Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  Children marvelled at Frank’s Punch and Judy shows. Occasionally, he gave these shows purely to an adult audience. She’s seen one such show. The content was racier and introduced a number of Mr Punch’s girlfriends. The wooden puppets were all exquisitely beautiful. Lucy imagined that Frank would have had no qualms about destroying a puppet if it had the slightest imperfection.

  Lucy looked at the clock. It was a quarter past five. She needed to complete her draft article before leaving the office.

  IT WAS TEN PAST SEVEN when Lucy left the newspaper offices, but her work as a reporter hadn’t finished. She had to review a play. Lucy was tired. Once the play was over, she would return home and go to bed.

  A heavy sea fret had descended on Whitby. The foghorn sounded at the entrance to the pier to alert any vessels approaching. If she hurried, she would make it on time for the start of Catherine Gore’s play, Lords and Commons.

  She hoped the evening’s performance at the Pavilion Theatre would be a pleasant tonic after dealing with Sollett. Lucy agreed with Ruskin that “the stage was amongst the best and most necessary means of education—moral and intellectual.”

  She had read all of Gore’s novels and found her one of the wittiest writers she had ever read. It pleased her that women playwrights had been making significant strides in the theatre since the beginning of the century. She hoped in time women could make equally noteworthy strides in journalism.

  The theatre was half empty that Monday evening. She would need to make some notes in order to write a review of the play for the next edition. Since one of the actors was the untalented son of a local dignitary, she would have to be diplomatic in her review.

  After taking her seat, Lucy noticed the photographer from Lythe Castle and his friend sitting several rows in front of her. A lovely young woman with an olive complexion sat between them. A stab of jealousy pricked Lucy’s heart. The woman must be the photographer’s girlfriend.

  For the rest of the evening, she tried to enjoy the play, but her eyes kept wandering to the trio sat ahead of her. Later, the entertainment for the evening was concluding with a short lantern slide display of The Life of a Fisherman. She watched the last of the flickering lantern slides projected on the screen, as some, mainly younger people, eagerly left their seats to get to the local taverns.

  The sound of someone tapping their foot impatiently made her turn to see a prim-looking woman of about fifty years old. Lucy pulled her feet in to allow the woman access.

  The woman reminded her of Miss Grabtree, her former headmistress, and it brought dreadful thoughts of once being an assistant teacher at her private school for girls. “Smartness” was Miss Grabtree’s motto, and Lucy could hear her say, “Be dignified, girls.”

  Miss Grabtree expected Lucy’s long hair to be tightly knotted in a bun and covered by a bonnet, but Lucy hated that. The school, with its petty regulations, had made Lucy yearn for escape. She needed freedom.

  Looking down at her notebook, she tried to think of some positive comments about the execution of the play but couldn’t. She twiddled the pencil in her hand over the notebook, determined to write at least a few sentences. When words refused to materialise, she slammed the point of her pencil against the notebook, breaking the lead.

  She had failed as a teacher. Now she was struggling as a reporter.

  She sighed. Her father had offered to help her and finance a progressive women’s magazine. As much as she wanted to make her own way in the world, she thought it would only be a question of time before she took up his generous offer.

  When she looked up, she noticed the photographer, his friend, and the woman had left the theatre. She couldn’t explain it to herself, but she felt a twinge of disappointment.

  Was she a normal woman? Lucy wasn’t sure. She could be friends with men but reticent about progressing to the next stage of an intimate relationship, let alone marriage. She never had any yearnings in that department and thought she would always remain a spinster.

  She shrugged, sighed, and brushed her hand through her hair. If her work history was anything to go by, nothing is set in stone. Things were changing every day.

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  Chapter 14

  Wednesday 29th August 1894

  AT 1.30 THAT AFTERNOON Hood entered the studio with a short, thin man wearing a garish, red satin waistcoat. With them was a giant of a man who bumped his head on the doorframe as he entered. David recognised both of the men with Hood.

