The Spirit Photographer

by Jon Michael Varese

  Years later, the irony of Moody profiting from spirit photographs was surprisingly lost on him. By then the ability to soothe the brokenhearted was a lure so powerful that he was unable to resist it. Never did it occur to him that he had become another kind of Brady. He considered himself unique—in possession of a “gift” even. “Yes, of course, it has been very much about the money,” he once admitted, “but to witness the subdued joy on the face of the mother who finds her lost daughter … the tranquility that befalls the father who sees his beloved son again … this … this raising of the dead from their graves is what we need in order to endure our most fragile days. Though my enemies will never believe me, I will go to my own grave insisting it: everything I have done since the first spirit photograph, I have done out of compassion, and out of love.”

  XVII

  THEY WERE EVERYWHERE now. On the walls and in the windowpanes. On the pavement outside the doorstep, and in the seats of passing carriages. These shades—these phantoms—had a way of insisting upon themselves, and Garrett could not shake them, no matter how often he shut his eyes. Even Jenny had turned into one. His sweet and faithful Jenny, whom he had purchased from bondage with his own honest money. Jenny had remained the one stable comfort to him over the years, especially during the more recent years of his increasing estrangement from Elizabeth. He and Jenny were not equals—could never be equals—and yet Jenny seemed to have an understanding of him that others would have considered improper. No words could describe such a relationship, or the gratitude that radiated from both sides.

  But for over twenty years there were things he had turned away from. He knew what her scars looked like, and he did not want to see them. He had washed all of that away for her long ago … washed away her pain and her blood—or so he thought. The devils were roaming the streets back then, hunting down people and collecting their rewards. But this one called Jenny would not need to go back. Even Elizabeth had agreed: it was the righteous thing to do.

  That smell was coming back to him now … the smell of that devil who had spit tobacco on his doorstep. He was a sinister man, a malevolent brute, and his eyes had burned something infernal.

  The man had threatened Garrett … had called him senator repeatedly, with emphasis. For he knew that the young member of Congress needed to guard his reputation. While it might have been acceptable to the whole of Boston to harbor fugitives, in the end it was still a violation of the law.

  “And what would the papers like to make of that?” the man had said.

  He was repulsive, that shiny brown wetness on his lips.

  That’s when Elizabeth stepped forward. The idea had been hers. The man was looking for money, she said, otherwise he would have been there with marshals. He would return with marshals the next morning if Garrett didn’t offer him something. But paying off this mercenary was not going to be enough. That solution was not going to resolve the larger problem.

  And so she was the one who arranged it … the one who reviewed the documents, and dealt with the devil. Jenny’s freedom came at a cost of four hundred and fifty dollars. It would have been double that amount had Jenny been young enough to bear any more children.

  Some papers signed in the dining room, some money exchanged, and all would go away.

  “You’ve got a fine place here, Mrs. Garrett,” the man had said. “A very fine place, if I do say so.”

  “We thank you for your time, Mr. Wilcox,” she had responded. “And now I must ask you to leave.”

  Garrett felt ashamed. To let a man like this into his house. To subject his wife to a man like this. He stank of the taverns he frequented, and the dust of his filthy trade. Elizabeth was a saint for consenting to the whole thing. Elizabeth bore everything with dignity.

  The house kept the secret for them—never discussed the four hundred and fifty dollars, nor the extra two hundred dollars paid to the unwelcome negotiator. Of course some, like Dovehouse, would know what had transpired, for even a house as stolid as Garrett’s could not hide what was really transpiring during those years. But to most “the Garretts’ Jenny” soon became just another domestic servant … one of the faceless masses who had no origin, and whose footsteps rarely moved beyond those walls.

  “Sir?” Jenny said, waking Garrett from his stupor.

  He looked at her. He could still see the younger Jenny … the desperate woman he had saved.

  “Sir,” she repeated, “the inspector’s come to see you, and he’s alone. Do you want me to show him in?”

  “Thank you, Jenny,” Garrett said.

  And Jenny floated back out of the room. Everything in front of him was floating these days.

  When the young Bolles came in, he seemed a ghost too, for he looked much like his father, whom Garrett dearly missed. It had not been two years since Monty Bolles had died a martyr in Louisiana—tortured before being shot for daring to teach the freedmen how to read.

  “Senator,” the young Bolles said, “are you … unwell?”

  “I am fine, my boy,” Garrett replied. “Thank you for asking. A late night with a few immoderate guests.”

  “Mr. Dovehouse?” the inspector asked. “He mentioned to me this morning that he had dined with you last night.”

  “Ah, you saw him?”

  “Yes, I did sir, which is why I’ve come to see you. I wanted to ask you … do you believe Mr. Dovehouse is acting in your best interests?”

  “Entirely,” Garrett said.

  Bolles appeared dissatisfied with Garrett’s swift assertion.

  “It’s just that Mr. Dovehouse seems to have been a bit pressing of late.”

  “Pressing?”

