Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  “Put the journal away for now,” David said. John looked crestfallen, so David quickly added, “That is certainly thought-provoking information, John, but my headache is getting worse. I really must go. I’ll make up a batch of plates later.”

  “Make sure you follow Tate’s chemical formula in the journal. It’s on the back few pages.”

  David nodded. “I will.”

  John studied his friend with a look of concern. “Go. I’ll lock up here.”

  “Thanks, John. I’ll get the drinks in the next time we’re at The Queen’s Head.” And with that, David left the studio.

  Chapter 21

  Sunday 2nd September 1894

  DAVID ADJUSTED THE SHOULDER STRAP of the case containing his camera. He’d thought of going to Scarborough for the day but decided to stay in Whitby and search for scenes to photograph.

  He guessed that John would be meeting Laura today. Was he envious of their friendship? He had to admit that was probably true. A pleasant stroll with a pretty, young woman wouldn’t go amiss. He thought of Lucy Shaw and then shook his head. He had no time for romance with his career at stake.

  He reached Argument’s Yard and took out his camera. Two ragged and dirty-faced young girls sat on the steps playing with dolls equally ragged and dirty. One of the dolls had an arm missing.

  Thirteen uneven and broken steps lead to the narrow passage into Church Street. To the right of the girls, there was a house with nearly all the panes of glass smashed or broken. He looked up at the roof and saw most of the tiles lost or damaged. The girls’ attention was now on his camera. One of the girls combed her greasy, matted locks with her fingers, wiped her mouth with her arm and smiled, revealing two missing front teeth.

  The sun’s rays then lit up the yard. It would have been an easy image to take with the gelatin-bromide technique with a one-second exposure, but now that he was using the collodion process, it would require a lengthier exposure.

  “Keep still,” David said to the girls with a smile. He opened the shutter and closed it four seconds later. He waved, and they instantly forgot about the camera and resumed playing with their dolls once more.

  David considered sending the print to Whitby Town Council to illustrate the need for urgent repairs to improve the lives of its inhabitants. This was the assignment he should be covering. He liked the idea of being a photographer for a crusading newspaper.

  In Hull, David had frequently argued with his father about the plight of the poor. Oliver Taylor had come from a disadvantaged background but had risen to be the joint owner of a thriving abattoir business. Yet, Oliver firmly believed that if the poor remained that way, it was their own damn fault.

  The girls moved to one side so David could climb the steps. He walked through the dark passageway until he came out onto Church Street. He turned left and continued until he reached the bottom of the 199 Steps.

  Looking at the steep flight of stone steps, he could see the coffin rests on the railings every few yards that enabled funeral processions to pause on their way up to the summit and the church.

  People were wearing their Sunday best. The women’s white bonnets were pristine, without a spot or blemish. The men’s collars and ties were equally immaculate.

  To the right of the 199 Steps was the King’s Highway, but all the locals referred to it as Donkey Road. It climbed steeply parallel to the steps. A donkey ascended carrying milk churns. Its owner impatiently tugged the reins and cursed the animal. A lady descending the 199 Steps stopped and leant over the railing, giving a stern glance at the man. She tapped a forefinger lightly over her lips. The man nodded apologetically and removed his cap. The woman then continued her descent and man and donkey quietly continued their ascent.

  David looked up. The sun was strong, making the lighting conditions near perfect. He placed a new plate in his camera. Two people were motionless on the steps, deep in conversation. He opened the shutter and closed it four seconds later.

  Since the light was so good, he wanted to take full advantage of it. The ideal place for the next picture would be on the west pier.

  He headed to the pier and became both nervous and excited when he saw Lucy standing a few feet away from the railings, gazing intently at the view. She held a sketchbook and pencil in her hand. Although he hadn’t seen her since the performance at Lythe Castle, she was easy to spot, even at a distance of thirty yards. She had no bonnet, and the breeze tossed her hair.

  As he drew closer, a sudden gust of wind blew the sketchpad from her hand and was in imminent danger of falling into the sea.

