Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  “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 10th 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.”

  “I’d be willing to swallow a bucket full,” added John.

  David chuckled and wished he wasn’t so serious and stern at times; he enjoyed John’s sense of humour. They resumed walking.

  At the end of the street, they reached the church steps. Locals referred to the stairway as the 199 Steps.

  Pausing briefly, they looked up at the steep gradient before mounting the first few steps. Dark clouds circled in the afternoon sky and they bent their heads down against the biting wind blowing in from the sea.

  “As always, summer is over before the end of August on this stretch of the Yorkshire coast,” moaned John.

  “Only 195 more steps to climb.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  David managed a weak smile. He often teased John for his lack of stamina, particularly when they had to carry heavy cameras and equipment on their assignments. Today, David wasn’t the perfect picture of health and vitality either. He wiped his eyes with his fingers and then placed them tightly against his temples to ease the throbbing pain.

  He remembered how very thin John was when he first arrived in Whitby. John had done strenuous physical work as a labourer for a waterworks company in Eden, but since arriving in Whitby and gaining employment as an apprentice photographer, food had become a major source of comfort to him. David wondered if John ate so much to compensate for the misery of his former life.

  Two young women, one dressed in elegant lilac with a purple bonnet and the other in a light-brown dress with a black bonnet, descended the steps as David and John continued their ascent. The women quickened their pace and avoided eye contact with them.

  “They’re in a hurry,” grunted John, sarcastically.

  “They might think one of us is the murderer,” said David.

  John scratched his ear lobe. “Not you. Me.”

  “I suspect they’re apprehensive about any strangers.”

  John was out of breath and stopped walking. A black cat ran past him on the steps, and he grinned. “I still cannot fathom why you took the photograph of the dead kitten on Monday.”

  “The reason should be obvious,” said David sternly.

  “No
t to me it isn’t.”

  David groaned inwardly but thought it was best to be clear about his actions. “After the little girl’s kitten got trampled by a horse, I had to give her proof it would go up to heaven. What’s wrong with that?”

  The bankruptcy officials had been due to arrive, and it would have been his last opportunity to use the Jenkins studio. He’d taken the photograph in the morning and had it developed and ready for collection by the woman and her daughter that afternoon. He’d faked the effect of the bright light of heaven by strategically placing card on the plate.

  John looked at David quizzically. “That’s hypocritical. You’ve never believed in God.”

  “I’m a man of science and therefore an atheist, but that doesn’t mean I have no compassion. I wanted to help the little girl,” David mumbled, almost apologetically. His eyes moistened. The little girl had reminded him of his late sister.

  “You could have given her money for sweets.” John persisted.

  “Sweets were the last thing she wanted.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I don’t regret it,” snapped David. “The girl cheered up when I showed her the photograph of her kitten with the heavenly light above its head. And remember, I refused to take any money from the girl’s mother.”

  “You fancied the girl’s mother. That’s why.”

  David snorted. “I didn’t.”

  John chuckled. “You did.”

  “I felt sorry for her daughter.”

  John grinned. “So you didn’t notice the woman’s soft smile and gorgeous blue eyes?”

  “They were brown.”

  “Ha!” John thumped David on the arm. “That proves I’m right.”

  “I think we should get moving. Hood could be gone soon,” said David firmly.

  “I don’t know why we’re going. Can you give me one good reason?”

  “It’ll be hard enough to get work. There’s a glut of photographers in Whitby.”

  “It’s a pity that most are family businesses and won’t employ anyone outside their kin.”

  “And technically, we did not complete our four-year apprenticeships.” David shook his head and grimaced. “I was only five days short. All that time gone—and nothing to show for it!”

  “I was five weeks short,” complained John.

  “So near but yet so far.”

  “Daniel Milner might have given us some work.” John frowned. “He threw us out of his studio in a damn hurry.”

  David had sensed the old photographer was ill and in pain by his deathly pale and anguished features when they’d visited his studio three days earlier in search of work. It reminded him of Mr Jenkins’ pained expression shortly before he died. “I don’t think he meant to be rude. The only photographers we haven’t tried are Frank Meadow Sutcliffe and Byron Marsh.”

  “A distinguished photographer like Sutcliffe wouldn’t employ the likes of us.”

  David sighed and then felt a surge of determination. “I’m not going to abandon photography and go back to be a shipping clerk.”

  “And I don’t want to be a labourer,” said John.

  David saw John rubbing his fingers against the iron hand rail. “It must have been terrible to do such back breaking work.”

  “It’s much more than that. Some things happened.”

  “What happened?” asked David.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” John’s adamant tone made David glad he hadn’t commented about his friend’s hair colour matching his fiery temper.

  “Maybe Hood can put photographic assignments our way,” David said, knowing it was an act of desperation to have any dealing with such a man.

  “It’ll be very peculiar business,” said John.

  David snorted. “Not as peculiar as your sense of humour.”

  They resumed the arduous ascent. At the summit, David gazed at the towering ruins of Whitby Abbey and St Mary’s Church next to it. Below the East Cliff, white-crested waves surged through the twin piers on the harbour. The lanterns on the lighthouses at either end of the piers shone their bright, speckled, red-and-white lights as a warning to ships entering the harbour. To his left, he could see Tate Hill Pier, and a few hundred yards farther along, the swing bridge.