  Silas was the tallest man, not only in Whitby, but the entire country as far as David could tell. The thirty-year-old man was broad and muscular, and his head was large and round. He had enormous, thick lips and a nose akin to the snout of a pig. His eyes were a deep turquoise and the only part of his physical appearance that could be described as beautiful. The gentle giant was seven-feet-nine inches and was the main attraction at The House of Wonders owned by Samuel West.

  David had visited The House of Wonders only once, largely at the instigation of Mr Jenkins. West had given exaggerated illustrations to his dwarf acts, mermaids, Siamese twins, bearded ladies, and bear boys. At least West didn’t need to exaggerate about Silas’s height or put him in elevated boots. He was a genuine freak of nature.

  Mr Jenkins had told David about Silas. Until three years ago, Silas had been a farm labourer near Pickering. He had no family and worked hard for the farmer. Then, the farmer arranged for him to do boxing in Pickering Market Square and take on all comers. He placed advertisements and hoped to make a tidy profit out of Silas winning all of his matches.

  When the day came, Silas endured the punches. At one point, two men clambered into the boxing ring, carrying a large barrel. Standing on the top of the barrel, they rammed their fists repeatedly into his face. Silas never delivered a single punch in return.

  The farmer lost a lot of money. West, who had been a spectator at the fight, figured that Silas would be a perfect specimen in his House of Wonders. Having lost his job with the farmer, Silas had little choice but to go with West to Whitby. David couldn’t figure out why Silas didn’t defend himself during the fight.

  West prodded Silas’s arm. “I want a photograph taken with the infamous Tate camera. I expect to see a noose around Silas’s neck on the photograph to drum up extra custom.”

  “David and John will do it to your satisfaction, Samuel,” said Hood.

  “Don’t hang me!” pleaded Silas. He made for the door.

  “Stop!” shouted West. “You won’t be hurt, you dim idiot! We’re taking your photograph.” West paced up and down, deep in thought and then abruptly stopped. “Sally the Mermaid says she wants a photograph of you.”

  Silas smiled. “I thought Sally hated me.”

  “She will like you a lot when I give her a photograph of you,” cajoled West. “Can we take your photograph now?”

  Silas nodded eagerly.

  “Sit down in the chair, Silas,” said Hood.

  Silas complied.

  David stood, arms folded, until Hood pressed the tip of his cane against David’s shoulder blade. “Get to work.”

  David recoiled and set up the camera and the lighting tray.

  “Keep still, Silas,” said David as he opened to shutter on the camera. John aided by igniting the magnesium in the lighting tray. A second later, David closed the shutter. “It’s all done now, Silas.”

  Silas reached out his huge hand. “Give it to me!”

  “We will get it ready for you as quickly as possible, but it might not be available until tomorrow,” said John.

  Silas frowned. “I want to show it to Sally.”

  West pulled firmly on Silas’s ear.

  Silas groaned.

  “Shut up!” West said and then to Hood, “I’ll pass the photograph around my customers. Over the last two weeks, Silas has been acting out the role of being a murderer. He doesn’t like doing it, but I had to persuade him that he wouldn’t be hurting anyone.”

  “How is
business?” inquired Hood.

  “It’s a struggle to make a healthy profit, and I’m annoyed that woman reporter refused to write an article for the newspaper. She accused me of using Silas! I had to go over her head and have a friendly word with her editor. That sorted the awkward bloody madam out.”

  Hood beamed in delight and licked his lips. “I would have loved to have been there when the editor cut her down to size.”

  David tried not to look impressed at Lucy’s courage in tackling such a dubious entrepreneur as West. He remained silent, but West continued to brag.

  “I tell people that Silas is a cannibal who slaughters people and then eats them. Why have the police not caught him? Because he eats all the evidence. I tell customers that I have him on a leash at night, but he’d escaped and did terrible things.”

  David couldn’t remain silent any longer. If Lucy could stand up to this man, so could he. “I think it’s despicable.”