  “Yes, sir. Pressing. He has twice now visited me independently inquiring about the Moody case. And while I am under no obligation to reveal information to him, he acts as if I am. Furthermore, he takes his leave by reminding me that I must ‘come to him straightaway’ in the event that my men recover the photograph.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” the inspector answered. “And while I know that you and he are old friends, something about the intensity of his interest seems—”

  And he turned his head to the side before saying:

  “Not quite right.”

  The boy was as intuitive as his father. It was the reason that Garrett had taken so much care to help the young Montgomery Bolles throughout the course of his life.

  “May I ask again, sir, now that we’re alone together … what exactly is the nature of the photograph?”

  “Negative,” Garrett corrected. “It’s merely the glass negative.”

  Then in an unpredictable outburst he said:

  “God help me if the man has made photographs!”

  Bolles stared back at him.

  “You must forgive me,” Garrett said, “but as you know, the issue is sensitive.”

  “I have received that impression,” Bolles said, “and so I ask you if there is something more.”

  Garrett returned the question with silence. He was unsure of what to say.

  “Is there something more about the negative that I need to know?” Bolles continued. “If I knew precisely what we were dealing with I might be in a better position to help you.”

  And then, almost as if the shade of Dovehouse had appeared, Garrett’s defenses returned, and he raised a clenched fist in anger.

  “We are dealing with the basest of criminals,” he said. “Someone who preys on the weak and the helpless, and who shows no remorse for his wickedness. He is a parasite who cares for nothing but his own advancement, while he tramples over the grieving, and steals money from open palms.”

  This was Garrett, the senator, coming to life once again—the Garrett who had presided over the moral tides of the country for the past twenty years.

  “You are a great man, Senator.”

  But Garrett did not answer.

  “It is my hope—for all our sakes—that your greatness remains undiminished.”

  It was exactly the kind of
thing the boy’s father would have said, for Monty Bolles had been the exemplar of tact. There were very few men like Monty Bolles anymore—men who were willing to step aside for the triumph of the greater good.

  “And the case?” Garrett asked.

  “Well there is news,” Bolles said.

  “Yes?”

  “Two men matching their descriptions were seen boarding the Pittsburgh-Cincinnati line at New York. The information came from one of the station attendants, however, and the train had already departed, so no one could question the men. Do you know of any reason why Moody and Winter would be traveling west?”

  “You said the Cincinnati line?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes, the line terminates at St. Louis.”

  “Cincinnati,” Garrett said. “Winter is from Cincinnati.”

  “I thought he was from Canada.”

  “He is, but after the war he spent time in Cincinnati. It’s where he trained as a photographer. It was a fleeting detail, but one I remember from the conversation that took place when we met.”

  “So his connections there are deep, and it is a place where he might find shelter amongst allies?”

  “Likely,” Garrett said. “Very likely.”

  “Very well then. We have nothing much else to go on but this. I will telegraph Cincinnati and alert our agents there.”

  Garrett nodded.

  “And Mr. Dovehouse … I take it he already knows of this news?”

  “Yes,” Bolles replied, “I informed him earlier this morning.”

  Garrett gave another nod. Dovehouse was becoming a problem.

  “The main issue is with the crowds,” Bolles went on. “For if Moody and Winter don’t exit the train together, it will be that much more difficult to identify them. The sketches only do so much, as you know, and Moody may have shaved, and—”

  “I have the utmost confidence in your abilities, my dear boy. It is sometimes hard to catch a rat, but he with the greater resources always wins.”

  His reply had the tone of a paternal—almost prosaic—lesson, for Garrett’s defensiveness had somewhat softened again. The young Inspector Bolles had become like another son to him. Old Monty would have been exceedingly proud. This young man had devoted his life to the pursuit of justice, and yet he realized that doing the right thing sometimes required bending the law. Garrett would make sure that Montgomery was taken care of, whether or not the inspector managed to take care of him.

  The house had condoned Elizabeth’s putting her ears to the doors. Garrett, she thought, had handled the visit well. Yes, her husband had been guilty of his outbursts, but like her he knew when to recant. Much remained unsaid, and of course the inspector would know that, but all who entered the house could not help becoming complicit with its ways. The place for truthfulness did not exist anywhere out in the open, but in crevices and dark corners, with the rest of the house’s secrets.

  XVIII

  THE TRAIN SHOOK the man as it escaped the spidery railways of Manhattan—this southwest-bound train, whose route would cut a diagonal through the southern states. The train was filthy and fast, much like the man himself. The piece of paper in his hands did not matter; the destination was all that mattered.

  Wilcox reread the letter:

  They have left Boston and are on their way to Cincinnati. Winter has his connections there, as you probably know. Perhaps they intend to wait there for some time, or perhaps they will immediately move on.

  You told me years ago that you had taken the girl to a place from where she would never return. You did not tell me the place then, and I do not want to know it now. But I am sure that that is where they are going.