  Three miles to the north of Whitby, in the haze, lay the village of Sandsend. Beyond that, he could just make out the crumbing cliffs leading to Kettleness and Runswick Bay.

  Directly in front of them, the graveyard stretched out for hundreds of yards, filled with sailors, whalers, and fishermen from centuries past, their tombstones looking out over the cold North Sea. David had trouble reading the inscriptions on many of the graves, because they had eroded in the salty blasts of wind blowing in from the sea. Cliff erosion meant that some of the graves fell to the bottom of the cliffs and along the back passageways of the properties on Henrietta Street.

  Tall shadows leapt up in grotesque forms against the gloom of the afternoon. Hood’s performance would be second-rate entertainment, but at least it would be a welcome diversion from their worries.

  “I count eleven men and ten women,” said John.

  “That should be a tidy profit for him.”

  “Shall we go? I’m not interested in hearing tales about ghosts.”

  David rested his hand on a gravestone. “We’ve climbed the steps. We might as well stay for a few minutes.”

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  Chapter 5

  Thursday 23rd August 1894

  THE HEADY EXCITEMENT OF THE EVENING WAS NOW OVER FOR HOOD. He reached for his glass of whisky, taking sips rather than long gulps, and felt strangely empty inside. A tinge of melancholia always set in when he wasn’t performing.

  He picked up his two bags from the floor and placed them on the table in front of him. He opened one of the bags. His snake was asleep and did not move. He closed the bag and gently placed it on the floor. Opening the other bag, he reached inside and took out a long, thin piece of liquorice and took a bite. As he chewed, his mind returned to Jack and the snake routine.

  He would not—could not—be outwitted by Jack, but at the same time, he wondered if he might have underestimated the dimwit. Hood regarded the toothless man as an ape given human form and believed Jack would be much more comfortable walking on all fours.

  Hood hated the sight of Jack’s squashed up nose and his grin revealing red and brown tobacco-stained gums. It was as if Captain James Cook had brought back a strange beast from one of his expeditions and, for some inexplicable reason, named it Jack.

  Shortly after the navvy severed the top part of his thumb, Hood thought about killing Jack. He knew Jack had run away, letting the navvies get the upper hand in that fight. Hood would do anything for a loyal and faithful friend, but those who let him down would never get any mercy from him.

  Hood enjoyed the way he could make Jack squirm and suffer repeated bouts of humiliation. This sport was more gratifying than killing the toothless ape.

  It surprised Hood that Jack made no effort to stop him taking the cigars but put it down to the shock of seeing the snake. His stunt had received appreciative applause from those not too drunk to have observed the performance.

  Although pleased with his performance, he believed a showman of his calibre deserved better. He should be performing in front of a sober audience in the hundreds, not the handfuls of inebriated men in the tavern.

  He placed the hand in his pocket and brought out the map, giving a cursory glance at the details. He’d come across far too many such maps over the years. None were worth the paper they were written on. A few years earlier, he’d even faked a few maps and sold them to gullible visitors.

  It might be a million-to-one chance, but he couldn’t dismiss the remote possibility that it could be genuine. If it was, he would ensure that all the poor people in Whitby would live like kin
gs and queens for the rest of their days.

  He put that fanciful thought to one side, blaming the whisky, and pictured how the photograph of gormless Jack would soon be placed on the wall of The Frigate Arms. That brought a broad smile to his face. He hoped David and John would honour their promise and bring him a copy of the photograph to Lythe Castle on Saturday.

  Hood remembered Patrick Tate. One crook can always identify another. He speculated that Tate had deliberately taken long-exposure portraits to enable his assistant, covered in a white shroud, to sneak in behind the sitter. A semi-transparent image of a “ghost” would appear on the photograph as a result.

  Hood regretted not forming a partnership with Tate. Now he was going to make up for that oversight and earn more money out of the camera than Tate ever did. In his capacity as a master storyteller, Hood could embellish the camera’s so-called psychic powers.

  Tate had taken a photograph for the North Eastern Railway Company showing twenty navvies seated outside Whitby Railway Station. Hood had recognised one of the men in the photograph to be Sean O’Brien, the navvy responsible for Hood’s partially severed thumb. As luck would have it, a railway foreman had been murdered, so Hood spread the rumour that O’Brien had the shadow of a noose around his neck. It worked. O’Brien eventually swung from the gallows. Hood felt no pangs of guilt.

  Hood and Percy had murdered three men and believed their actions were totally justified, not only to himself, but to the community on the east side. He’d murdered a rapist, a police informer, and a sailor who tried to steal from him. He’d lost count of the number of men that he had injured or intimidated. The snakes came in very handy to frighten people. Also very useful was the sword that he could withdraw from within his ivory cane.

  He decided to leave the remaining half inch of whisky in his glass. It was not something he would usually do, but his preparations at Lythe Castle tomorrow morning would demand his attention into the late hours. The stakes were high, and he couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. He placed his hand on Percy’s shoulder. Percy had finished his own drink some time ago.