Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  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

  57 Blair Avenue

  Hurlford

  Scotland

  KA1 5AZ

  Edited by Zetta Brown

  Proofreading by Janet Schelke

  Book layout and typesetting by jimandzetta.com

  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 13th September 1894

  DANIEL MILNER 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 23rd August 1894

  THE 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.”

  “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, ELIZABETH BETTS–HUNT CONTINUES FOR HER BRUTAL MURDERER, it was from the previous day, Wednesday 22nd 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 8th 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 m
ay 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.”