“It has been such a long time …” Joseph said. “Such a long time. I—”
But Moody understood. It was as if he himself had been there before. The commerce of the old days had sprung back to life. In the end, there was no getting away from it.
“I know,” Moody said. “I see it.”
It was everywhere, especially in the dirt that coated the bricks. The walls held unrelenting knowledge in that dirt. The mortar looked soft, as if you could dip your finger into it. This place was wet and luxurious—a place that never let things go.
“We must leave,” Moody said, “before—”
But the words stopped short. There was a stunning blow … it had come from somewhere amongst the shadows.
Joseph lost his balance, for he too had been struck. He landed against a wall … his head throbbing, his sight blackening. From St. Louis Street, the gas lamps spat pathetic bits of light into the alley. And not far from Joseph, Moody lay on the ground.
The figure stood above him.
Then it happened. The man was down upon Moody. The knife went up and the hand plunged down—straight toward Edward Moody’s heart.
“No!” Joseph cried.
He had abandoned Edward Moody. He had followed his own path back into the darkness.
The giant rose to his feet, his eyes meeting Joseph’s. He was gripping the bloodstained knife at his side.
The crowd moved in ripples in the open channel of St. Louis Street, while the flickering of the gas lamps sent shadows down the alley. Joseph glared back at him. The shadows were distorting his face. Beneath the shadows, in the gaslight, the face was leering and misshapen.
The man stepped toward him.
“I know you,” Joseph said.
But the assassin did not respond. There was a glaze over his eyes, and he was staring straight through Joseph. Joseph’s back was against the wall—something was holding him in place.
Then another figure was beside him—a tall form cloaked in black.
“Devil!” the voice said. “You have no business here.”
The figure wore robes that enveloped him like armor. He was holding a long hand up toward the murderer.
The assassin studied the intruder, then returned his eyes to Joseph. More glass crashed—some last bits falling out in the street—and as if by summons, the assassin began to retreat. At the farther end of the alley, other gas flames cast their reflections. Joseph did not see exactly how or when the man disappeared.
The stranger stepped forward, a large gold cross gleaming on his breast.
“Father!” Joseph cried.
“You’ve returned,” the priest responded.
And both men rushed over toward Moody, whose clothes were drenched in his own blood.
XXIV
“ARE YOU ALRIGHT, madam?” the inspector said, almost wincing at Mrs. Lovejoy’s bruises.
“Ah, well …” Mrs. Lovejoy replied. “It looks much worse than it feels, inspector. Thank you for asking. The truth is I’m getting clumsier and clumsier. I should know not to be meddling around in the dark.”
The inspector couldn’t help but examine Mrs. Lovejoy’s injuries. Such marks were not simply the effects of a casual fall. The day after Moody’s escape, she had mysteriously disappeared from the store. Now, a week later, he could see the reason for her absence.
“Is there anything I can—” he continued.
“Oh no,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “It’s quite alright, I assure you.”
And then, moving down the counter, slightly away from him, she said: “And how can I help you?”
Bolles hesitated another moment before pursuing his questions. Mrs. Lovejoy looked as if she were still in great pain.
“Mrs. Lovejoy, I must ask. This injury … has it anything to do with—”
Mrs. Lovejoy raised an eyebrow.
“With Mr. Moody,” Bolles said.
“I’m not certain what you mean,” Mrs. Lovejoy said.
“Mr. Moody … was he in any way related to, or perhaps even the cause of this injury?”
“Mr. Moody!” the woman exclaimed. “The cause of an injury! Why there couldn’t be anything more preposterous. Mr. Moody may be many things, but he is not a violent man.”
Bolles studied her face. She had not been abused by Moody.
“As I said, inspector,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, “I’m just getting clumsier, and, well—”
And she began fiddling with some salt cellars, realigning them unnecessarily.
“You do understand why we’re pursuing him,” Bolles said.
