Ghostly Images (15 page)

David inspected them. He could see the semi-transparent images behind the sitters. This presented an enormous challenge to him, ethically and philosophically. The evidence was mounting in support of the camera having supernatural powers, but David still had his suspicions. “Are you sure you’ve not done anything sneaky to support your view that the camera can predict the future?”

John’s cheeks bulged and reddened in anger. “Why are you accusing me of lying? Open your eyes for
once
in your life and
admit
the existence of psychic powers!”

David steadied himself and resisted getting into a shouting match. “I’ll need to study the negative plates.”

John brought all the plates over and David studied them with a magnifying glass. Several minutes of silence followed before he spoke. “I was trying to follow Tate’s formula, but I might have made an error in coating the plates.”

“Be honest, David. Is that likely to have caused the marks on Varley’s image and the spirits to appear so convincingly on the other five? Would it have produced an image of a girl looking at the children with their dolls, or the images on the steps?”

David shook his head and sighed. “I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have doubted your word.”

“Have you got some other scientific theory up your sleeve to neatly explain all of this away?”

David drummed his fingers on the counter. In truth, he couldn’t think of anything science might offer to explain these images, but he wasn’t ready to admit this to John. “I’ll keep an open mind about this for the time being.” He expected John to press him further, but instead, John reached in his pocket to bring out his watch.

“We need to hurry. It’s time for our appointment at Tin Ghaut. Hood will be waiting for us there.”

W
HEN
THEY
REACHED
T
IN
G
HAUT
, David quickly recognised the old woman with the bare scalp he’d seen on the steps outside her home on the same day he and John made a deal with the Devil. And speaking of, Hood was talking to her. He told the woman to go inside when David and John arrived.

“Something is bothering me, David,” he said when she had entered her home. “Percy saw you talking to Frank Hawk this morning.”

David shrugged. “Is this a crime?” When Hood put his arm about David’s shoulders in what he suspected to be a paternal gesture, he tried not to cringe.

“I had Prudence Hood’s love when I was a child and Claire’s love before she died. Frank has had none of this. He had no happy childhood and no grasp of friendship or loyalty. Take my advice and be very wary of that puppeteer.”

“Why?” asked David, trying hard not to sound defiant.

“Despite his outward appearance and charm...I have never encountered anyone with such a violent streak as Frank Hawk.” He gave a bark of a laugh. “I wish Frank had been present and not Jack Sheldon when I fought those navvies a decade ago. Do you know why?”

David shook his head.

“I would still have the top part of my thumb if Frank had been with me...and the navvies would have been missing more than that, believe me!”

Hood ushered the lads inside the house. Upon entering, David saw a fire of sticks and a pan above making a hissing sound. An onion-smelling broth was inside.

The woman took them upstairs, struggling with her walking stick. The sickly smell of disinfectant was overpowering as they entered the bedroom. Her husband’s skin was stretched tightly over his bones. Blood oozed from sores on his pearly, translucent skin. He was thin, more like a starving child than a man of advanced age.

The combination of the disinfectant and the pitiable image of the old man were too much for David to take. He looked down at the badly frayed carpet, but Hood prodded him in the arm.

“Take Rufus’ photograph now. Is that alright with you, Betty?”

“I’ll just comb Rufus’ hair so he’s good and ready.” She lovingly combed his long, silver-grey hair. When she finished, she kissed him on the forehead and went to stand beside Hood, clutching her husband’s hair comb in her hand.

David set up the camera and tripod while John powdered the lighting tray. He opened the shutter and John ignited the magnesium powder. A flash of white light bathed the bedroom. David closed the shutter five seconds later.

“Please take these coins.” She thrust six shillings into Hood’s hand.

“I will not take payment from you.” He placed the coins down on the bedside table.

“You must.”

“No, Betty.”

David was surprised at Hood’s refusal.

“You’re a good man,” she said gratefully. “I hope the sign of heaven appears on picture.”

“I am confident that it will,” soothed Hood.

“I’m sorry I nearly got you in big trouble in July. But I desperately had to get medicine for Rufus.”

