Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  She brought out a bulky envelope, uneasily clambered to her feet, and walked over to the small table, placing the envelope delicately on it. She was about to open it but was distracted when she saw John take an object out of a drawer. No bankruptcy label was attached to it.

  She limped over and took the neck clamp from his hand. It looked more like an instrument of torture than a photographic instrument.

  “With the gelatin-bromide process and exposure times of one second, there’s no need to use neck clamps now,” said John.

  “My Gareth had great faith in collodion. The image quality was far superior he said.” She handed the neck clamp back to John and rummaged through the drawer until she picked up a tiny photograph. “There are still a few of these old, metallic-looking photographs in the studio, but that was long before your time.”

  “It was the Daguerre process,” said David. “I vividly remember Mr Jenkins telling me the history of photography. The hidden image is developed by vapour of mercury heated over a spirit lamp.”

  She nodded appreciatively at David, proud of her husband’s masterful training of such fine lads. She returned the photograph and picked up another one. She looked at it intently, holding it gently within her swollen and painful hand. She cleared her throat. “My husband used this process briefly before he went on to the albumen on glass method. The ingredient of importance here was something every housewife would have in her kitchen…”

  “The white of an egg,” David supplied.

  “I can see that my husband did an excellent job,” she said and smiled at David.

  “We could not have found anyone else matching his skill and patience as an instructor.”

  “The years come and go so quickly...” she whispered, wiping her moist eyes with her fingers. “Life is precious but so fleeting...” She shrugged her shoulders, regaining her composure. The photographs had brought back old memories, but it was unusual for her to cry. She didn’t even cry at her husband’s funeral, knowing that it would be what her husband wanted.

  Her husband’s favourite plate camera was a few feet away from her. She went over and wiped away the dust but stopped abruptly. “Come! Look at this and tell me what you see.”

  David and John inspected the surface of the camera. “Dust,” said David, and John nodded in agreement.

  “Does it not show the profile of my dear husband? Is it not his way of communicating with me?”

  David took a closer inspection and then shook his head. “It shows that you’re in grief over the loss of your husband. That’s why you are clutching to primitive and unscientific belief in the supernatural.”

  Her lower lip quivered. “You are young, David Taylor, and still have a great deal to learn. All of this so-called modern and scientific thinking cannot explain all the mysteries of the world. I’ve been attending a Spiritualist church for a few years now. The issue of human survival after death has always been something of great interest to me. I was sceptical at first, but slowly, I began to understand it was possible.”

  “There’s no rational or scientific basis for this,” said David.

  “The Fox sisters in New York were in regular contact with the dead,” she argued.

  “How could they be sure that they were in contact with the dead?”

  “They hear strange rapping noises in their house.”

  David smirked. “I hear that sound nearly every night where I’m lodging. There’s a perfectly simple scientific explanation. For example, it could be something to do with atmospheric changes affecting the pressure of water in the pipes.”

  “Or the sound of subsidence,” added John sarcastically.

  “The Fox sisters had a code, so they could rap back questions to the ghosts who haunted the house,” explained Mrs Jenkins, “and the ghosts rapped answers back to them.”

  “It all sounds a bit fishy to me,” said David.

  “They held séances and were in frequent contact with the dead. I went to a séance in London last year. The medium went into a trance and spoke in the voices of spirits who have a message for the living,” she stated emphatically.

  David grinned.

  She levelled a hard gaze onto David. “You’re supposed to be an open-minded and rational man. You don’t know anything about these matters. It’s about time you got rid of that silly smirk! You should open your eyes!”

  “I know superstitious belief must give comfort to the bereaved,” David said, “but the truth is more important.”

  Mrs Jenkins’ limbs suddenly felt heavy and throbbing pains racked her body. She reached for the stool by the safe and dragged it over to the table. Sitting down, she reached for the bulky envelope. She didn’t want any further procrastination. She removed a photographic plate from the envelope. “I asked you to take a photograph of my husband with Patrick Tate’s camera on 10th August...the day of our silver wedding anniversary. I want the plate developed.”

  “Are you sure?” asked David. “He was in a great deal of pain and died minutes after I took the photograph.”

  “I am. In fact, I’m completely certain.”

  John stepped forward. “Wouldn’t it be better to remember your husband when he was a healthier man? You have plenty of photographs showing him happy and smiling.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t we understand?” asked David.

  She gestured for them to sit. The lads picked up stools and sat at the table with her. “David, It was my idea you should have Patrick Tate’s camera for your birthday present. You’d only had the camera for three days when I insisted on you taking the photograph during the final minutes of my husband’s life. I had to make sure that there is an afterlife...I just had to…I need to know if heaven was about to receive him.”

  “I’m shocked that Mr Jenkins would have Patrick Tate’s camera. He didn’t believe in the paranormal.”

