Ghostly Images

by Peter Townsend

  “Tanner is a fool.”

  Betty shook her head. “He’s a sly one.”

  “I am grateful for your concern, but now, we must leave you to be alone with Rufus during these last precious minutes—or hours—that you have together. I am sorry you do not have my psychic powers, but I can see two angels above him and a radiant light. They will be escorting him home very soon.” He sighed. “It is truly a magnificent sight to see the presence of an angel.”

  The old woman’s eyes glazed over. “You’re wrong, Hood, about one thing.”

  “What is that, Betty?”

  “I’ve seen an angel, and so have countless others in Whitby…That angel is you.”

  David tried not to let his jaw drop in disbelief and looked incredulously at Hood who had raised his cane to cover his face in a show of modesty. He could imagine that if Hood’s tear ducts had been working, there would have been drops cascading freely. As much as David was terrified of Hood, at this moment in time, he felt no antagonism towards him, only an inexplicable sense of compassion and understanding concerning his good deed for the old lady.

  When they exited the house, David breathed a huge sigh of relief. Hood left them without saying anything, so they decided to walk to the harbour. The fresh air was a welcome tonic as he sat with John on a bench.

  The pitiable image of the dying man had given David a fright. He looked across at John. He was shivering, and David didn’t think it had anything to do with the chilly sea breeze.

  “I won’t sleep tonight,” mumbled John. “It might be my turn to start having nightmares.”

  “I don’t have nightmares.” replied David defensively.

  “That’s not what Mrs Jenkins says.”

  David forced a smile, wanting to put what had occurred in that grotty, stinking house into perspective. “Respectable photographers took photographs of the dead and dying. Mr Jenkins did it.”

  “We never went with him on any of those assignments.”

  “But he told us all the details, if you recall?”

  John shrugged. “I can’t remember much about that wretched business.”

  “The dead person is carefully posed on the bed. The body would be cleaned and washed and dressed in their best Sunday clothes, their hair tidy. Family and friends would come and pay a final visit to the deceased.”

  David looked out at the sea and remembered his former employer.

  “Even Mr Jenkins, the most honourable of photographers, resorted to the full tricks of the trade to get the best possible expression on the dead person’s face. The arms and hands are placed on top of the cover, as if they were simply asleep—”

  “There’s a big difference between that and what we’ve just done back in that house,” John argued. “It makes me feel sick inside.” He took in a deep intake of sea air. “And what do you make of Hood’s view of Frank?”

  “I don’t believe a single word.”

  “Me neither.”

  David checked his pocket watch and nudged John’s arm, and with that, they returned to the studio.

  THE REST OF THE MORNING WAS BUSY, but between 2.15 and 3.15, they had no appointments, so they returned to the harbour to take a break. David studied the rays of the afternoon sunshine on the fishing boats in the harbour.

  “The light isn’t ideal. Had I been here a bit earlier, this would have been a perfect photograph.”

  John suddenly nudged David’s arm and pointed down Pier Road. “Frank Meadow Sutcliffe is over there! Perhaps we can ask him for a chance of employment. What do you think?”

  “Heads or tails?” said David.

  “Heads you ask Sutcliffe. Tails, I’ll do it.”

  David took out a penny and tossed the coin. Tails.

  John squared his shoulders and they walked over to the tall, bearded photographer with his large-format camera. After introductions, John presented the question.

  Sutcliffe smiled at them but said he had no vacancies for them. “It can be difficult getting started as a photographer. Sometimes you have to do any work to survive in the early years,” he said.

  Those words struck David like a bolt of lightning. Now, he didn’t feel so bad. He would have to do whatever was necessary—at least in the short term—even working for a crooked character like Hood.

  David admired Sutcliffe for his elevation of photography into an art form, to emulate the great painters. His fame had spread around the world. Sutcliffe had been a member of the Photographic Society but had grown tired of its heavy reliance on technique and left it to become a founding member of the Linked Ring Brotherhood. David had a question he wanted to put to Sutcliffe.