  David managed to reach for it and rescued the sketchpad with not a moment to lose. It was a sign of divine providence he concluded and then corrected himself; it was a statistically rare but fortunate event.

  “Thank you...I am very grateful.”

  “I was just in the right place at the right time.” He smiled at her. “Can I look at your drawing?” he asked, still slightly breathless from his exertion.

  “Yes,” she said turning the sketchpad in his direction. He tried to concentrate on the drawing when what he wanted to do was gaze into her eyes. He kept glancing at the drawing and then at Lucy. The breeze tossed her hair in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic, manner.

  “I like your drawing of the harbour,” he said.

  “I have difficulty drawing boats and getting the perspective right.” She pointed at the bag containing his camera. “You could take a photograph of the same scene and it would be much more accurate.”

  David held his hand on the corner of the sketchpad. Her fingers were only inches away. “I don’t think it would be as good as your sketch.” He cleared his throat. “My name is David Taylor.”

  She hesitated. “Lucy Shaw. Please excuse my bad manners at Lythe Castle the other day. It’s not only my sketchpad you rescued. You rescued me from serious injury—or worse.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said David. He was going to say more when a green satin-bonneted woman walked over to join Lucy.

  David nodded respectfully at the woman. She appeared uncomfortable and fidgeted nervously and did not look him in the eye. Instead, she rudely prodded Lucy’s arm. “Let’s go back to your place, Lucy,” she said.

  “David, this is my cousin Linda Barnes who is visiting for a few days from Manchester.”

  “We really should return now,” urged Linda, who pointedly ignored David.

  “But the weather is still unusually fine for Whitby,” said Lucy.

  Linda frowned. “I must be an idiot coming to Whitby after hearing about those dreadful murders.”

  “Don’t get upset,” soothed Lucy. “You will be perfectly safe.”

  “I can’t help it,” said Linda as she backed up against the railings on the pier. She accidentally dropped her handbag spilling a purse, a comb, and a set of keys.

  “Is it your first visit to Whitby?” asked David. He tried to pick up the items, but Linda was already kneeling down.

  “And my last,” she barked. She rose with her belongings in her hand.

  Suddenly, David was shoved aside. He turned to see who was being so rude, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. The man looked worse for wear since the last time he saw him at The Frigate Arms. He was filthy and gaunt and his clothes were tattered.

  “Can you give me few shillings to feed me starving belly?” Jack Sheldon begged.

  “Leave me alone,” snapped Linda.

  “Spare a few shillings?” demanded Jack. Linda stubbornly remained rooted to the spot. Then Jack made a grab for her purse but missed as she turned her body away from him. He grabbed her arm.

  “Remove your hand at once!” she screamed. “Get away, you horrid man!”

  David darted in between Jack and Linda to push him away, but Jack swept his hand to one side and kneed him hard in the stomach. David collapsed.

  He clambered to his feet just as Jack snatched the purse and turned to run away. David stuck out his foot and tripped Jack, sending the toothless man crashing to
the ground. The purse fell some feet away. Clutching his stomach, David sped forward and scooped up the purse and bought it back to Linda leaving Jack to pick himself up and run off empty handed.

  Linda sobbed. Lucy put her arms around her cousin. “Are you alright?” she asked David. “Did he break any of your ribs?”

  “I will be fine,” he wheezed.

  Lucy continued to comfort Linda. “We can go to the police and get this man arrested.”

  “Would I have to stay longer in Whitby and give evidence?” moaned Linda sourly.

  “Yes, probably, but no more than a few days. I can do a drawing of him for the chief constable.”

  “I can do better than that,” said David, wanting to be helpful. “I can let you have a photograph of the man. Hood could give you more details.”

  Lucy frowned. “Hood would not betray a fellow villain. I wouldn’t ask for his help if my life depended on it. I’m surprised you would even suggest it.”

  David recoiled at the rebuke. Linda brushed away her cousin’s arm and folded her arms defiantly. “I’m getting the first train home in the morning. If you want to get him arrested, you’ll have to do it all yourself.”