  Hood glared at David. “You should not make such remarks to a valued client and friend of mine.”

  “That’s alright, Hood,” West said with a sly grin. “He’s entitled to his opinion. There’s a murderer in Whitby, and some people might think it’s beneath contempt profiting from it in the Giant Man act. I went to a restaurant a few days ago, and when I returned to The House of Wonders, I saw two men scurrying away and my dog swaying at the end of a rope, flung over a lamp post. I loved that animal, but if they thought that would make me tone down my act then they’re mistaken. I gazed at the suspended body of my dog and vowed to make the Giant Man act even more sensational in his honour.”

  “Does Silas ever defend himself?” asked Hood.

  “Never.”

  Hood shook his head. “Remarkable. Even the most timid creatures will defend themselves when under attack.” He chuckled. “Not that I have any experience of this, of course.”

  West also chuckled and reached for Hood’s walking cane. “Can I borrow this?” Hood handed it over.

  West drew the cane back and smashed it firmly against Silas’s chest. Silas whimpered in pain but remained motionless in the chair. Just as West was about to strike the cane again, David grabbed West’s arm and squeezed, making the smaller man drop the cane to the floor.

  Hood retrieved his cane. His red eyelids twitched. “I humbly apologise for David’s poor manners. I will make a deduction in his wages,” he said.

  West shrugged. “That’s not necessary, Hood. I only wanted to prove a point.”

  “Why does Silas not defend himself?” Hood persisted.

  West rubbed his arm and smiled, unperturbed by the incident. “When Silas was younger, he realised his enormous strength and its devastating results when he accidentally crushed his puppy to death between his hands—”

  “Puppy,” interrupted Silas. The giant man’s eyes watered. “My Benny...”

  West stroked Silas’s arm gently. “I’ll buy you some toffee on the way back to make amends for hitting you,” he said. West looked at Hood. “When playing with a childhood friend, he sent out a gentle, half-hearted punch that killed the poor fellow. Silas wasn’t even eleven years old. These two incidents have had a profound impact on him. He made up his mind never to defend himself or display violence. I can talk up Silas’s propensity for violence, while warning that his childlike innocence and aversion was a cunning smokescreen he uses to hide the truth about his many wicked crimes.”

  “That is very astute of you,” added Hood.

  “Can I have toffee now?” asked a still-tearful Silas.

  West smiled reassuringly. “Of course, Silas. You can have as much as you want.”

  “I will walk back with you,” said Hood, and the trio left the studio.

  “You’re in trouble with Hood now,” said John when he went over to the window to check that the men were away.

  David remained impassive. “If he threatens me, I’ll tell him to find another photographer to replace me. West treats Silas like a slave.”

  “Will Hood reduce our wages?”

  David rubbed his hand on his temple to ease the throbbing pain. “Let’s not worry about that.”

  “Are the images I superimposed blurred enough?”

  David again rubbed his temples. It felt as if his head was going to explode. “Yes. You’ve done an excellent job. I doubt whether I could have done any better.”

  John smiled at the compliment. “Have you checked the original plates I did of Loach, Tyndale, and Pringle?”

  “They are generally fine.”

  John registered a puzzled expression. “Is there a problem, David?”

  “On Pringles plate, there is a tiny hair, presumably from your head, that is visible on the final print.”

  John checked the glass plate and the print. With a pair of tweezers, he removed a speck of hair from the plate, lifting it up to take a close look. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s red hair, so it must have come from me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, John. Do you remember when Mr Jenkins gave me a telling-off when the same thing happened to me?”

  “Yes. That’s why he warned us to wear our ‘bloody hats at all times.’”

  “We’ve just got to develop the plates of Sandra Clark and Silas today. Would you be able to handle those alone while I go for a swim? ”

  John frowned. “You treat me like a slave at times. I’d like to go out and see Laura.”

  “You just saw her to show her your camera!” He changed his tone. “I’m sorry. I just need to get out of here. Some fresh air and a swim should ease my headache.”