  “He was in a confused state and didn’t realise you were being given Patrick’s camera.”

  “How did you come to get the camera?” David asked.

  “A few years ago, Patrick became very ill and Byron Marsh bought his studio. I regularly went to Patrick’s house while other people turned their backs on him. He’d had several people visiting him purely to get their hands on his camera, but he didn’t like the look of them. He trusted me and gave me two journals—and his camera. His mental condition was fast deteriorating. It was only a question of time before he would be committed to the asylum. He said he was confident that I would know what to do with everything when the time was right.”

  “Did Mr Jenkins know about this?”

  “I never mentioned it to my husband. He despised spirit photography.”

  “He was right. Spirit photography has a murky reputation,” said David.

  She folded her arms over her chest defiantly. “You don’t know anything about spirit photography. The truth is that you are woefully ignorant on the subject.”

  “Mr Jenkins was an excellent teacher,” said David.

  She unfolded her arms and calmed herself. “I don’t doubt that he was, at least on any matter relating to traditional aspects of photography. But do you know anything about William Mumler?”

  David shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I think he was charged with fraud.”

  She wagged a finger. “You think you are knowledgeable about photography, but you don’t know a thing about this wonderful photographer from America. Even the judge who wanted to expose Mumler became completely convinced. William Black, a top photographer, investigated him and proved Mumler was totally genuine.”

  “A double exposure can cause these supposedly ghostly images to occur. John and I have seen plenty of them over the last few years.”

  “You’re only young, so what do you know?” she snapped. “William Black looked at Mumler’s camera very carefully before he had his picture taken. Then, he checked out everything in the darkroom and was astounded to see the ghost-like image of a man leaning over
his shoulder.”

  “In a few weeks, you will have forgotten about all of this,” insisted David.

  “I will not.”

  “Tate was nothing more than a charlatan,” scoffed John.

  “It’s a pity that Tate was never exposed in the courts for being a fake,” said David. “He got people to sit motionless for several seconds as the camera shutter remained open while his assistant, dressed in a flowing robe or cloak, would sneak into the scene behind the subject for a second or two and then leave. When the picture was developed, a semi-transparent apparition would appear.”

  “He was sure all the photographs he’d taken with his handmade camera were completely genuine,” argued Mrs Jenkins.

  “You can’t be sure that he was telling you the truth,” David replied.

  She took in a deep breath and, with more than a hint of smugness, said, “I can. I spoke with him in July this year.”

  “Isn’t he locked up in that lunatic asylum in Danby?” asked John.

  “Yes. I visited him there and have no doubt he was telling me the truth.”

  “But he must have lost his mind and can’t distinguish truth from lies any longer,” David argued.

  “He has lucid intervals,” she stated firmly. “Fortunately, I caught him on one of his better days. Patrick admitted to greed and faking his earlier photographs but always insisted that when he made that particular camera—the one you now own, David—everything was genuine after that.”

  “But he’s insane!” cried David. “You can’t believe a word he says.”

  She slapped her hand on the table but did not wince from the pain it caused her. “He admitted to his shame and guilt, but I believe him when he says that there is something very special about that camera.”

  David gave a dismissive shrug. “It’s not scientific or rational. It is only wood, glass, and brass, just like thousands of other cameras.”

  “I’m sure it’s very special.”

  “In what way?” queried David.

  Her eyes twinkled. “Patrick was a sceptic to begin with, much like you. After his wife died, he was ill and couldn’t work for several weeks. To pass the time, he decided to examine hundreds of his photographs when he started to notice something. With the aid of a magnifying glass, he started to see a pattern. Dots, shadows, and shapes appeared. These were ghosts—dead friends and relatives—on the photographs.”

  “This was with my camera?”

  “No. Factory-made cameras. He also examined other photographer’s prints.”

  David scratched his head. “So what you’re suggesting is that all cameras can reveal psychic phenomena?”

  “Yes. But the images are not clear enough to convince many people. Patrick showed some photographs to my husband. Gareth was unimpressed, to put it bluntly. Patrick was unhappy with factory-made cameras and set about making a camera that would conclusively reveal psychic phenomena, even to sceptics, like Gareth. Then he made…” She pointed at David. “Your camera.”

  “Granted, it’s a beautifully crafted camera, but it’s not a magic camera.”

  Mrs Jenkins ignored David. “Either by a fluke of nature or sheer hard work, Patrick had found another Holy Grail…A camera that reveals the mysteries of another world to us.”

  David shook his head. “I have taken photographs of trees and found an image of a face appearing on the trunk. But this is a simulacrum, the human habit of looking for the familiar in the unfamiliar—like you did when looking at the dust on Mr Jenkins’ camera. In the end, it’s just an illusion.”

  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.