Hood explained for John and David’s benefit, “I stole a wallet from a rich man on one of my tours to pay for the medicine. Normally, I am an expert at pickpocketing, but a dose of influenza must have dulled my abilities that day.”

Betty grimaced. “I’m very sorry he went to coppers, Hood.”

Hood gave Betty a reassuring smile. “Percy and I had a friendly word with him. He went back to the police and withdrew his complaint saying his money had fallen down a hole in his pocket into his lining—as we suggested to him.” Hood sighed theatrically. “And still...most people in West Whitby portray me as a villain.”

“You’re anything but a villain to me and the rest of East Whitby. Prudence would have been proud of you for what you’ve done.”

“I think about her daily, the marvellous lady who took me in as an abandoned child and gave me so much love and care.”

Betty nodded. “She was my closest friend…” She wiped away a tear with an old, tatty handkerchief. “Take care, Hood. Tanner got your best mate hung and won’t rest until he gets a rope around your neck too.”

“Tanner is a fool.”

Betty shook her head. “He’s a sly one.”

“I am grateful for your concern, but now, we must leave you to be alone with Rufus during these last precious minutes—or hours—that you have together. I am sorry you do not have my psychic powers, but I can see two angels above him and a radiant light. They will be escorting him home very soon.” He sighed. “It is truly a magnificent sight to see the presence of an angel.”

The old woman’s eyes glazed over. “You’re wrong, Hood, about one thing.”

“What is that, Betty?”

“I’ve seen an angel, and so have countless others in Whitby…That angel is you.”

David tried not to let his jaw drop in disbelief and looked incredulously at Hood who had raised his cane to cover his face in a show of modesty. He could imagine that if Hood’s tear ducts had been working, there would have been drops cascading freely. As much as David was terrified of Hood, at this moment in time, he felt no antagonism towards him, only an inexplicable sense of compassion and understanding concerning his good deed for the old lady.

When they exited the house, David breathed a huge sigh of relief. Hood left them without saying anything, so they decided to walk to the harbour. The fresh air was a welcome tonic as he sat with John on a bench.

The pitiable image of the dying man had given David a fright. He looked across at John. He was shivering, and David didn’t think it had anything to do with the chilly sea breeze.

“I won’t sleep tonight,” mumbled John. “It might be my turn to start having nightmares.”

“I don’t have nightmares.” replied David defensively.

“That’s not what Mrs Jenkins says.”

David forced a smile, wanting to put what had occurred in that grotty, stinking house into perspective. “Respectable photographers took photographs of the dead and dying. Mr Jenkins did it.”

“We never went with him on any of those assignments.”

“But he told us all the details, if you recall?”

John shrugged. “I can’t remember much about that wretched business.”

“The dead person is carefully posed on the bed. The body would be cleaned and washed and dressed in their best Sunday clothes, their hair tidy. Family and friends would come and pay a final visit to the deceased.”

David looked out at the sea and remembered his former employer.

“Even Mr Jenkins, the most honourable of photographers, resorted to the full tricks of the trade to get the best possible expression on the dead person’s face. The arms and hands are placed on top of the cover, as if they were simply asleep—”

“There’s a big difference between that and what we’ve just done back in that house,” John argued. “It makes me feel sick inside.” He took in a deep intake of sea air. “And what do you make of Hood’s view of Frank?”

“I don’t believe a single word.”

“Me neither.”

David checked his pocket watch and nudged John’s arm, and with that, they returned to the studio.

T
HE
REST
OF
THE
MORNING
WAS
BUSY
, but between 2.15 and 3.15, they had no appointments, so they returned to the harbour to take a break. David studied the rays of the afternoon sunshine on the fishing boats in the harbour.

“The light isn’t ideal. Had I been here a bit earlier, this would have been a perfect photograph.”

John suddenly nudged David’s arm and pointed down Pier Road. “Frank Meadow Sutcliffe is over there! Perhaps we can ask him for a chance of employment. What do you think?”

“Heads or tails?” said David.

