Ghostly Images (2 page)

“You must be joking!”

“Yes, it’s been bad since Mr Jenkins died just a few days after your birthday, but the camera has Patrick Tate’s name on it. You should throw it in the river.”

David tightened his grip on the camera. The furtive glances John gave suggested he’d do it if David wouldn’t. “There’s nothing wrong with the camera.”

John did a mock shudder. “You’re ignoring the scandal over Tate’s portraits.” He gave David a look of wide-eyed innocence. “When my kitten dies, can you take its photograph?”

“Shut up!” snapped David. “Besides...you don’t have a kitten.”

“Speaking of scandal, why are we going to see that crook?”

“Hood could offer us some work.” David tried hard to resist his uncomfortable feelings about their appointment with the notorious charlatan.

“We shouldn’t see that rogue, David.”

David adjusted his grip on his camera. “We’ll only stay for a few minutes and see why he asked me to bring the camera.”

A discarded newspaper swirled in the wind and attached itself to a lamp post where it rested for a few seconds. Judging from the headline, E
LIZABETH
B
ETTS–
H
UNT
C
ONTINUES
F
OR
H
ER
B
RUTAL
M
URDERER
,
it was from the previous day, Wednesday 22
nd
August.
A
sudden gust sent it high into the air.

“There’s no escaping that murder,” said John. “It puts our troubles into perspective. We haven’t had our throats and stomach slashed repeatedly with a knife like that poor woman.”

“With no new leads, the newspapers will tire of that story. It’s terrible, but at least there has been only the
one
murder.”

“But there could be more, surely?”

“Why should there be any more? The killer is probably a stranger to the town—a depraved sailor. He will have left Whitby.”

“I hope you’re right, but it could be a local man who decides to commit a second murder…or third…or fourth,” said John. “Young women around here are anxious enough at present. Heaven help
me
if there’s another murder.”

“What do you mean?” David turned to look at John.

John hesitated and raised his eyes. “Nobody likes...you know what.”

Hair colour was a sensitive subject for John. David was going to point out that the police and the victim’s family would have far more to worry about than prejudice against red-hair but thought better of it. Rather than responding to John’s angst, David rubbed his hand over his throbbing temples. His headaches were getting more frequent and never fully abated.

“Don’t look so gloomy,” John said. “Our fate could be a great deal worse.”

David pressed his hand over his temples once more. “I find that hard to imagine.”

John took out
The
Whitby Herald
from his pocket, waved it in David’s direction, and read from the front page. “‘Two men employed at Whinstone Quarries die after stones fell on them...Workman at Loftus Mines caught between the empty wagons, crushing both his legs...Three women die in fire at bakers on Ladgate Lane.’ We should count our blessings.”

“Let’s concentrate on our predicament,” urged David.

John stared at David. “The article said the women were burnt beyond recognition.”

“Be quiet!” David chest tightened at the thought of the burnt women. He squinted and studied John’s bewildered expression as he read the main story about Elizabeth Betts. John folded the newspaper and placed it back in his pocket. David guessed the conversation would now turn to the thorny matter of the photograph he had taken of her. He recalled Betts’ long, copper-gold hair and her slender body when he took her photograph on the 8
th
August. Her complexion was pale, and she had lovely blue eyes. She was quite attractive in a haughty sort of way.

John pointed again to the camera David carried. “You took a photograph of Elizabeth Betts with that camera, and a week later, she’s savagely murdered. Dark marks, running from her neck down to her stomach appeared on the photograph. She suffered many stab wounds in that area. Even you would have to admit that the Tate camera could have psychic powers. What other explanations are there?”

David closed his eyes for a second, hoping that John would change the topic.
Here we go again
, he thought, opening his eyes once more. David kept his faith in science.

“Mr Jenkins was ill and shouldn’t have prepared the plate. He probably mixed the chemicals badly. That could explain the blemishes, or the lengthy, four-second exposure I had to take with the collodion process. We often come across odd images. Everything has a logical and rational explanation when you look closely enough. An illusion can be caused by the effects of light and shade—or a lens-flare where a bright light bounces inside the camera and creates strange-looking marks.”