  “Nothing can happen unless you testify,” Lucy explained.

  “You can forget about it, then. If the police ask me anything, I’ll deny ever seeing that man. I got my purse back in the end.”

  “Let’s go back to the house and talk about this,” said Lucy.

  “No. I’m going back to Manchester the first thing.” She started to walk away.

  “Wait and I will walk with you,” Lucy called.

  “Leave me alone!”

  David and Lucy watched helplessly as Linda bustled away down the promenade. Lucy frowned. “Linda can be moody. It’s usually best to leave her alone for a while.”

  “Do you want me to follow her and make sure she’s alright?”

  “That is kind of you, David, but I don’t think you could manage that after your injury. Anyway, it might only make matters worse.” Lucy sighed. “I have made a poor show of giving my cousin a well-earned break. That seems to sum up my life.”

  “Aren’t you being too hard on yourself?” soothed David. “I imagine that journalists must be highly qualified. You must take a great deal of pride in that.”

  Lucy shrugged. “I was pleased to obtain a degree in English at Sheffield University.”

  “That is a great achievement, and more so for a woman.” David, even though he prided himself of his intelligence, didn’t have a degree. Normally, he would have been quite jealous of anyone possessing such an award. Curiously, he wasn’t envious of Lucy. He was proud of her. It also made him suspect that his lack of education would not appeal to her.

  “I did not last long as an assistant school teacher, and my career as a journalist at The Whitby Herald could be over in a matter of months...or even weeks.”

  David smiled weakly. “My career as a spirit photographer will be over in a matter of days. I’m trying to find work as a respectable photographer, probably overseas. If that fails, I may have to return to be a shipping clerk.”

  “Hood keeps people close to him in a vice-like grip. That’s what Frank Hawk believes.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m leaving Whitby.”

  “Will you be happier when you leave?”

  David clutched at his bruised stomach. “It will feel good to find honourable work, but there are things...and people...I will miss.”

  He looked into her eyes. He understood nothing about the subtleties of romance, but it didn’t stop him thinking that Lucy might be sad when he left Whitby. She smiled and a blush spread to her cheeks. She placed her hand lightly on his arm. Her touch was a pleasant sensation.

  “Are you sure that ruffian has not badly injured you?”

  “I will be fine in the morning.”

  “Hmmm...I will come and see you in the afternoon to make sure. Where will you be?”

  “The Byron Marsh studio, next to Morton’s Chemist.”

  Lucy nodded and glanced over her shoulder to look down the promenade. “Linda will be calmer now. I should go to her.” She gave him a gentle smile and walked away.

  He continued to watch her until she had disappeared from view.

  Slowly, he made his way to the bandstand at the entrance to the pier and sat on a bench. He clutched his stomach, hoping he didn’t have any cracked ribs.

  He let his mind wander with images of Lucy and her long, blonde hair blowing unfettered in the breeze until he shook himself from his reverie. He was being hypocritical. If he expected John to put aside his feelings for Laura and concentrate on getting away from Whitby, he must do the same about Lucy.

  He reached in his pocket for his diary and opened it where he marked in bold writing: 5PM 13TH SEPTEMBER. In less than two weeks, his world would be different. He would have a new life as a respectable photographer, perhaps working for a newspaper or magazine. He could go to America or Canada, but he would keep to this deadline no matter what.

  He realised Sunday was no day of rest when he saw Hood approach, waving his cane and appearing agitated.

  “Len Tanner should be dismissed from his post! The buffoon has wasted valuable time in interviewing me three times already—the most recent being today! He has a bee in his bonnet that the murderer is a regular in either The Frigate Arms or The Raffled Anchor Inn.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Our esteemed chief constable said ‘All the vermin live over the bridge in East Whitby—that’s where the murderer lives. I’d wager a month’s wages that the murderer is a regular in either The Raffled Anchor Inn or The Frigate Arms.’ He has made the same remark to a number of other men living on the east side of Whitby.”

