“It was a very great deal of money, even for an artist as gifted as Mr. Moody,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. For she too had appeared quite a bit in the Banner of Light, and the Spiritualist Magazine, and a host of other publications concerned with this craze. It was by one of her accounts that Inspector Bolles learned how easily Edward Moody had come into his spiritual inheritance. “These gentlemen were very insistent on having their pictures taken,” Mrs. Lovejoy said …
“ … and Mr. Moody was resistant to the idea because he had given up the art. But unable to avoid yielding under the relentless weight of their entreaties, he finally agreed to sit them for a picture. Of the first gentlemen—Dr. Child, I believe—an excellent spirit photograph was taken. Two of the other gentlemen also received good spirits, and the other two were not successful. The following Sunday the article in the Banner appeared, and the very next day, by the time Mr. Moody arrived at the store, there were no less than fifty persons awaiting him in my reception room. I was behind the counter, and when he entered the store I made the announcement, ‘Here comes Mr. Moody!’ The people had grown so impatient during the wait that I began fearing a riot in the store.”
The mob surrounded Moody as he entered. Then, from the mass of admirers, two distinguished gentlemen pressed forward, “very desirous of having Mr. Moody take their pictures at that very moment.” The photographer declined, saying that he was no longer dedicated to photography; but the gentlemen persisted, and less than thirty minutes later, they were descending the gallery steps, declaring that Mr. Moody had “photographed yet more spirits!” Mrs. Lovejoy recalled that there was also a scientist from Cambridge present, who had claimed to be thoroughly acquainted with the art of photography. When someone suggested that one might introduce a second image into a photograph by using an imperfectly cleaned glass, he had replied that such an “earthly” explanation was much more difficult to accept than the spiritual. “While it might be possible, and even probable, in daguerreotyping,” he said, “it is nearly impossible to accomplish when taking a photograph on glass.”
It went on, and it grew—this obsession with Edward Moody and his photographs—until it had succeeded in touching nearly every level of society. Those who could not afford their own sitting with Moody could purchase carte de visite copies of others’ “miracles.” And then there were those at the very top of the ladder who had converted to Spiritualism after only one visit. “Like a young robin,” said Walter Barnes, the wealthy banker from Beacon Hill, “I hold my mouth open to the heavenly world for its truths to feed my soul. I swallowed Spiritualism, but not before I opened my mouth, in earnest faith, to receive it.”
Edward Moody was a problem, and not one that could go un-dealt with. So Inspector Bolles, and Hinckley, and Senator Garrett had gathered at Dovehouse’s to discuss what to do.
“It’s preposterous,” Dovehouse said to the inspector, “the way these Spiritualists are going about hoodwinking the public. For the working class, I can understand the novelty—even at the prices they’re charging for their cartes de visite. But intelligent men of society, like Barnes? And the Merriwhethers holding séances in their dining room? It’s setting a horrible example.”
“I don’t care a fig about society,” Marshall Hinckley said. “If your cronies are stupid enough to hand over their money to that charlatan, that’s their business. It’s the assault against science that I want the police to address—and address it they can, by proving the man a fraud.”
Inspector Bolles considered the two gentlemen, and then glanced toward Senator Garrett.
“As you know,” Bolles said, “we have been building the case against him with the help of certain members from the Institute’s Photographic Section. We know that a spirit photograph can be produced by taking a picture on a glass that contains the residue of a previous image. We also know that one can use a positive image on glass, in front of the negative in the plate holder, to achieve a similar effect. One member of the Institute has also suggested a third method—the actual printing of a photograph from two separate negatives. But this latter method Moody could only achieve alone, and in privacy. It does not account for the countless instances during which he has produced spirit photographs under close scrutiny.”
“Close scrutiny!” Marshall Hinckley howled. “I say that if he has achieved the effect under scrutiny, there was not scrutiny enough.”
“But the case, Inspector Bolles,” Dovehouse said. “What is the basis of the case itself?”
“Our own spirit photographs,” Hinckley interrupted. “We’ve made a bunch of them ourselves, and detailed the exact methods for the authorities. We’ve even gotten Barnum to pose for one—with the ‘spirit’ of President Grant.”
“A spirit of a living person—ingenious,” Dovehouse said.
“Ingenious, yes,” Bolles replied. “But it does not necessarily guarantee a conviction.”
“I will settle for nothing less than a conviction,” Hinckley said.
“The conviction—” Bolles continued. “The conviction can only come through physical evidence. So far we have no real evidence that Moody is fabricating his spirits. It is all speculation on our part.”
“I have seen the man at work,” Garrett said, “and I am convinced that his only talent rests in preying upon the desperate and the grieving.”
Garrett touched his neck, for his collar had grown tight around it.
“Which brings us to the matter at hand,” Dovehouse said. “We have come to the conclusion that it might be time to, shall we say, speed things up a little?”
“Appleton is fully prepared to prosecute the case,” Bolles replied. “But as I said, we do not yet have the guarantee.”
Dovehouse narrowed his eyes.
“You can obtain the guarantee by searching the gallery and seizing his instruments—can you not?”
