Ghostly Images (6 page)

Her fingers trembled. “I’m not a fool, David Taylor. In comparison to you, I have an
open
mind. I can accept science, but I can also accept the truth of psychic phenomenon. They’re not mutually exclusive. In the end, the camera lens is far more powerful than our eyes.”

David raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m struggling to comprehend how a collection of wood, glass, and brass can be this gateway, this conduit, to another world. These are inanimate objects.”

“No one fully understands it at present, but in a hundred years, I believe everyone will. Patrick might be remembered then for the good work he has done.”

“Did Tate seriously claim that murderers could be spotted by the shadow of a noose around their necks on their photographs? Did he say anything about those soon to be murdered having some sort of shadow over their heads?” asked David.

“Patrick wasn’t dogmatic about that, but he did see a pattern. Now…” She squared her shoulders and looked David straight in the eyes. “Will you develop the plate for me?”

“I don’t think there’s much point doing it, since the image quality is likely to be poor. You didn’t want Mr Jenkins disturbed by the flash of magnesium. I had to take a long exposure relying only on gaslight.”

“For the second time, will you develop the plate for me?”

David flinched and avoided eye contact with her. “I don’t want you to suffer any further pain. It wouldn’t be a good idea to develop the plate,” he said politely but firmly.

She pointed at him sharply. “You should be more grateful for what my Gareth did for you, David. You’d still be a shipping clerk if it wasn’t for him.”

David pressed his fingers against his temple. “I owe a huge debt to your husband, Mrs Jenkins.”

“Gareth could be a little irritable with customers entering the studio at times, but he was always kind and patient with you and John.” Mrs Jenkins then realised this wasn’t entirely true. Gareth was very strict on the lads being neatly turned out. A dark coat and neatly pressed trousers was essential, together with wearing a John Bull Top Hat. Since her husband’s death, David had dispensed with wearing a hat. John had now taken to wearing a flat cap, much like a common labourer. If her husband were around, he would have had some firm words with them.

“You and your husband have been the kindest people I’ve met in my life, but it still wouldn’t be right to develop the plate.”

Her gaze softened, and she looked at David intently. “My husband came to your rescue when he took those photographs for the shipping company at their new headquarters in Hull. He invited you to visit the studio in Whitby. He could tell you had more potential than wasting your life as a clerk. Do you remember that wonderful day visiting Whitby and Gareth offering you a job?”

“It still wouldn’t be right to develop the plate,” David repeated, but with a touch of nervousness in his voice.

“Before you moved into lodgings,” she continued, “you stayed in our home for two weeks. You kept having nightmares, nearly every night...”

“What were the nightmares about?” asked John.

David pretended a yawn. “It’s nothing of importance.”

“I can’t imagine you having nightmares,” John teased. “You’d say it’s an unscientific concept.”

David’s waved his hand dismissively but did not reply.

“I do not understand why you are so obstinate about the camera, David,” Mrs Jenkins said. “You took that photograph in the studio of Elizabeth Betts, if you remember. Do you deny the existence of those dark spots appearing on her body?”

“There are dozens of rational and scientific reasons to explain these phenomena,” David said. “The handmade lens could have a latent defect.”

“What do you think, John?” she asked.

“David knows I think the Tate camera could have psychic powers.”

She looked at David, who was shaking his head. “When she became hysterical after overhearing what I said to you about the dark marks, I had to slap her…I didn’t expect that it would have knocked her to the floor,” she said.

“We should have gone to the police after her murder,” insisted David.

“After what happened to that unfortunate woman, I don’t trust the police,” she said. “They can’t catch her killer. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Tanner were to arrest and convict a completely innocent man.” A sickly feeling came to her stomach remembering Tanner’s visit in July. He claimed he was visiting all the photographic studios in Whitby making inquiries about a batch of lewd images discovered on a fishing vessel,
The Princess Alice
, after a routine search. When Tanner took an aggressive attitude with her husband and accused him of being evasive and feigning forgetfulness, she struggled to contain her anger. Her anger intensified to fury when she soon discovered that he had not made any similar inquiries at Frank Meadow Sutcliffe and Daniel Milner’s studios—or even Byron Marsh’s.

David cleared his throat and then said in a rush, “But Elizabeth Betts might have told a friend about what happened in the studio.”

“Especially about me,” mumbled John, touching the bite mark on his hand.

Mrs Jenkins shook her head. “I’m a good judge of character, and that’s the last thing the young woman would have done. She would have gone home, calmed down, and chastised herself for biting you when you gallantly tried to assist her.”

She didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, but whenever she visited the dress shop, she found Elizabeth Betts to be rude and quick-tempered. The young woman had thin, mean lips that twisted in the corners when she spoke. Mrs Jenkins didn’t believe she would have made a good wife. Nevertheless, the poor creature did not deserve to die in that dreadful manner.

She noticed David and John nervously exchanging glances, but David held his hand up as if to prevent John saying anything further. She turned her sharp gaze onto the ginger-haired man. “What about you, John? Will you develop the plate for me?”

“I’m not sure...” John looked hesitantly at David. “It will only add to your distress.”

“John, you had a hard life in the orphanage in Wales and then working as a labourer. You were hungry and in a very bad state when you first arrived in Whitby. All you had on you was one penny. My husband took pity on you and wanted to help a fellow Welshman in need. The least you could do is one simple act of kindness for his widow.” She shook her head despairingly but not without seeing John look to David for support. He lifted his hand to bite his nails.

“I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

“Look up at me when you speak—and don’t bite your nails,” she snapped. “You should also thank David. He was willing to take a reduction in his wages of four shillings a month so my husband could give you work. But my husband had already decided to give you a job anyway and had no intention of reducing David’s wages.”

“I didn’t know that!”