  John squirmed. “I don’t know how to get a good image of a noose around Silas’s neck. Perhaps I could take your photograph with a noose around your neck.” He chuckled. “I’d make sure the noose was very tight indeed.”

  David smiled. “I’m sure you would.” He went to the file cabinet and retrieved two files. He handed one of the files to John. “Don’t use the image Hood picked from the files. Here’s a plate of Polly Swallow who looks a lot more like Gertrude, Sandra Clarke’s sister.” David handed the second file to John. “Marsh took a few images of an open-air play, The Hangman. There’s a negative you can use showing a noose around a man’s neck.” David walked to the door of the studio. “Thanks, John. I owe you.”

  DAVID COLLECTED A TOWEL, swimming trunks, and goggles from his lodgings and placed them in a bag. He always did his best thinking while swimming. His body freed itself of depression, pain, and frustration. It was just the right tonic.

  Once at the pier, he looked over the railings. The sea was millpond smooth but that could be deceptive. A good swimmer could spot the defining moment—a change in the direction of the breeze and a few ripples—and suddenly, the sea would be alive to pounding twelve-foot rollers. David spent several minutes gazing at the sea. It remained lifeless. It had no energy. A gentle sea suited many swimmers, but held no appeal to him. It wasn’t challenging. It wasn’t threatening. There was nothing to do but wait. Until then, he observed people strolling on the pier.

  He could see Ben Updike working at the amusement arcade having an angry exchange with someone about “outsiders.” He noticed another man looking the worse for wear, probably a hangover, stagger along. A workman was removing the advertising from the entrance to the arcade, and a young woman rushed past David heading for the gift shop.

  An old tramp shuffled his way along the promenade. His clothes reeked with the strong smell of alcohol. He stopped briefly to glance at David, his eyes full of sadness and then continued.

  David descended the steps onto the sands and placed his bag by a rock. He decided to take a stroll to the south of Whitby in the general direction of Robin Hood’s Bay. He remembered Eleanor would often walk on the sands after work.

  The soft sand became coarser after about a quarter of a mile and then rocky. He looked up at the towering cliffs at the side of him. Most people wouldn’t walk any further since any fast, incoming tide would mean danger. These were some of the highest cliffs in England.
Their soft and crumbling soil made any attempt to climb them futile. Despite this, David took a gamble and continued along the rocky shore. He could hear the soft rumble of small pieces from the cliff falling onto the rocks below. He thought about turning back but decided to continue.

  As he made his way around part of the cliff, he saw a couple, waving their hands frantically in the air. He increased his pace and started running. He came to a sudden halt where a man was holding onto a sobbing female companion.

  “We were just taking a walk…,” said the man, “and then we found…” The man pulled the female to one side so David could see.

  His body began to tremble. It was Eleanor. Her face was swollen and had a greyish-blue colour. Her eyes protruded from under blackened eyelids.

  She lay awkwardly on her back, resting against the sharp rocks. The cascade of her long, blonde hair created a halo effect above her head. She wore an apple-white dress. He could see bruising on her arms and the crimson tide of blood around her neck and chest. Just inches beyond her outstretched hand were her pale yellow hat together with the mottled brown tortoiseshell comb that had fallen from her hair.

  Her eyes were exactly like the colour of the dark shadows the clouds cast on the cliffs behind her. He looked at the jagged wounds on her neck and chest and thought only a madman could have defiled such a beautiful creature. He knew she was dead but still touched her forehead gently with his hand. It was cold.

  He took a few deep breaths of the sea air as seagulls circled and squawked.

  Glancing around, the couple had their backs to him. The man was still comforting the woman who was sobbing uncontrollably. David turned to look at Eleanor’s body. She looked so delicate, just like when he first saw her at the castle. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands, forlornly hoping this was only one of his nightmares and he would soon awake to normality. He opened them a few seconds later only to witness the same scene of horror. Hot tears began to sting the back of his eyes.