John grunted. “We’ve had a few photographs ruined by that.”

“Do you remember Mr Jenkins taking a photograph of the lady standing next to the waterfall at Falling Foss last May?”

“Yes. She said she could see the image of Jesus in the waterfall.”

“Can you remember the technical term for this?” David took pride in his wide knowledge of science and photography but just couldn’t recall the word.

“I can’t remember…But I still think the Tate camera has psychic powers, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

“Anyway,” explained David defensively, “with regard to Miss Betts’ photograph, I’d only just been given the camera for my birthday. Mr Jenkins had a dizzy spell. On impulse, I took the plate he’d prepared and placed it in my camera, but in my eagerness probably forgot to clean the lens properly.”

“Mrs Jenkins said the dark spots foretold death. It was rotten luck that Miss Betts overheard this when coming to collect her photograph.”

David frowned. “It didn’t help when Miss Betts became hysterical and Mrs Jenkins slapped her. Knocked the poor woman to the floor.”

“The woman took her anger out on me,” John mumbled. “She needn’t have called me a ginger freak and bite my hand when I tried to help her to her feet.”

“Are the marks still visible?” asked David.

“Take a look.” John held up the back of his hand.

David bent forward to look. “I can hardly see anything,” he said reassuringly. In truth, the bite marks were still visible and might be for many more weeks, if not months. John may have had a tough life working as a labourer for a waterwork’s company, his battered and scarred hands bore witness to that, but there was no evidence of it on his round, boyish, unlined, pinkish face. He’d never been an office clerk like David. The problem wasn’t just John’s hands, but what little remained of his bitten fingernails that left them crusty and yellowing at the edges.

“It’s a pity you didn’t help Elizabeth Betts to her feet. She would have liked you.”

“You’re wrong,” insisted David.

John looked at his friend sceptically and then looked down to the back of his hands. He bit on the sparse remains of a fingernail and spat it out. “I think you would have charmed her.”

David gazed at the reflections in the water. He didn’t like John chewing his fingernails and had tried but failed in getting him to stop. David attempted to reassure him. “Don’t say anything to Mrs Jenkins, but I went to visit Elizabeth Betts later that evening. I offered to take another photograph of her in the studio without charge, but she refused.”

“Was she still hysterical?”

“She was quieter but frightened about what Mrs Jenkins had said. I kept telling her that Mrs Jenkins was under strain due to her husband’s illness and begged her to ignore the nonsense about the camera having psychic abilities. It didn’t work. She kept repeating something as if in a trance…”

John leant forward. “What was it?” He spluttered the words out so fast he sent a thin spray of saliva in David’s direction.

David, ignoring the spray, wondered whether it was wise to reveal her statement to John. “It doesn’t matter...”

“Tell me!” John nudged David in the arm. He sighed and gave in.

“Elizabeth said that she was a dead woman. Just before I called, she’d received an anonymous note saying she would soon be dead. She asked if I’d sent it.”

John glanced at the bite marks on the back of his hand while taking in this revelation. “We should have gone to the police.”

“Mrs Jenkins insists we remain silent.”

“We could persuade her to change her mind. Especially now you’ve mentioned the threatening note she’d received. Nothing was said in the newspaper about her receiving anything like that.”

“But I’ll be under suspicion…and perhaps you too.”

John blinked with realisation. “When you put it that way, Mrs Jenkins could be under suspicion as well.”

David drummed his fingers on the wall. He did not want to dwell any longer on the troubling matter of Elizabeth Betts. “Reflections on the water would make an interesting photograph.”

“What other photographs have you taken with the Tate camera?”

David sighed, wondering if the sole topic of conversation for the rest of the day would be his camera. “You know the answer to that question already. The one of the kitten had no unusual features. Your portrait came out well, didn’t it?” For both images David used the faster gelatin-bromide process and a much shorter exposure time of merely one-second.

“Reasonable, I suppose.”

David saw John look to the ground as if inspecting his shoelaces. John never appreciated any photograph of himself, conscious, no doubt, of his excess weight.

