaide traced her finger over the glass.

"What are you trying to tell me, dear sister?" she whispered.

The following morning, Adelaide visited Dr. Blackwood's office, the photograph wrapped and tucked under her arm.

"There is something peculiar about this image," she insisted, once she'd been shown into his study. "Catherine's eyes are open and looking directly at me."

Dr. Blackwood examined the photograph with a furrowed brow. "Miss Harwood, I assure you that your sister's eyes were properly closed before the photographer arrived. It is merely a trick of light and shadow that gives such an impression."

But Adelaide knew what she saw. "Was there something unusual about my sister's passing that you've not told me?"

The doctor's hesitation was brief but noticeable. "Your sister died of consumption, as I certified."

"Then why do I alone see her eyes open in this photograph?”

Dr. Blackwood returned the frame to her with a practiced expression of sympathy. "Grief often plays tricks on the mind, Miss Harwood. Perhaps you should consider a restorative tonic. I can prescribe laudanum to help you sleep."

Adelaide declined and departed, unsatisfied.

That evening, she placed the photograph on the mantelpiece and sat opposite it, watching as twilight deepened around her. The gaslight cast shifting shadows across Catherine's face, but her eyes remained fixed on Adelaide.

A memory surfaced of Catherine, just days before her death, gripping Adelaide's hand with surprising strength.

"The medicine," she had whispered. "It tastes wrong."

Adelaide had dismissed it as delirium. Dr. Blackwood had been treating their family for years. The thought forming in her mind now seemed ludicrous, yet...

She crossed to her sister's room, untouched since her death. The medicine bottles still stood on the nightstand. Adelaide uncorked one and sniffed cautiously. Beneath the sharp herbal scent lay something bitter, metallic.

The next day, she visited Professor Hargrove at University College, an old friend of their father's who taught chemistry. She brought the medicine with her.

Three days later, the professor's findings arrived by messenger: unusual levels of arsenic, far exceeding any medicinal purpose.

Adelaide sat with the letter, Catherine's unblinking gaze from the photograph now seeming not accusatory but imploring. Their father had left a modest inheritance in trust, payable to Dr. Blackwood for Catherine's lifelong care. It was money that would cease upon her death. A death that had come after years of treatments that never seemed to improve her condition, only maintain it.

That night, Adelaide wrote two letters: one to Scotland Yard, detailing her suspicions about the professor's findings enclosed; the other to her solicitor, questioning the payments made to Dr. Blackwood over the years.

As she sealed the envelopes, she glanced at Catherine's photograph. For the first time since receiving it, the eyes in the image appeared closed, peaceful at last.

"Justice will come, dear sister," Adelaide whispered.

Adelaide & Catherine

 One month later, Dr. Blackwood was arrested. The investigation revealed a pattern of suspicious deaths among his chronically ill patients, all with financial arrangements beneficial to him. During his trial, it emerged that he had been slowly poisoning Catherine for years, keeping her ill enough to require his constant care while drawing payment from her trust.

When the judge pronounced his sentence of hanging, Adelaide sat silently in the courtroom, a small daguerreotype hidden in her reticule. Catherine's eyes were closed now in every viewing. But Adelaide knew what she had seen.

In her darkest hour, when no one else would listen, Catherine had found a way to speak from beyond the veil, her unblinking gaze fixed on the living until justice was served.

As she left the courthouse, Adelaide felt a peculiar sensation as though a weight had lifted, a presence had departed. Catherine had moved on, her final purpose fulfilled.

That night, Adelaide placed the photograph on her mantel, no longer afraid to meet her sister's peaceful countenance. She knew she could now rest.

Teacake Tidbits

1. Integration into the Supreme Court of Judicature

In 1873, the British Parliament passed the Supreme Court of Judicature Act, which restructured the court system in England and Wales. This act merged several existing courts, including the Court of Common Pleas, into a new Supreme Court of Judicature. Given Bloomsbury's proximity to legal institutions and its population of legal professionals, this reform would have had a significant impact on the area's residents and institutions.

2. Development of Queen Square as a Hub for Charitable Institutions

By 1873, Queen Square in Bloomsbury had become a center for various charitable organizations. Notably, the Working Women's College, founded by Elizabeth Malleson in 1864, was located here. The square also housed other institutions such as the Roman Catholic Aged Poor Society and the Society of St Vincent de Paul, reflecting Bloomsbury's role in social reform and education during the Victorian era.

3. Bloomsbury Rifles and Military Organization

In 1873, the Bloomsbury Rifles, officially known as the St Giles's and St George's Bloomsbury Rifle Volunteer Corps, were part of the broader reorganization of the British Army under the Cardwell Reforms. These reforms aimed to localize military forces, and the Bloomsbury Rifles were incorporated into the 37th Middlesex Rifle Volunteer Corps. Their headquarters were established at the Foundling Hospital, and they played a role in local defense and military preparedness.