“Heads you ask Sutcliffe. Tails, I’ll do it.”

David took out a penny and tossed the coin. Tails.

John squared his shoulders and they walked over to the tall, bearded photographer with his large-format camera. After introductions, John presented the question.

Sutcliffe smiled at them but said he had no vacancies for them. “It can be difficult getting started as a photographer. Sometimes you have to do any work to survive in the early years,” he said.

Those words struck David like a bolt of lightning. Now, he didn’t feel so bad. He would have to do whatever was necessary—at least in the short term—even working for a crooked character like Hood.

David admired Sutcliffe for his elevation of photography into an art form, to emulate the great painters. His fame had spread around the world. Sutcliffe had been a member of the Photographic Society but had grown tired of its heavy reliance on technique and left it to become a founding member of the Linked Ring Brotherhood. David had a question he wanted to put to Sutcliffe.

“What is your opinion on spirit photography, Mr Sutcliffe? Is it wrong?”

Sutcliffe checked his photographic equipment. “Everyone must form his own opinion,” he responded diplomatically.

“What is your view?” asked David cautiously.

“I would not do this work.” The photographer stroked his ear lobe and recalled something. “But I took a photograph of a young girl only last week and discovered a figure in a white cloak behind her head. There will be a perfectly logical explanation, of course—”

“Drying marks forming the shape or an unintended double exposure,” David interrupted.

“That is certainly a worthy explanation. In my long career as a photographer, there are a number of simulacra, or miracle images, that have a perfectly logical explanation.”

“Even if the spirit photograph is a fake, it might bring comfort to a friend or relative,” said David.

Sutcliffe smiled awkwardly. He glanced at a small boy a few yards away who held a kaleidoscope. “The photographer sees the world as a child sees the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope,” he said. “All forms of photography can be attacked by some people.”

“But not what you do, surely?” asks David.

“I’ve used techniques such as softening and diffusing parts of a picture, but your late employer was critical of me, saying I was using unnecessary artistic tricks.”

David was disappointed, but not surprised, that Mr Jenkins was so critical of such a talent. “I’ve always greatly admired your work, Mr Sutcliffe.”

“So have I,” added John.

Sutcliffe smiled. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I must be on my way. Don’t give up hope, lads.” He lifted his camera and tripod.

“Even if I made very little money, I’d love to do what Sutcliffe does,” said John wistfully as they watched the photographer stride away.

They continued walking down along the harbour and could hear the shouts from the newspaper vendors near the swing bridge. Getting closer, they caught a glimpse of the poster next to a vendor: POLICE WITHHOLD IDENTITY OF THE THIRD VICTIM OF THE WHITBY RIPPER
.

David’s stomach churned.

T
HE
FINAL
ASSIGNMENT
of the day took them to the bottom of the 199 Steps later that evening.

A beady-eyed, middle-aged man had been waiting patiently for them to arrive. He pointed to the steps. “For the last few nights, at eight in the evening, a phantom spirit comes down the steps to attack me,” he explained. “It’s dressed in a long black cape with a hood that covers his puss.”

“It might just be a workman or a clergyman,” reasoned David.

“They don’t have a huge sword in their hands and swing it from side to side!” insisted the man.

“It sounds very sinister, Mr Hogg,” said Hood sombrely.

“I’m sure it wanted to kill me. I run away when I see it and take the long route to top of cliffs and coastguard station where I work. I wasn’t sure whether I was beginning to lose my mind and want a photograph to prove the phantom exists.”

Hood reached out his hand. “That will be two pounds fifteen shillings as agreed, Mr Hogg.”

“I have to get to work. I can’t wait for it to arrive,” said the coastguard officer, thrusting the money in Hood’s hand. “I’ll collect the photograph tomorrow.” He scurried away a few minutes before eight o’ clock.

David and John quickly fixed their cameras on tripods. They didn’t expect to see any phantom, but a few minutes later, a cloaked figure slowly descended the steps. It carried a sword in its right hand. Every few steps it would swing the weapon from one side to the other.