“Have you taken any other photographs with the camera?”

“Only one other…,” admitted David sheepishly as he saw John raise his eyebrows. He thought about changing the topic but knew John would not back down. “On the 10
th
August...I had to take a photograph of Mr Jenkins, minutes before he died.”

John stepped back and glared at him. “I was out that day! Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“You’re right. I should have mentioned it to you,” David apologised. “Mrs Jenkins ranted and screamed at me until I gave in. I deliberately left the plate in the studio.”

“Has she said anything about developing the plate?”

“No. She will have come to her senses.”

John sighed. “Even if she changes her mind, it’ll be too late now. Those bankruptcy vultures have taken over the premises.”

“Mrs Jenkins insisted that her husband shouldn’t be disturbed by the flash of magnesium while he was sleeping so I had to take a long exposure for seven seconds using gelatin-bromide—in gaslight.”

“There’s little chance of obtaining any worthwhile image, then.”

David nodded. “Money worries sent Mr Jenkins to his grave. He’s better off dead.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” scolded John.

“At least he will not suffer the humiliating sight of creditors putting their sweaty palms on his precious cameras and equipment.”

When John didn’t reply, David looked up at a newspaper swirling in the wind near the upper windows of Thompson’s, the bakers. Above that, plumes of chimney smoke floated above the red pantile rooftops of Grape Lane. Mr Jenkins had nurtured David’s interest in science and chemistry by buying him books to aid his learning. David wished his father could have been more like his late employer.

The two men resumed walking, taking a right turn down Grape Lane and approaching The Raffled Anchor Inn. The tavern had a commanding position overlooking the River Esk, but David never stepped inside the place and always walked past the tavern quickly, particularly late at night. David blamed Mr Jenkins and his many exaggerated and lurid tales of it being a notorious area for press-gangs some eighty years earlier.

Ghauts, the narrow, cobbled alleys leading from a main street right up to the water’s edge, were a common sight in Whitby. Perhaps the best known of all was Tin Ghaut located just off Grape Lane. Mr Jenkins had taken several photographs there with David alongside him. David turned his head and glanced down Tin Ghaut. He’d return to visit it alone later that day. He needed the quiet and solitude.

At the end of Grape Lane, they turned right along the bank by the River Esk. A few people stood huddled below, wadding in the waters in search of cockles or mussels, or even flatfish. A cursing fisherman strained to lift buckets containing his bumper catch to take to the jetty.

They walked north down Church Street, where the crowds of people became denser. Approaching William Hoggath’s jet workshop, they could hear the monotonous grating sound of grinding wheels shaping and polishing jet. From an open window came a faint smell like that of burning iron. Opposite the jet workshop was The Black Horse Tavern. Noisy laughter emanated from within, even though it was only afternoon.

Several yards later, pleasant smells of the fresh meat pies at Verrill’s Pie Shop greeted them. Four leaning towers of pies sat in the shop’s large bay window.

Meat oozed out of one of the pies. David noticed John give an envious glance. As they neared the shop, it masked the smell of the fish from the harbour. David placed his hand in his pocket. He needed to be careful with his money now he was out of work and resisted the urge to buy a pie for John. Soon, they met the pungent smell of cheeses on a market stall. John inhaled deeply.

Quickening their pace, they came to Hawthorn’s Animal Supplies. The shop had a green-tiled front, and the entrance had a colourful mosaic of tiles with the name of the shop in italics.

David stopped and glanced at a prominent sign in the window for Izal Disinfectant proclaiming to be stronger than pure carbolic acid and used regularly by the proprietor on the tiled entrance due to its pleasant smell. David thought it had a sickly odour and preferred the smell of carbolic acid. Next to the sign was another, which he read aloud, “‘Do you know that Hawthorn’s Pig Powders are a reliable preventative against diseases of pigs such as cold, indigestion, rheumatism and everything?’”

“I’m hungry,” said John, “but I’ll let you have those powders all to yourself.”

“If it could act as a preventative to keep us out of the workhouse, I’d gladly swallow a tablespoon of the powders.”