Ghostly Images

ISBN: 978-1-905091-77-5

eBook (digital) version

© 2012 by Peter Townsend

Published in the United Kingdom by LL-Publications 2012

www.ll-publications.com

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Edited by Zetta Brown

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Cover art and design by Linda Houle © 2011

Printed in the UK and the USA

Ghostly Images
is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

“Photograph me a ghost: chemicals have no fancies, plates don’t get nervous, and lenses tell no lies!”

—
Rev. H. R. Haweis

“The Veil Lifted - Modern Developments of Spirit Photography.” A paper by

J. Trail Taylor, Whittaker & Co, London, 1894

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the Whitby Photographic Society for advice on Victorian photography. My thanks also go to the Sutcliffe Gallery in Whitby. I would also like to thank John Brewer for his expert advice on Victorian wet- and dry-plate photography.

Dedication

In memory of my mother and father.

Prologue

Thursday 13
th
September 1894

D
ANIEL
M
ILNER
RESTED
IN
BED
. He opened his eyes and looked up at the gaslight reflecting on the ceiling. Daniel saw three moons, the colour of rubies, jumping around the ceiling like bouncing balls. After a few minutes, his vision became clearer.

He tried to get up but fell back, feeling a sharp pain in his chest. He shut his eyes tightly and bit his lip hard. He knew he was dying and would soon be at peace. This would be his last day, perhaps last few minutes, on Earth.

If only he could be nearer the bedroom window. He loved the view of Whitby’s harbour with the light reflecting on the River Esk as it gradually widened on its journey to the sea. On the other side of town was a colourful jumble of red-roofed houses. Above the houses on the edge of the East Cliff was St Mary’s Church. Behind the church stood the towering ruins of Whitby Abbey.

Daniel was seventy-four and ready for death. He wasn’t a greedy man, but one more look was all he wanted.

He could see his wife Anna standing close to the bedroom window. She had stood, statue-like, hour after hour; her face etched with hopelessness. Her deep-set hazel eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Her once-beautiful black hair was now grey, brittle, and thin. She wore the rich purple wool coat he had bought for her birthday two years earlier. At intervals, she would gently caress its surface.

When her aching limbs became too much to bear, she would sit down for a few minutes and gaze at him before returning to the window once more. He wished he could reach out his hand to comfort her.

Daniel heard the muffled sound of approaching footsteps, and soon, he saw a young man struggling with a camera, tripod, and equipment. If he had the energy, he would have raised himself on his elbows and shouted at the photographer to leave.

Anna was at the root of this folly. He frowned. Then he scowled as though to say,
Just another of her silly ideas and whatever happens serves her right
. He tried to speak, but only had the energy to make feeble whispers nobody would hear.

This was the final humiliation for him—a respectable photographer with a fool of a wife taken in by the Spiritualists in Whitby and their claims that spirit photography would show the souls of the dead ascending to heaven.

Anna saw it as clear proof of the afterlife. In Daniel’s mind, it was certain proof of fake photography.

The photographer came forward, nervously glancing in Daniel’s direction, and then immediately averting his gaze. Daniel only recognised the photographer when he came even closer and saw the sweat on the young man’s brow. John Evans.

He was a short man with red hair, light-blue eyes, and his expression, to Daniel, had a pale and haunted look of a man not happy in his trade as a spirit photographer.

John Evans’ colleague and close friend David Taylor had taken his portrait with the infamous handmade plate camera that once belonged to that notorious fraud Patrick Tate.

Daniel vividly remembered removing the plate from the camera himself and taking it into the darkroom where he placed the plate in the developing emulsion. He was stunned to see the image of a kindly old woman, shrouded in a bright mist and leaning over his shoulder. If he wasn’t such a man of science and rational thought, he might have said that it was his long-dead mother.

David Taylor and John Evans had been too cunning for him.

Daniel had hoped to prove to his wife the absurdity of spirit photography. Unfortunately, it had done the exact opposite. Now, she had no doubt in its validity.

He was angry with himself for being duped. In a strange way, he also felt sorry for the two young men. They had fallen into the clutches of that charlatan Hood when their employer died and they found themselves out of work. Daniel remembered them asking him for a job, and he turned them down flat without even a kind word. They were nice enough lads. If only he’d given them work as respectable photographers, things would not have come to this sorry state of affairs. His lack of charity was paying him back tenfold.

The camera, now securely tightened to the wooden tripod, stood five feet away and pointed in his direction. His wife lingered over him for a few seconds with tear-moist eyes. He tried to reach out his hand to touch her but could not summon the strength, merely a twitch of his little finger. Her strong lavender fragrance comforted him. Then, she retreated to the far corner of the bedroom. Gradually, the fragrance faded.

A solitary tear formed at the corner of his right eye as he watched John Evans sprinkle the magnesium powder onto the rectangular lighting tray.

Daniel’s mind was still sharp as his body turned rigid. Evans was using too much powder. He also failed to spread it evenly along the lighting tray. Maybe he was nervous. Daniel hoped Anna had the sense to close her eyes to the blinding flash. She may have to take the consequences of smoke and dust when the flash ignited, possibly even the risk of fire.

He tried to wriggle his toes but failed. Even the muscles in his body became fixed, just like the images at a waxwork museum.

The photograph shouldn’t be too blurred he thought, now that he was nearly as stiff as a corpse. He was losing consciousness. There was nothing more he could do.

Once again, he looked up at the ceiling and saw the three ruby moons. Suddenly, they stopped moving and the balls became black. Seconds later, everything became dark.

Daniel Milner could sense nothing any more. Not the fragrance of lavender, or the blinding flash of light when the magnesium ignited.

Chapter 1

Thursday 23
rd
August 1894

T
HE
FOOTSTEPS
OF
TWO
MEN
echoed on the cobblestones of North Terrace. They headed to the Upper Harbour and the swing bridge over the River Esk that straddled the two communities of Whitby east and west.

On reaching East Terrace, signs attached to some properties offered rooms to let and others offered kippers for sale. A notice on the railings gave details of a brass-band concert for the following week. In the distance, women packed herrings from a steam drifter on Pier Road.

The sickly smell of fish wafted in the air and made John’s nose twitch. David saw this. The fish made him think of food, food made him think of money, and money made him think about the jobs they didn’t have.

They approached the bridge. The barrier was down. When the giant wooden beams on the bridge swung apart, it allowed the ships and boats to pass through. People on foot had to wait for six or seven minutes at the barrier operated by manned winches until the last vessel had passed.

While waiting to cross the bridge, David read the plaque at the side of the barrier. Francis Pickernell designed the bridge. Under his name was the date 1835. David looked down at the river at the ripples and the currents. A small tree branch floated past. Turning his head slowly to the left, he tracked its progress as it made its way to the sea a few hundred yards away.

The barrier finally lifted and impatient men, women, and children scurried over the forty-five-foot journey to get from one side to the other, but David and John strolled at a leisurely pace. They had all the time in the world now that they were unemployed.

A sudden gust of wind hurled the foaming spray against the wooden beams. Spray fell on the ground beside them. Once over the bridge, the two men stood by a wall, looking down at the water. John pointed to the leather bag around David’s shoulders “Why do you carry that
thing
around Whitby?”

David held his hand firmly on the bag containing the compact brass-and-mahogany camera. “Why not? Mr and Mrs Jenkins gave me this generous gift as a birthday present.” David grimaced. “Yet look how wretched 1894 has become less than three weeks later…”

“It could be worse.”