“Yes, I understand that you are bringing charges for fraud against one of the greatest artists and Spiritualist mediums of our time. Yes, I understand that, Inspector Bolles.”
“You are yourself a Spiritualist then, madam?”
“I am,” Mrs. Lovejoy replied, “and a believer that all things come to justice, in the end.”
“The charges against Mr. Moody are very serious, and if found guilty of these crimes he could go to prison for some time.”
“I am aware of that, inspector.”
“And you are aware that you are obligated, by law, to assist in the prosecution of this case, or you yourself could be held accountable for aiding criminal activity.”
“Listen to me, inspector. I will say this to you one time. I have committed more ‘crimes’ in my lifetime than you have seen in the entirety of your green years. As many of the residents in this city know, I was perhaps one of the greatest ‘criminals’ in Boston, before the war, when it was legal for a man to own another man as property. So I am not afraid of being a criminal, inspector, if being a criminal is the right thing to be. But I swear on my honor, I know nothing of Mr. Moody’s whereabouts, or his intentions, or his guilt or innocence, or anything else it is you want to know. I only know that Mr. Moody has gifts beyond anything that you or I could ever hope to understand, and that to jail him would be unjust. You yourself would be committing the crime.”
Mrs. Lovejoy was one of the most respected women in Boston, and Bolles could see how she had earned that place.
Then she softened.
“Your father was a wonderful man, inspector.”
“Ah, you knew him then,” Bolles said.
“Yes, of course I knew him. He was a great, great supporter of the cause. It is atrocious what they did to him, when he went down there after the war. If only he had had better protection. So many of our brave souls were defenseless. And still are. But you must never dwell on that, my dear boy. What he did … most men will never be able to claim such honor. He died in service to his country. He died in service to humanity.”
Inspector Bolles did not receive these words with any amount of surprise, for his father, Montgomery Bolles Sr., had been lauded by radicals and conservatives alike. He had been a man of unimpeachable character, they said, whose judgment had always fallen on the side of “decency.”
“You have what he had,” Mrs. Lovejoy said.
Bolles looked at her inquisitively.
“The ability to see,” she said.
“See?”
“Yes, see. Which is why I don’t understand all this nonsense about pursuing Mr. Moody. Surely someone with your character and insight can understand all the good that man has done for people, whether or not you believe in spirits yourself.”
“I have no personal investment in this matter,” the inspector replied. “The community at large is demanding the investigation. My duty is to respond to the community.”
“The community!” Mrs. Lovejoy exclaimed. “Yes, I know all about that community. They are displeased because a photographer is producing things they can’t explain … offering interpretations to the world that they cannot comprehend! You are acquainted with Senator Garrett, I believe?”
“I am, madam.”
“To be sure the senator is a great man—perhaps one of the greatest this country has ever seen—but I know his business in this. I saw him when he came here—both times. And I saw him whe
n he left. If he is at all representing this ‘community’ that you speak of, I am very sorry for it. Very sorry for it indeed.”
“May I ask, Mrs. Lovejoy, what is your knowledge around the connection?”
“What connection?”
“The connection between Mr. Moody and Senator Garrett.”
Mrs. Lovejoy looked away from him.
“Is there one?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Bolles replied. “That’s why I’m asking you. You have known both of them for a very long time.”
“And Mrs. Garrett,” Mrs. Lovejoy added. “An honorable, and much respected woman. We engraved some pieces of her wedding silver for her. But Mr. Moody was not here then.”
“Yes, I know,” the inspector said. “He first came here in the mid-fifties, I believe?”
“Earlier,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “It was probably fifty-one or fifty-two. I remember, because the railroad was afire with activity then … because of the new fugitive laws. Those disgusting—”
And she turned her head aside, visibly appalled by what she did not say.
“Was Mr. Moody ever involved in your railroad activity?” the inspector asked.
