A Gaze Beyond the Veil

Bloomsbury, London

February 1905

Charlotte was wiping her eyes in her parlor when there was a knock at the door. 

“Oh, Sally,” she called, and her maid entered the room.

“Yes, miss?”

“Would you mind taking care of that?” She motioned to the front of the house.

Sally hurried to answer it, and Charlotte went to the window. A courier was standing there with a package.

“Miss Charlotte Harwood?” she heard him ask.

“Yes, this is the Harwood residence,” Sally replied.

Charlotte looked past the young man into the fog. It was another chilly, grey winter morning, and the day looked just as dreary as she felt.

Sally signed, and the young man tipped his hat and disappeared into the fog.

She brought the parcel to the table, setting it down. Charlotte knew what it was, and she didn’t want to open it.

“Could you please put that on the sideboard?”

“Of course, miss.”

“Thank you, Sally,” Charlotte said softly.

“Will there be anything else, miss?”

“No, thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And the girl left.

Charlotte took a sip of her peppermint tea, then nibbled her toast, dipping it into her egg. Her mind drifted back to her sister’s final days.

Catherine had died a month prior, and this parcel contained the framed photograph of the deceased. It was meant for Charlotte to remember her by.

The two had laughed about the tradition once, finding it rather morbid and peculiar. But Catherine, ever thoughtful, had apparently still included it in her will. Charlotte didn’t want to look at it. Not yet.

She thought of Catherine’s final days—the way her face had thinned, her body wasting away. She’d confided in Charlotte once:

“The medicine tastes strange. I don’t want to take it anymore.”

Charlotte had thought it was just the illness that made everything taste different because Catherine’s body was failing. The doctor had said that, too—when a person nears death, the senses often become distorted.

Now, Charlotte wasn’t so sure.

She finished her breakfast and took a deep breath. With measured hands, she brought the parcel over, picked up the letter opener, and sliced through the string and paper. Inside was the silver-framed photograph of Catherine.

She pulled it out and dropped it immediately onto the table, her chair scraping back across the floor in alarm.

Catherine’s eyes were open.

Charlotte stared, and her breath caught. She had never liked the way some photographers left the deceased with eyes wide, gazing eerily into the lens. And she knew Catherine would have wanted it to appear as if she were peacefully sleeping.

“Sally!” she called, her voice sharp with panic.

The maid rushed in. Charlotte pointed a trembling finger at the photograph.

“Why would they keep her eyes open? Take that somewhere I can’t see it for a while.”

Sally looked from the frame to Charlotte, confusion shadowing her features.

“But Miss… her eyes are closed.”

“No, they’re open,” Charlotte insisted.

Sally stepped closer and lifted the photograph, angling it toward the morning light.

“Miss… Miss Catherine’s eyes are closed. She looks as if she’s sleeping.”

Charlotte looked again.

And indeed, her sister’s eyes were closed. She shivered.

“I’m sorry, Sally. I could have sworn… they were open.”

“You’re probably just feeling a bit down still from her passing,” Sally said gently. “Why don’t I take you up to bed for a rest?”

Charlotte nodded faintly, allowing herself to be led up the stairs to her bedchamber. Sally set the photograph on the nightstand beside the bed.

“There, Miss. Now you can feel comforted with your sister right next to you.”

Charlotte gave a small nod and lay back against the pillows. Though she closed her eyes, unease stirred beneath her skin. She glanced at the photograph one last time.

Catherine’s eyes were closed. I must be overtired.

As Charlotte drifted into a fitful sleep, the silence of the room was broken by the soft creak of the door.

She felt, rather than heard, a presence. Her eyes fluttered open in the dream, and there, gliding to her bedside, was Catherine.

“Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice gentle but urgent. “It was not my time. Please… find out what happened to me.”

Catherine leaned down, resting her hand against Charlotte’s cheek, and kissed her.

“I miss you, dear sister.”

Charlotte awoke with a start.

The wan midmorning light spilled weakly through the curtains. Her cheeks were damp with tears.

She turned to the nightstand and froze.

Catherine’s eyes were open again in the photograph, gazing straight at her.

But Charlotte wasn’t afraid this time. She felt… calm and certain her sister had come to her. Something terrible had happened. She just knew it.

And Catherine should not be dead.

***

“Sally?” Charlotte called as she descended the staircase. “Please fetch the constable.”

Sally’s face appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her brow furrowed. “The constable, miss?”

“Yes, please—and hurry.”

Sally grabbed her shawl and disappeared out the door.

The constable arrived, breathless, with Sally trailing behind him. Charlotte waited in the parlor. As he sat, she explained her concerns. The constable listened with a skeptical expression.

“And you say the reason is… because your sister’s eyes were open, and now they’re closed?” he repeated. He exchanged a glance with Sally.

Charlotte nodded. “May I show you the photograph?”

She handed it to him.

He studied it briefly. “She looks like she’s sleeping.”

“I know how this sounds, sir. But I need you to look into how she died.”

The constable made a few notes and left with a doubtful frown.

***

A week passed, and no word came.

Frustrated, Charlotte rang for the constable again. This time, a sergeant arrived.