  “What is your opinion on spirit photography, Mr Sutcliffe? Is it wrong?”

  Sutcliffe checked his photographic equipment. “Everyone must form his own opinion,” he responded diplomatically.

  “What is your view?” asked David cautiously.

  “I would not do this work.” The photographer stroked his ear lobe and recalled something. “But I took a photograph of a young girl only last week and discovered a figure in a white cloak behind her head. There will be a perfectly logical explanation, of course—”

  “Drying marks forming the shape or an unintended double exposure,” David interrupted.

  “That is certainly a worthy explanation. In my long career as a photographer, there are a number of simulacra, or miracle images, that have a perfectly logical explanation.”

  “Even if the spirit photograph is a fake, it might bring comfort to a friend or relative,” said David.

  Sutcliffe smiled awkwardly. He glanced at a small boy a few yards away who held a kaleidoscope. “The photographer sees the world as a child sees the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope,” he said. “All forms of photography can be attacked by some people.”

  “But not what you do, surely?” asks David.

  “I’ve used techniques such as softening and diffusing parts of a picture, but your late employer was critical of me, saying I was using unnecessary artistic tricks.”

  David was disappointed, but not surprised, that Mr Jenkins was so critical of such a talent. “I’ve always greatly admired your work, Mr Sutcliffe.”

  “So have I,” added John.

  Sutcliffe smiled. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I must be on my way. Don’t give up hope, lads.” He lifted his camera and tripod.

  “Even if I made very little money, I’d love to do what Sutcliffe does,” said John wistfully as they watched the photographer stride away.

  They continued walking down along the harbour and could hear the shouts from the newspaper vendors near the swing bridge. Getting closer, they caught a glimpse of the poster next to a vendor: POLICE WITHHOLD IDENTITY OF THE THIRD VICTIM OF THE WHITBY RIPPER.

  David’s stomach churned.

  THE FINAL ASSIGNMENT of the day took them to the bottom of the 199 Steps later that evening.

  A beady-eyed, middle-aged man had been waiting patiently for them to arrive. He pointed to the steps. “For the last few nights, at eight in the evening, a phantom spirit comes down the steps to attack me,” he explained. “It’s dressed in a long black cape with a hood that covers his puss.”

  “It might just be a workman or a clergyman,” reasoned David.

  “They don’t have a huge sword in their hands and swing it from side to side!” insisted the man.

  “It sounds very sinister, Mr Hogg,” said Hood sombrely.

  “I’m sure it wanted to kill me. I run away when I see it and take the long route to top of cliffs and coastguard station where I work. I wasn’t sure whether I was beginning to lose my mind and want a photograph to prove the phantom exists.”

  Hood reached out his hand. “That will be two pounds fifteen shillings as agreed, Mr Hogg.”

  “I have to get to work. I can’t wait for it to arrive,” said the coastguard officer, thrusting the money in Hood’s hand. “I’ll collect the photograph tomorrow.” He scurried away a few minutes before eight o’ clock.


  David and John quickly fixed their cameras on tripods. They didn’t expect to see any phantom, but a few minutes later, a cloaked figure slowly descended the steps. It carried a sword in its right hand. Every few steps it would swing the weapon from one side to the other.

  David’s hand rested on the shutter. He glanced across and saw that John’s fingers were trembling on the side of his new camera. There was nobody else around, and the gas lamps at the side of the steps gave the place an eerie glow.

  They hadn’t brought the lighting trays, and because of the dim lighting, David calculated that it would need at least a lengthy exposure of twelve seconds, with no certainty of success. John was more fortunate. He was using the gelatin-bromide process and could rely on a shorter exposure of one or two seconds.

  When the figure was about fifteen yards away, and about a yard from a gas lamp, it stopped moving. Hood gave a hand signal to David and John to take the exposure. After the exposure had been taken, the figure turned and slowly ascended the steps.

  “Astonishing!” John whispered. “A phantom spirit!”