  “But Drexel at The Queen’s Head said the Ouija board used by the tavern landlords claimed the murderer was a regular at his tavern.”

  “Drexel also thinks the landlords did it deliberately. Besides, that is a respectable tavern. Even one of Tanner’s officers drinks in there from time to time.” Hood smiled. “Melvin was impressed when I told him you worked for me. With his help, we have had an emergency meeting. The Raffled Anchor Inn and The Frigate have made an alliance—temporary, of course. The chief constable will not treat us like vermin!” Hood spat on the ground.

  “But what can you do?”

  “Chief Constable Tanner has gone too far. He is looking for a scapegoat, but we will teach him a lesson. Furthermore, Melvin and I have private scores to settle with Tanner. Because of that odious creature in a uniform, my best friend Tommy Young was hung. We will get him kicked out of the police force or to resign in shame. I owe Tommy that at least.”

  “But Tanner might catch the murderer soon and get praise for doing a grand job.”

  “That idiot is incapable of catching a cold let alone a killer.”

  “You claim to be a psychic. Don’t you know who the murderer is by now?”

  Hood shook his head and waved his cane dismissively. “Some of my customers keep asking me the same question. All I can tell them is that I am doing my very best. The spirits don’t perform on command.”

  Unless they’re hauled by a hoist, David thought but said, “What lesson are you going to teach Tanner?”

  “I will let you know when I am good and ready.”

  David grimaced.“On another subject...I’ve just seen Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes. He tried to steal from a woman. I intervened and got a knee in the stomach for my trouble.”

  “Ha! The man is a coward. You have little to fear from him.”

  David massaged his stomach. “I don’t think you would have said that if it had been you.”

  “Jack is an annoying flea, no more than that.”

  “But he’s a strong man and not a flea.”

  “Stop being such a sulky child, David! Your injury could have been far worse!” Hood held up his severed thumb in example. “Now, I must attend to some important business.” He g
lanced up to the East Cliff and the abbey, tapped his cane sharply on the ground, and walked away.

  JACK WAS PANTING FOR BREATH as he progressed up the long road leading up to the Mulgrave Estate. He had to get away from Whitby and hide until nightfall. It annoyed him not being able to steal the purse from the woman on the pier. Since losing his job, he was always hungry. But he had to return to keep a close eye on the abbey. He was sure that Hood would be there searching for the diamonds.

  He reached the crest of a hill and paused for a few minutes to catch his breath. The track petered out at the wall surrounding the estate. Beneath him lay the village of Sandsend, its beach sparkling in the hazy rays of the sun.

  In the distance, he could just about make out the ruins of the seven- hundred-year-old Mulgrave Castle and proceeded in its direction. Wild flowers, shimmering like a carpet of jewels, surrounded a clump of trees. Above him, a heron circled gracefully. He carried on walking, crushing the wild flowers under his feet.

  The soft ground was broken at intervals by a scattering of moss-covered stones that had fallen from the once-great castle. Curling branches of beech and oak trees framed the ruin in a spidery web. The leaves of the trees had every shade of green, from light and pale to a vivid, darker colour. The only sound was the rustling of a squirrel in the undergrowth and a solitary bird in one of the trees.

  Suddenly, he came across a young boy carrying a sack over his shoulders.

  He grabbed the boy and dragged him to the ground. “Keep quiet,” Jack whispered. “Owner will be bloody furious if he catches me here.”

  As if on cue, Jack saw a man dismounting from his horse by the front doorway of the ruined castle through the dense foliage of the bushes. The man took a swig from his hip flask, mounted his white horse, and galloped away.

  Jack let go of the boy, and they came out from behind the bushes. “That was a ruddy close call,” said Jack. “What’s in sack?”

  “Food. I run errands for Mrs Dillon’s shop.”

  Jack snatched the sack and emptied its contents on the ground. There were three pork pies, one bread bun, and tripe in a bag. He rammed a pork pie in his mouth and devoured it, followed by the other two pies, the bread bun, and finally the tripe, scattering crumbs and fragments on the ground.