The second mention occurred some years later in Stratton’s 1867 journal. At the end of a day’s entry he had written:
The painter, Radcliffe, called to see me this evening. His arrival was unexpected and the hour was very late. I confess to having fallen asleep with my book in hand when the knocker startled me awake; poor Mabel was abed and I had to ring to summon her so that refreshments might be brought. I may as well not have bothered and let the weary girl sleep, for Radcliffe did not deign to touch one crumb of the supper provided. He fell, upon arrival, to treading this way and that across the carpet in a most harried state and could not be calmed. His manner was that of a crazed beast, his eyes wild and his long hair dishevelled by the constant raking to which it was subjected by his fine, pale fingers. He emanated a captured energy, like a man possessed. He muttered as he paced, something incomprehensible about curses and fate, a sorry state of affairs indeed and one that gave me cause for grave concern. I know the loss that he has suffered, better than most, but his grief is wretched to watch; he is a reminder of what heartbreak can do to the most sensitive of souls. I confess that I had heard tell of his ruinous state, but I would not have believed the description had I not seen it with my own eyes. I have determined to do what I can, for it will surely right the scales in some way if I can help him to regain his former self. I encouraged him to stay, assuring him that it was no hardship at all to have a room made up, but he refused. He asked instead that I keep a couple of his personal effects for him, and of course I agreed. He was nervous to make the request and I sensed that he had not come to see me with the intention of leaving the items; rather, that the idea had come to him on the spur of the moment. It is only a leather satchel, empty but for a single book of sketches. I would never have broken a confidence to look inside, but he insisted on showing me before he left. He made me swear to keep the bag and sketchbook safe, poor soul. I did not press him on the question of from whom it is to be kept, and he gave me no answer when I asked as to when he might return. He only looked at me sadly, before thanking me for the supper he did not eat, and leaving. His wretched presence stayed with me afterwards, and is with me even now, as I sit by the dying fire writing this record.
The journal extract painted a melancholy picture, and the ‘wretched presence’ described within its pages lingered with Elodie, too. The account answered her question as to how James Stratton came to possess Edward Radcliffe’s satchel, but there was still the intriguing question of how Radcliffe had come to know James Stratton well enough in the space of six years to turn up at his door in the middle of the night when beset by his private demons. Also, why he had chosen Stratton, of all people, to safeguard his bag and book. Elodie made a note to cross-reference some of the archives of Stratton’s friends and associates to see whether Radcliffe’s name appeared there.
Another wrinkle was Stratton’s reference to wanting to “right the scales”. It was an odd turn of phrase, almost suggesting that he had played some part in the man’s decline, which made no sense at all. Stratton couldn’t have known Edward Radcliffe well: he’d made no mention of the other man in any of the private or public documents within the archive at any time between 1861 and 1867. And it was established fact, according to Pippa and Wikipedia, that Radcliffe had slid into despair after the death of his fiancée, Frances Brown. The name was not familiar to her within the context of Stratton’s archives, but Elodie made another note to cross-reference his associates’ papers.
She opened a new archive form on her computer and typed in a description of the satchel and sketchbook, adding a brief summary of the letter and journal entry and the corresponding file reference details.
Elodie leaned back in her chair and stretched.
Two down, one to go.
The identity of the woman in the photo, however, was going to be more difficult. There was just so little to work with. The frame was of a fine quality, but then, James Stratton had owned very few items that weren’t. Elodie attached her magnifying eyepiece and searched the frame for silver markings. She jotted them down on a piece of scrap paper, even as she knew they were unlikely to yield any clues as to the subject of the photo and her relationship to James Stratton.
She wondered how the photograph had found its way into Radcliffe’s satchel. Was the placement accidental or was there some meaning to it? It all depended, she supposed, on the identity of the woman. It was possible, of course, that she had not been special to Stratton and that the frame had, in fact, been placed within the satchel by the great-niece to whom the desk had belonged – a random act of storage at some point during the decades after Stratton’s death. But it was an outside chance. The way the woman was dressed, the styling and look of the photo itself, suggested that it – and she – had been contemporaneous with Stratton. Far more likely that he had stored, even concealed, the photograph inside his document holder and slipped it inside the satchel himself.
Elodie finished her inspection of the frame, making notes so that she could provide a description of its condition on the archive sheet – a dent at the top, as if it had been dropped; some fine, feathery scratches on the back – and then she returned her attention to the woman. Again the word that came to mind was ‘illuminated’. It was something in the quality of the woman’s expression, the flow of her hair, the light in her eyes …
Elodie realised that she was staring as if she expected the woman to explain herself. But no matter how hard she tried, she could find no identifying feature in the face, the clothing, even in the background of the image that suggested where to turn next. Although the photograph was well composed, there was no studio signature in any of the corners, and Elodie wasn’t familiar enough with Victorian photography to know whether anything else inherent to the image might give a clue as to its origin. Perhaps Pippa’s mentor, Caroline, would be able to help after all.
She set the frame down on her desk and rubbed her temples. The photo was going to be a challenge, but she refused to be cowed. The detective thrill of the chase was one of the best parts of her job, a counterbalance to the satisfying but repetitive work of creating neat records. ‘I’ll find you,’ she said softly. ‘Make no mistake about that.’
‘Talking to yourself again?’ Margot was beside Elodie’s desk, hunting through the handbag she had slung across her shoulder. ‘First sign of trouble, you know.’ She found a tin of peppermints and shook them, dropping a couple into Elodie’s waiting palm. ‘Staying late?’
Elodie glanced at the clock, surprised to find that it was already half past five. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Alastair picking you up?’
‘He’s in New York.’
‘Again? You must be missing him. Don’t know what I’d do without Gary to go home to.’
Elodie agreed that she was missing her fiancé, and Margot gave her a sympathetic smile which turned swiftly into a cheery farewell. Fishing her neon earbuds out of her bag, she swiped her iPhone and sashayed off into the weekend.
The office resettled into papery silence. The strip of sunlight had arrived on the far wall and was beginning its daily approach towards her desk. Elodie cracked one of the mints open with her back teeth and hit print on the archive label she’d made for the new box. She started to tidy her desk, a task she performed religiously on Friday afternoons so that she could begin the upcoming week with a clean slate.