  Hood puffed on his pipe and nodded. “Phantom Percy, more like.” He burst out laughing at John and David’s chagrin. “Good friends of Mr Hogg have hired us to play a series of practical jokes on him before his birthday.”

  Suddenly, out of the darkness, a man came up to Hood making John and David jump. The man whispered something in Hood’s ear and quickly dashed off again. Hood pointed his cane towards Henrietta Street, his expression impassive.

  “My associate has just informed me that the third victim of The Whitby Ripper lived a few hundred yards away from here…Her name is Rachel Varley.”

  Demo version limitation, this page not show up.

  Chapter 26

  Thursday 6th September 1894

  LEN TANNER HAD HIS FEET UP ON HIS DESK IN THE POLICE STATION. In his hands, he held a mug of tea. Normally, he would have been in the Pier Café for his afternoon cuppa, but the public were increasingly irate with him.

  The police station’s tea didn’t taste as good as that in the Pier Café, but at least he could drink it in peace. But the café’s apple pie was the finest in Whitby. He knew that staying away from the café would have at least one positive outcome. It could arrest his ever-expanding waistline.

  Len put his feet on the floor and glanced at the correspondence. A letter from The Whitby Teetotal Society expressed their displeasure at the police’s inability to curb the perils of drinking.

  Next was a letter from a firm specialising in pyrotechnic displays. Whitby Town Council wanted something special to mark the New Year celebrations with giant bonfires and fireworks. With the murderer still on the loose, the last thing he wanted was a celebration of any kind.

  There was a petition signed by more than a hundred local people demanding that the police apprehend the murderer without any further delay. Some signatures were from hoteliers suffering from cancellations, especially from women. And he was aware of another petition circulating in East Whitby calling for his dismissal.

  Len rested his feet on his desk again and mulled over the three murders and the possible suspects, as he sipped his tea. He closed his eyelids and his nostrils drew in the tobacco-polluted air of the police station.

  That morning he had made further inquiries at the library about Rachel Varley. Judith Bates, Rachel’s friend and colleague, claimed that Rachel had taken a keen interest in David Taylor. Len thought that this needed further investigation. On his way to the studio to interview Taylor, he had suddenly stopped walking. Something kept nagging at the back of his mind. He decided to visit Mrs Jenkins, instead.

  Under tough questioning, Mrs Jenkins admitted to Elizabeth Betts’ coming into the studio and the argument about her photograph. Mrs Jenkins claimed she had accidentally knocked Betts to the ground when trying to calm her, and when John Evans tried to help Betts to her feet, she bit him.

  Len had Mrs Jenkins in tears by the time he left her house. His wife would have been ashamed of him had she witnessed his treatment of the old woman. He had been far too abrasive and could have got the same information by gentle probing. Len thought about going round later and apologising to her but thought better of it. It might only upset the woman even further.

  He visited the photographic studio next, but there was no sign of Taylor or Evans. He checked his notebook for the address of Taylor’s lodgings, gambling that he might find him there. He was in luck. Taylor was in his dressing gown. His hair was dishevelled and there was stubble on his chin. He made Evans wait outside. Taylor was matter of fact in his manner and claimed that he had only seen Rachel Varley once at the library for technical assistance.

  When the young man thought the interview had ended, Len brought up the matter of Elizabeth Betts and his glaring failure to tell the police anything about his photograph of her.

  Taylor rubbed his head and, once again, claimed to have met Betts only once when he took her photograph at the studio. He made light of the incident inside the studio when Betts became upset. Perhaps Taylor had led her on, only to cruelly disappoint her. He reminded Taylor that he was a suspect.

  He made Taylor wait outside the room while he interviewed Evans. He inspected the bite marks on the red-haired man’s hand. They were ugly, battered, and scarred. Possibly the hands of a killer. Had Evans assisted Taylor in these murders? Evans was not at all forthcoming and nervously bit his nails during the course of the interview. Len regarded Evans as a suspect too.