“You were never a good judge of character,” Mrs Jenkins said primly. “My husband and I could see behind that mask of his. David is a kind, sensitive, and caring soul. We have no children. But it was understood between us that you and David would be the heirs to a thriving photographic studio—Arnold Bailey put paid to that.” She placed a hand over her heart. “My mind will only be at peace if you develop the plate for me.” She looked at both men in turn. “I beg you...do this for me.”

David and John remained silent, but she was confident from their timid glances that they would not refuse her request. She handed over the plate to David and rose to her feet, using the edge of the table for support.

“You can walk me home now. And remember to come visit me next Friday.”

“D
ON
’
T
YOU
FEEL
SOMETIMES
THAT
IT
’
S
1194
AND
NOT
1894?” asked David after they had seen Mrs Jenkins back home. He held the photographic plate enclosed in the protective wooden plate holder and was tempted to throw it in the River Esk.

“You’re in a pensive mood,” said John.

“I feel like a hypocrite, denying the validity of spirit photography to Mrs Jenkins while behind her back engaging in the business with Hood.”

“Mrs Jenkins won’t be happy when she finds out we’re working for Hood. Since you got us into this business, you should tell her.”

“We might not need to do that.”

John raised his arms in despair. “What do you mean?”

“Before she finds out anything, we will have stopped working for Hood.”

“News travels fast in Whitby. Do you really think Hood intends to have
ordinary
photographs taken?”

David sighed. “He’s unlikely to resist the temptation of using Patrick Tate’s camera for the purpose of spirit photography. But it’s purely a temporary measure for no more than three weeks. Life should get back on an even keel after that.”

“Particularly now we are fully qualified photographers,” added John. He took a playful jump in the air and nearly stumbled when he landed. “1894 isn’t all bad, is it?”

David beamed. “That’s a real piece of good news. It will make it a lot easier for us to continue our careers in photography.”

“Do you still have those nightmares?” asked John gingerly.

“Of course not!” snapped David, knowing full well that he would almost certainly have nightmares that evening.

“Thanks for your support in Mr and Mrs Jenkins’ giving me the job,” said John, placing his hand on David’s shoulder.

“You would have done the same if you were in my position at the time.”

“When we’re finished working for Hood, the first thing I’ll do is visit my parents’ graves in Wales. You’re lucky to have parents still alive.”

David clenched his teeth. “We would be wise to concentrate on our present situation?”

John nodded in agreement. “We should have made more effort to persuade Mrs Jenkins to go to the police and explain about Elizabeth Betts.”

David laughed grimly. “She does not change her mind. Ever.”

John looked straight at David. “A bit like you then, isn’t she?” But David yawned and ignored the question. John frowned. “I don’t feel happy about taking money from her.”

“They were always fair and kind to both of us. It would upset her too much if you returned the money.”

“I will try the Lancaster camera for a couple of weeks,” John said. “If I like it enough, I might go to Scarborough and buy the same model there.”

“I could tell that you had taken a shine to that
thing
,” David teased. “Early tomorrow morning, we need to clean out the studio. After that, you can try out the Lancaster while I develop the plate for Mrs Jenkins, together with that of Jack and the exposures I took inside the castle. By then, it will be time to go to your favourite place—”

“Lythe Castle,” interrupted John before placing his hands theatrically over his eyes.

“Can you think of anything else that needs to be done that I’ve left out?”

“We need to give Hood a copy of the photograph of Jack when we go to the castle.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I’d like to talk to Laura. I wonder how she is after the trouble in The Queen’s Head.”

David cringed inwardly but said nothing. Inside, he wanted to scream, fearing that John was smitten with Laura in the same way he had once been with Harriett. David wasn’t sure if he could endure the endless monologues from John about his affairs of the heart in the weeks ahead.

Chapter 12

Monday 27
th
August 1894

L
UCY
RESTED
HER
HAND
ON
THE
JOURNAL
that she’d been keeping since arriving at
The Whitby Herald
twelve months ago. She looked at the details she had entered for Monday. All she had was a few scribbles and a sketch of a man. She didn’t realise it at first, but it looked a lot like the photographer at the castle she’d met a few days earlier.

She remembered going with her father to London over a year ago to see a performance by Zentar the Great. His female assistant floated from the stage floor to the ceiling of the theatre. Lucy couldn’t see any wires, but she was sure they were used to achieve the illusion. The only way the “ghost” could have floated in the air at Lythe Castle was by using a wire support.

The photographic plate and the print were on her desk in a folder next to her draft article. The photograph had been developed in the newspaper’s darkroom. She’d looked through the folder twice already but decided to take one more glance.

The print looked like a dark sky with a few vague white dots. Hood probably thought it would shock and titillate the readers of the newspaper, but she wasn’t going to use it, subject to the editor’s approval, of course.

She had ended the brief piece she had written by saying: “There were gasps of amazement by those present at Lythe Castle at the sight of a ghostly figure of a young woman rising from the floor and disappearing through the ceiling. Any competent stage illusionist using thin wires and a hoist can easily achieve this spectacle. In fact, there were suspicious, jerky movements as the woman neared the ceiling. ”

Gazing through the office window, Lucy saw Flora, their office cleaner, leaving and heading towards the train station carrying a large, tatty brown case. Flora looked up, and her sorrowful eyes met Lucy’s as she rested her heavy suitcase on the ground.

Flora had just handed in her resignation to the editor, Nimrod Sollett. Normally, she was a reliable worker, but in the last few weeks, she wasn’t able to do her duties properly. Her close friend had been Elizabeth Betts and Flora desperately wanted to return to her family home in Newcastle.

Lucy would have loved to have known what was going through Flora’s mind. What would be her fate in Newcastle? It would have made an excellent article—a woman in torment after the murder of her closest friend. There was still no news of the police getting any nearer to catching the killer.