“Miss Charlotte Harwood?” he asked at the door, removing his hat. “I was quite concerned when my constable relayed your suspicions. I took the liberty of pursuing it myself. What I’ve found is… troubling.”

Charlotte’s breath caught. “How long was your sister under Dr. Blackwood’s care?”

“Three years,” she replied. “Why?”

“And was she ill before his treatments began?”

Charlotte paused, thinking back. Catherine had always been delicate—but still capable of walks in the park, carriage rides in the spring air…

“No,” she said slowly, a frown creasing her brow. “Now that you mention it, she seemed to worsen after he began seeing her. Father and I found it odd… but he came so highly recommended.”

“Well, Miss Harwood,” the sergeant said gravely, “I don’t normally share ongoing investigation details, but we’ve been watching Dr. Blackwood for quite some time. Your sister’s case has given us the leverage we needed to take it before a judge.”

Charlotte stared at him in disbelief. “You mean… this has happened before?”

“I’m afraid that’s all I can say for now. But expect a letter from a solicitor. You may be called as a witness.”

That evening, with no one else to confide in, Charlotte told Sally everything over dinner.

Sally’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, miss… that would be awful. If Miss Catherine had been murdered…”

“Yes,” Charlotte said quietly. “It would.”

***

Several months passed. Charlotte occasionally visited the constable’s office, but no new information was shared.

Then, one fine summer morning, there came a knock at the door.

A gentleman in a neat waistcoat stood on the step.

“Miss Charlotte Harwood?” he asked. “I’m with the London Times. What do you have to say about the latest developments in Dr. Blackwood’s case?”

Charlotte blinked at him. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you not seen this morning’s paper?”

“No. I’ve had a terrible headache all morning and haven’t had the strength to read it.”

“My apologies, miss, but I thought you ought to know.”

He handed her the latest issue of The London Times. Bold letters sprawled across the top of the front page:

DOCTOR INDICTED IN HIGH-PROFILE MURDER CASE

Charlotte’s hands trembled as she read:

“Dr. Blackwood has been formally charged and indicted for the suspected murders of several prominent society ladies, including Miss Eugenia Willoughby, Lady Arabella Winthrop, Mr. Percival Addington… and Miss Catherine Harwood. Scotland Yard officials confirm this follows a months-long investigation prompted by concerns raised by Miss Charlotte Harwood of Bloomsbury.”

Charlotte looked up. “When is the trial?”

The man was already scribbling notes. “How do you feel about this, miss?”

She rang for Sally as she sat down in the parlor, still clutching the paper. Sally appeared and hesitated in the doorway, eyeing the visitor.

“Sally, this is… forgive me—your name?”

“Thaddeus Finchley, reporter with The London Times,” he replied.

He turned to Sally. “Did you know Miss Catherine?”

Before Sally could respond, Charlotte gently said, “That will be all, Sally. Thank you.”

She allowed the man a few more questions before he left, satisfied and hurrying to write his article.

Sally returned to the parlor moments later. “Miss Charlotte, what’s happened?”

Charlotte showed her the paper.

“Oh, miss…” Sally’s eyes welled with tears. “Miss Catherine… murdered. Just like we suspected.”

Charlotte nodded. “I believe so. That’s why I called the constable. And now it seems… this doctor has done it to several families.”

Sally left the room, shaking her head in disbelief.

***

The trial was held that autumn. Charlotte attended as often as she could. She was called to provide testimony, documents, and pharmacy records. An autopsy was performed.

After several weeks of deliberation, Dr. Blackwood was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.

It was a grey, rainy day as Charlotte rode home in the carriage—her heart aching for her lost sister, but grateful the man could harm no one else.

Throughout the long ordeal, she had developed what others might find odd: a habit of speaking to Catherine’s photograph. Each day, she would recount the trial’s progress as she sipped her tea in the bedroom.

And somehow, each time she spoke, Catherine’s portrait seemed to shift—ever so slightly—into an expression of peace.

Charlotte couldn’t be sure, of course.

But in her heart, she believed her sister finally rested easier.

---

Teacake Tidbits

1. The Bloomsbury Group Was Stirring to Life

By 1905, the seeds of what would become the Bloomsbury Group were being sown. This informal collective of writers, artists, and intellectuals—including Virginia Woolf (then Virginia Stephen), Lytton Strachey, and E.M. Forster—were beginning to meet regularly in Bloomsbury drawing rooms. While their prominence peaked later, 1905 marked the year of their first regular "Thursday Evenings" hosted by Thoby Stephen at 46 Gordon Square.

2. The British Museum Reading Room Was a Hub of Thought

The British Museum Reading Room in Bloomsbury was one of the most important intellectual centers in London at the time. Open to researchers and the public, it drew scholars from all over the empire. Karl Marx had famously studied there earlier in the century, and by 1905, the dome-ceilinged hall was still buzzing with literary and academic life.

3. Women Were Gaining a Foothold in Academia

Although still heavily restricted, University College London (UCL)—based in Bloomsbury—had been admitting women to degrees since the 1870s, and by 1905, more female students were appearing in lecture halls. This made Bloomsbury a quietly radical pocket of intellectual progress, in contrast with the more rigid gender norms still present in much of Victorian and Edwardian society.