  It was true—he had taken the girl to a place from where she would never return. A place so far south that any hope of return was impossible. That’s what you did in those days. That’s how you handled it.

  They were going due west to St. Louis. They were breaking up the route. But he’d stop them before they could get to where they needed to go. He had boarded the Knoxville-Mobile line—that would put him there before them. The steamboat would take them at least three days, maybe four.

  In New Orleans, he would be waiting.

  XIX

  Newsletter of the American Institute for the Encouragement of Science and Invention

  New York, New York

  Wednesday, August 3, 1870

  THE INTEREST IN the Moody case continues. Last week, we reported that Marshall Hinckley, our esteemed colleague from Boston, had sent word regarding the escape of the “spirit photographer” from the authorities. Our readers will recall that Edward Moody has been charged with fraud and larceny—crimes befitting this swindler and enemy of science.

  It appears that there is now another wrinkle in the story. Moody was believed to have been traveling to Cincinnati by rail with his negro assistant, but upon arrival of the identified train, the police seem to have apprehended the wrong pair, and by the time the error was discovered the suspects were again nowhere to be found.

  The Institute will continue to monitor the case, and report back to its readers accordingly.

  “THE DAMNED SCOUNDREL!” Marshall Hinckley exclaimed when Bolles delivered the news. “What kind of witchery is that man working?”

  It was a fitting question to ask, as they sat beneath the portrait of Dovehouse’s ancestor. Garrett, Dovehouse, Hinckley, and Bolles had all assembled to discuss the debacle.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Dovehouse added, “that there were two sets of white men with negro companions on that train? And that the police, upon seeing one of them, just happened to chase the wrong pair?”

  “I don’t know if there were two, or four, or any other number,” Bolles replied, “but Moody and Winter are not the only black and white men traveling together. The mistake, in my estimation, was an honest one.”

  “Of all the nonsense,” Dovehouse said.

  And it did sound like nonsense, but as Bolles recounted what had happened, one had to understand the error, too. When the train pulled into the station at Cincinnati, Bolles told them, the police had been standing by, ready to examine the disembarking passengers. Soon, an officer identified two travelers—a bearded white man with a black companion—and made to approach the suspects. The two men were snaking through the crowd with great purpose—a behavior that only increased the pursuing officer’s suspicions. When the officer increased his pace, the men hurried their steps as well, suggesting that they might have had good reason to flee.

  “Confidence men,” Bolles said, “just another set of swindlers making the rounds. Selling worthless plots of land for outrageous prices, and passing off empty swamps for ‘Eden.’ The negro apparently drew in negro investors who could afford it. These men had every reason to run.”

  “But were there not other officers?” Hinckley asked. “Examining the whole line of the crowd?”

  “There were,” Bolles replied, “but once the main officer blew his whistle, all attention followed the con men.”

  “Right out of the train station,” Hinckley concluded.

  Bolles nodded.

  “It wasn’t until a good hour later that the officers apprehended them, but by that time the crowd had dispersed, and the train had left the station. There was no point in resuming the search.”

  “They could be anywhere now,” Hinckley said, “anywhere in the whole of Cincinnati!”

  “Or Columbus or Louisville,” Dovehouse said. “Who says they even got off the train? If they were on that train, they may have decided to continue on after seeing the commotion. What is the train’s final destination?”

  “St. Louis,” Bolles said.

  Dovehouse sat back in his chair.

  “Garrett,” he said. “Anything for them in St. Louis?”

  Garrett slowly turned.

  “Not to my knowledge,” he replied. “But then again what is there for them anywhere? These are men on the run. They are running from something, not to something.”

  It was
such an abstract observation, Dovehouse thought, and not at all like anything Garrett would normally say. But then again, Garrett had been acting so strangely since this whole Moody business had started.

  “We’ll keep going,” Dovehouse said. “Keep the efforts focused in Cincinnati. Seek out his negro connections and the photography studios. Someone must know something there.”

  “Very well, Mr. Dovehouse,” Bolles said, glancing at Senator Garrett.

  But Garrett was not looking at the inspector, or anyone else. His eyes were—surprisingly—closed.

  XX

  HAD IT BEEN luck? Again and again, the question confronted Edward Moody, as if it were a dissatisfied patron doubting the manifestation of one of his spirits. The train had pulled into Cincinnati and the authorities had been waiting—Joseph had pointed that out even before the train had come to a stop. But as Moody watched Joseph turning over other ideas in his head, the most extraordinary thing had happened: the police had run away.

  “They’ve gone after the wrong men,” Joseph had said, “but it won’t be long before they realize that.”

  Joseph and Moody simply remained on the train. Something more than luck had followed them.

  It was not that Edward Moody had suddenly come to “believe”—for he had been believing, and not believing, and then believing again for many years. But Isabelle had returned in some way—through the negative, through Joseph—and he was experiencing the mounting traces of her presence like one feels the increasing warmth of a fire. For the first time Moody was undergoing the same transformation he had affected in others—the changeover from despair to hope, from darkness into light.