“Perhaps,” Bolles said. “Even likely. But again, there is no guarantee of what we will find.”
“To the devil with guarantees,” Hinckley said. “We have enough. Our fabricated spirit photographs are every bit as good as his are—even better in some cases. The jury will have no problem seeing the fraud.”
“Mr. Bolles,” Dovehouse said, addressing him as a gentleman, “there are some necessities that sometimes take precedent over technicalities like guarantees.”
“Sir?” the inspector said.
“There is a negative in that gallery,” Dovehouse continued, “a negative that must never be exposed to the public. I trust I have your confidence in saying that its ultimate fate is of great personal interest to us.”
“I’m not sure I understand you,” Bolles said.
Garrett stiffened and leaned forward.
“What Mr. Dovehouse is saying, Mr. Bolles, is that there is a spirit photograph of me and my wife somewhere in that gallery.”
Garrett paused.
“And that we would like to … how shall I put this—”
He looked toward his friend Dovehouse, and then stared straight back at Bolles.
“Obtain it.”
“You have gone for a spirit photograph, sir?” Bolles said.
The senator nodded.
“Garrett,” Hinckley exclaimed. “Good God!”
“It is of no great concern,” Dovehouse said, “a mere whim of Mrs. Garrett’s, and it appears that there is nothing remarkable on the negative, but the release of such a photograph would undermine the cause of the case—and the Institute—irreparably. It’s why we must act with such speed, before Moody has the chance to profit from this work.”
“But if there is nothing remarkable on the negative,” Bolles asked, “how can the man stand to profit by it?”
“Nothing is beyond that man,” Hinckley interjected. “He could turn a puff of smoke into the face of my dead mother, and find a way to make a profit.”
Bolles turned toward the senator, whose bottom lip had frowned.
“Senator,” he said. “You have done so much for me—”
“You
r father was a great man—one of the dearest friends I had.”
“And you know,” Bolles continued, “that there is almost nothing I would ever refuse you. But it seems that you and Mr. Dovehouse are suggesting the—”
He paused uncomfortably.
“—confiscation of important evidence.”
Garrett did not reply.
“We prefer the word obtain,” Dovehouse said. “And yes, it is a delicate matter. The last thing we wish to do is compromise you, my good man. We only ask that you consider the seriousness of the senator’s situation.”
Then Garrett spoke up. He was careful to measure his words.
“I agreed to accompany my wife to a sitting with Mr. Moody, not realizing how much I would regret my actions when the deed was over.”
“Everything you’ve been building—” Dovehouse continued. “It will all be further compromised if the Spiritualists get their hands on that photograph. The man has the image. You saw how much press he got from Colfax. Imagine what he could do with the image of a man whom the people adore ten times as much.”
“I agree,” Hinckley interjected. “The time to move is now. The last thing we need in the press is the spirit photograph of another illustrious figure. Next thing you know, he’ll be finding some way to get Grant to come in for one.”
“Senator Garrett?” Bolles said.
Garrett looked into the eyes of the inspector. He had known him since he was a boy.
“It would be …” Garrett said with some difficulty. “It would be a great favor to me.”
Inspector Bolles and Marshall Hinckley left Dovehouse’s not long after this exchange. It was agreed that Dovehouse and Garrett would be permitted to “inspect” Moody’s gallery during the seizure of evidence. Of course, the negative could be anywhere—locked away in any number of cupboards, or even somewhere downstairs in Mrs. Lovejoy’s store—but this was the chance that Garrett was willing to take, and after Moody’s removal from the building, he and Dovehouse would have their time.
X
HE HAD LOOKED for her, of course, though not right away. When she said that she would come back to him, he had believed her. But then when no letter or word from her arrived, Moody’s worry began to take hold. Where had she gone? How was she living? And what could have been so horrible that it was keeping her away? And then … after more than half a year had passed, he was overcome with despair, and the realization that there was nothing he could do. He didn’t even know how to start looking for her—he knew none of her acquaintances, and certainly, she had no family. All he possessed were those few small scraps about her past: the plantation, her mother, her freedom.
One day he had gone to the colored section of Boston and asked questions of anyone who would talk to him. He spoke with an old woman who ran a boardinghouse on Russell Street.
“Oh yes,” the woman said. “She was here—about two years I guess. Pretty girl. She came and went. Kept mostly to herself. Except for the children.”
“Children?” Moody asked.
“Yes,” the old woman replied. “The children in the neighborhood flocked to her. She was always bringing them little treats. Sweet cakes and things, little pieces of yarn. A nice girl. But, well—”
“Did she give any reason for leaving, or tell you where she was going?”
“Ha!” the woman said, suggestively. “They never do. Suspect she went to her relatives somewhere. If they would even take her.”
“And her employers?” Moody asked. “Do you know?”
“She worked for people,” the woman said. “In houses.”
Isabelle had said that her heart belonged to him, and that too he had desperately believed. He had needed to believe it, because after his misdeed, the idea of her forgiveness was the only thing that mattered. He had held no delusions about what a woman like her might have seen; but when she listened to him, and gazed back into his eyes, there was a goodness there that no indecency could have touched. No—she had loved him, he was sure of it. He had never been so sure of anything in his whole life.