“Mr. Moody? Oh no-no-no. The poor lamb. No, he was never involved, or knew anything for that matter. Of course, it was a bit strange, given that—”
And she paused, bringing her hand up to touch one of her bruises.
“Yes?” the inspector said.
“Well, Mr. Moody …” she said. “You see … Mr. Moody suffered a kind of … incident.”
The inspector encouraged her to go on.
“It was the girl, you see. He is the way he is today—because of the girl. He loved her. And she left. I’m afraid the man never fully recovered.”
All of the newspaper accounts had concentrated on Moody’s evolution and career as a spirit photographer. No one had ever said anything about a romance. Indeed, the papers had made him out to be above the realm of earthly affections.
“I never saw anything like it,” Mrs. Lovejoy continued. “He became inconsolable—quite hopeless—after she disappeared. Which is why when he went off to study with Brady in New York, it was a truly wonderful thing for him. Mr. Moody is … well, Mr. Moody is easily consumed.”
“And this woman,” the inspector said. “Who was she?”
“She was called Isabelle,” Mrs. Lovejoy replied. “She was a free woman of color. She lived here in Boston. And she was—”
And again Mrs. Lovejoy paused, measuring her words before she spoke.
“She was one of those helping with the railroad.”
Bolles returned a respectful nod. Even now, five years after the war, he understood that there remained a kind of sacred reticence amongst those who had hidden fugitives.
“Of course, everything was kept very quiet in those days,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “There was a great deal at stake—for everyone involved. Back then, your neighbor could have been hiding runaways right under your nose and you’d never have known it. She was a sweet girl—a beautiful girl. She was here much more than necessary, which is how I knew. And after a short time, there simply was no hiding it. Mr. Moody was quite the different man back then.”
“But she was a negro, you say. That—”
“Made it impossible? Yes. But what great love isn’t impossible in some way, inspector. Tell me that.”
It was disconcerting for Bolles to hear Moody talked about in this way. This was not the Edward Moody he was investigating.
“She was quite taken with him,” Mrs. Lovejoy went on. “You could see that plainly, when she came in. It’s a mystery though—”
And she stopped, looking off.
“Yes?” Bolles said.
“Well, it’s a mystery as to what happened to her. One day she simply vanished. But those were strange times, Inspector, and strange things happened to everybody. And of course … there were other delicate matters one has to consider. But I cannot be the one to judge.”
“Do you mean that she might have been with—”
“It could have been the reason,” Mrs. Lovejoy interrupted. “I cannot say, and hate to think it. Perhaps Mr. Moody knew absolutely nothing about it. Or perhaps he knew everything. He may have even had cause for wanting her to go away. But one thing I can tell you … he was never the same man after that day. After Isabelle left, it was simply as if a part of him had—died.”
“When was the last time you saw this woman?” the inspector asked.
“She came here. She left a letter for him—just slipped it under the door without coming in.”
“And then?”
“And then, she walked away from the store and I never saw her again. She may not have even been a free woman, for all I know. She may have needed to go to Canada. Those were dangerous times, Inspector. There were forgeries, kidnappings … all sorts of evilness about.”
The inspector was not ignorant of the things Mrs. Lovejoy described. He had been aware of such crimes and abuses, ever since he was a child. In his household, the talk of the necessity of abolition had been constant. His father had not been a man who was afraid to speak.
“I must thank you for your time, Mrs. Lovejoy,” Bolles said. “But if I may ask you one last question—do you know if Mr. Moody has any connection to New Orleans?”
“New Orleans …” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“A report has come in,” Bolles said, “from a passenger on one of the steamboats, who claims to have traveled with Mr. Moody from St. Louis as far as Natchez, Mississippi. The passenger took leave of the boat at that point, but the final destination was New Orleans. And that boat should be reaching that city sometime this evening, assuming it has remained on schedule.”
“How odd,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, “that we should be talking about the girl.”
“And why is that?” Bolles asked.
“Because I do believe that’s where she was from.”