  Not for the first time, Len believed that Taylor and Evans had forfeited the right to be treated as respectable citizens the minute they began associating with Hood.

  His tea was going cold. He sipped the remains from his mug. He had to consider other suspects, including Hood.

  Rosie Marr, a flower seller, witnessed Rachel Varley speak to Hood. Marr was protective of Hood when questioned, but what else could he expect of a dollymop from the east side? According to Marr, Hood and Varley had an innocent chat about flowers.

  Len was glad to have more helpful witness to Varley’s encounter with Hood. According to Jake Little, the owner of Morton’s Chemists, Varley had rebuked Hood, in no uncertain terms, about stealing books from the library. Consequently, Hood had a motive to kill her. Len couldn’t find any link between Betts and Hood, but in time hoped to discover something. There was also Hood’s motive for killing Eleanor, particularly since she did some work for him. Was she trying to blackmail Hood? She was in a position to discover some of Hood’s dirty secrets.

  Len had heard further reports of Ben Updike’s venomous hatred of outsiders and had gone to see him at the amusement arcade. When Len approached, Updike was sitting outside using his knife to prize open a tin of meat. Len had never witnessed anyone opening a tin like that before. It was akin to a frenzied attack. Updike launched numerous stabling blows, leaving beef splattered on the ground beside him. He couldn’t rule out Updike as a suspect, particularly as the three murdered woman were all “outsiders.”

  His stomach rumbled. On his desk were some scones his wife had baked for him. He took one and nibbled tentatively, frowned, and tossed the scone into the bin at the side of his desk.

  He loved his wife dearly but that love did not extend to her scones. Isabella was a kind and sensitive woman and badly hurt by the cruel comments she’d hear about him whenever she went out of the house. It had been over a week since she had last been out. She desperately wanted to leave Whitby for a quiet little spot in the Derbyshire countryside to be near their son Christopher. Len resisted the idea of early retirement, but the thought of resigning and moving to the peace of the countryside got stronger with every passing hour.

  He realised that in mulling over likely suspects, he’d omitted Gordon Deakin and Melvin Shank. Len needed no convincing that Shank had viciously murdered a fisherman and disfigured a prostitute, but he didn’t have enough proof. Shank had no qualms about threatening or killing any unfortunate victim bold enough to go to the police. If anyth
ing, Deakin was worse than Shank.

  Len was in a quandary. The murderer might well be a resident of East Whitby, but he couldn’t rule out West Whitby. And he had alienated what little support he had in West Whitby after interviewing Frank Hawk, Mrs Jenkins, and a number of other respectable citizens. He didn’t consider these people capable of murder but had to follow the police procedure in the search for information. Whatever people might say about him in East Whitby, he was a fair copper. He played it by the book. Unfortunately, not even this reason sat well in West Whitby.

  If he finally did decide to leave Whitby, he hoped that a few people at least would fondly remember him and give him praise for being a conscientious and fair chief constable.

  He knew he wouldn’t find that praise over the swing bridge on the east side of the town. If anything, there would be wild celebrations at his departure.

  Demo version limitation, this page not show up.

  Chapter 28

  Friday 7th September 1894

  A THUNDERCLAP FOLLOWED BY A LIGHTNING BOLT appeared over Whitby Abbey, bathing the ruins in an eerie glow as David and John walked across the cobbles and over the bridge. David likened it to the ignition of a giant photographic lighting tray. Suddenly, the piercing shout of a newspaper vendor a few yards away with a large pile of freshly printed newspapers made them stop.

  “Whitby in Rage!” cried the hawker.

  Soon, a large crowd had surrounded the man, all of them eager to buy the latest edition. David waited patiently and bought one. He read the front page to John, “‘Mr Joshua Betts claims the police are incompetent and should have caught the Whitby Ripper by now…Citizens of East Whitby incensed by ‘vermin’ remark made by the chief constable…civil disorder beckons.’”

  “We should leave Whitby and get as far away from Hood as possible,” urged John.

  “Do you really want to leave Laura?”