He had photographed her—only once. It had been afterward. She had been resistant, but she had let him. She understood that he needed to do it.
It had all been so long ago. There was so much he did not remember.
And then the thought struck him—had she returned to chastise him? Had she grown so displeased with what he was doing that it had somehow forced her out of the grave? He studied the negative, for he had still not made a print of it. Her eyes returned strange emotion. No, that could not be it—she would not have come back to admonish him. She would, in an odd way, have approved of what he was doing—the healing he was responsible for in returning people to their loved ones. Was she reaching out to him for some other reason then? To let him know that she had never left him?
“But the Garretts,” Moody thought. “What has she to do with the Garretts?”
He stared at her, waiting—even begging—for an answer, but of course, no answer ever came. The longer he peered at her, the more unyielding she grew, standing upright behind the Garretts with a kind of quiet defiance. And yet, even in the rigidity of her unreadable stance, she remained so slight, so impalpable, and so luminously transparent that she appeared more like a mirrored reflection of herself than anything real or alive. He was desperate to know what she wanted to say to him, and it rent his heart to look at her.
As for Joseph—Moody noticed that he too seemed heartbroken whenever he studied the negative. It was plain that Isabelle’s spirit had captured him as well, despite Joseph’s attempts to disguise this. And yet, Moody thought, the man stank of fraud. What could his motivation have been if he had indeed played such a trick?
“This is a powerful spirit,” Joseph said. “And as I told you before, she may be carrying many messages.”
They had returned to the second-floor gallery, where the clamor of carriages rose up from the street.
“Such messages can be difficult to untangle,” Joseph added.
Moody looked at the image. It was her … and yet it wasn’t. He wanted nothing more than to believe that it was Isabelle.
“If it is truly her,” Moody said, “why would she appear now? And why in this picture?”
“It may have nothing to do with you,” Joseph replied. “There is more here than we understand. The Garretts reacted, and we must discover the connection. There is a connection, I assure you.”
Moody did not like Joseph’s insistence that Isabelle somehow “belonged” to the Garretts. If Isabelle’s spirit had returned, she would have surely returned for him.
Then Joseph reached into his pocket and pulled out an object—some sort of silver box, or a case.
“If you will indulge me, Mr. Moody,” Joseph said. “I would like to try to make you remember.”
Joseph then asked the spirit photographer to lift his eyes and focus.
So … Joseph Winter was a mesmerist too?
“You wish to put me into a trance,” Moody said.
There seemed to be no end to the absurdity.
“I wish you to remember more than you think you are able to remember,” Joseph said. “The trance can, as you know … take you back to certain places. There is a connection between Isabelle and the Garretts, I am certain. The clues may be somewhere in your memory.”
“I would think that I would be able to remember such details,” Moody said. “She was with me—right here in the gallery!”
“You yourself have said—” Joseph urged.
“Yes, I know what I have said!” Moody shouted.
It was not that he did not believe in mesmerism, for he had seen convincing displays of it before. But the appearance of Joseph, and now Isabelle, and the emergence of other things … these were all part of a journey Moody had not prepared himself to take.
“Your method,” Moody said. “Just how … ?”
“During the war,” Joseph said, “there was an old surgeon who practiced it on patients—to relieve pain, and even to
operate in some cases. He had studied mesmerism in England, and I asked him to teach me. Sometimes there was not enough ether or chloroform for colored troops.”
Joseph looked away.
“I learned how to use it,” he concluded. “To great benefit.”
Then Joseph turned back toward Moody, who neither acquiesced nor resisted, as Joseph raised the silver object close to Moody again. Moody, exhaling, carefully set down the negative, and focused on the shiny thing in Joseph’s hand. Sun streamed in from the windows, causing an almost blinding reflection from the silver. From somewhere in the room, the clock’s ticks struck and faded.
Joseph pivoted his wrist, though the movement was barely perceptible. The object in Joseph’s hand was bursting—a sun-drenched mirror.
Seconds melted into minutes. Moody’s eyelids fluttered—and closed.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Moody?”
Moody remained still, then nodded.
“I want you to see Isabelle,” Joseph said. “I want you to see her for the very first time.”
Moody’s eyes had closed, and the ticking of the clock continued.
“Yes,” Moody said, “I see her.”
“What does she look like?” Joseph quietly asked. “What is Isabelle wearing?”
“She is beautiful,” Moody said. “She is wearing a gray wool coat, because it is cold. It is winter. The coat is unbuttoned, and beneath she is wearing a thick cotton dress—blue and white. She has walked through the store and come to see me at my stall. We are alone together at the back of the store.”
“And what then, Mr. Moody? What does she say?”
“At first, she says nothing. I am working and I do not notice her. I am engraving a silver amulet, and I am fixated on my work. But then I feel her presence. She almost frightens me—like a ghost. I look up to see her standing there. Her face is delicate, and she does not smile.”
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