“New Orleans?”
Mrs. Lovejoy again touched her bruise.
“Why, yes—she came from New Orleans. I am quite sure of it now.”
XXV
THIS WAS MOODY’S vision:
A young woman on a small boat, making her way through a swamp. She pushes the boat with a pole. The pole makes little noise in the water.
And this:
The woman’s face—tired and hurt. The face is worn with suffering. It cannot keep the secret of who she is.
And this:
The glow of lamps, far off in the distance. Bits of flames flickering between thick columns of cypress.
She is escaping.
She is resolved.
He is nowhere in her vision.
He is awake and yet he isn’t. The feeling in his heart is heavy. There is a weight there, pressing, for this is where he has been carrying her. The weight is suffocating his heart.
He can hear his heart beating. It is begging to be set free.
“Edward,” a voice says. “Edward … can you hear me?”
It is not her voice. It is a man’s voice. He opens his eyes. It is Joseph’s voice.
He struggles, but Joseph holds his body down. Joseph has tricked him again. He will take her—hide her. She will no longer be his.
“Where is she?” Moody says. “You devil—tell me where she is!”
“She’s safe,” Joseph says. “All is safe, and you must rest.”
Joseph has that look of truth—an angel in the mist.
“Know this,” Joseph whispers. “She has spoken. She has saved you.”
XXVI
THE ROOM WAS plain. On one side, a bureau, with a statue of the Virgin Mary atop an embroidered cloth. Across from the bed, a fireplace, and above that a wooden crucifix. The walls were white—painted plaster. The room was close, and smelled of clean linen.
Joseph sat beside Moody. The photographer was sleeping. There was a bandage wrapped around his head.
For two days Moody had wavered in and out of sleep
, awakening now and then, his eyes fixed in desperation. He was having visions. He had lunged out more than once. Perhaps in his weakened state, he had mistaken Joseph for the demon.
At other times Moody had spoken, but the words had been muddled. Conversations … confessions … imagined exchanges. Moody seemed to be communicating in some other distant world. Sometimes the mumbling was loud—sometimes nothing more than a whisper.
The priest entered the room.
“Has he awakened since I left you?” he asked.
“No,” Joseph answered. “But his murmuring continues. I have made out the name … many times now. It is her name—always her name.”
Joseph gazed down at Moody. The negative had saved him. The murderer’s knife had struck the negative’s case, then slid down Moody’s side, and cut him. Had the negative not been in Moody’s breast pocket, the knife would have plunged through his chest and into his heart.
Isabelle had saved him. It was proof that she was guiding him. Moody was the one she loved.
Joseph had been foolish for thinking that Isabelle ever would have fled with him to Canada. And she had scolded him—scolded him as if he were nothing more than a child. He hadn’t understood back then, hadn’t fathomed how dedicated someone could be to a cause. He had been so consumed by his own survival that it had blinded him to the trials of others.
But that wasn’t true. He was a good man—an honest man. He had taught others to read, once he had learned himself, in Canada. He had helped build a house for a family of fugitives … sowed potatoes with them in their yard, skinned a rabbit for them and roasted it. He had only been well-intentioned. Even the photographs—
He had been selfish.
He had been selfish and he could no longer hide it from her. There was nothing she could not see. There was nowhere for him to hide.
And here he was again in this room—the room that had briefly concealed him. And once again, as if captured from a dream, he saw himself running away.
L’Archevêché. It was the place some still called “the convent,” since the Ursuline nuns had originally built it and later given it over to the archdiocese. First the bishops, and eventually the archbishops, gladly occupied the stately property, which stood out like a countryside mansion amongst the cramped townhouses of the old French Quarter. Those first bishops roamed its cool, tiled hallways, in those dark days before the war. And so too roamed the servants—the many well-dressed and well-cared-for servants—all of whom were nevertheless still the property of the archdiocese.
The Spirit Photographer Page 17