The Spirit Photographer

by Jon Michael Varese

  “You have been trying to thread the needle,” Henriette said, “but your life has been more hole than thread.”

  Moody’s hand moved over his heart.

  “I am sorry for you,” she said.

  The spirit photographer tapped his chest—more out of reflex than with purpose. She was here with him—Isabelle was here with him now. The walls were weeping with the memory of her.

  Moody reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the precious negative.

  “You must look at this,” Moody said. “And you must tell me what you see.”

  Then he removed the glass from its case, and held it toward Henriette. The negative’s contrast against the bar made the glass a sheet of black.

  Henriette reached for the glass, but Moody held it firm. There was no letting go of it. He would not let her go …

  “Monsieur Moody—” Henriette said.

  As he locked eyes with the woman, the photographer realized that his grip on the negative confirmed something he’d long denied … that there was only one thing he had wanted since his return from the war, and the beginning of his illustrious career. It wasn’t wealth or fame, or the notoriety that had accompanied his “greatness.” It wasn’t even the validation he had sought from the doubtful men of science. No, no—those things had moved him along, but nothing had ever satisfied him. He wanted her back. He wanted Isabelle back. And his wanting had made everything else irrelevant.

  Then, it was as if the thread had snapped. Henriette’s pull had been so gentle.

  She held the negative now, up to the lampshade. Her hands framed the glass, and she squinted at what she saw.

  Moody turned toward Joseph—there were tears in Joseph’s eyes. But Henriette was unmoved. Her own eyes were cold—and fierce.

  “Who are you, Monsieur Moody?” she said. “Who are you? And where have you come from?”

  Then her face changed, and she looked down at the negative. It was sorrow—real sorrow—that compelled her to return it to Moody.

  “I see now,” Henriette said. “The waiting—I see. You are sick with waiting. Sick with questions. And yet, there is more that you must wait for.”

  Now Moody’s eyes were the ones that brimmed with tears. But these tears were not the conventional tears of sadness. Rather, they were the tears that had built up through the ages. The tears of everything he had had—and known.

  “Where is she?” Moody whispered.

  And then again:

  “Where is she?”

  A laugh came from Henriette, from somewhere deep within her belly.

  “You are in agony,” she said. “But there is more agony for you. You must be cleansed of your guilt before you can see her again. This is no easy lock to pick—photographer.”

  “I can’t wait any longer,” Moody said. “I will do whatever you say.”

  Henriette laughed again—but the room could barely hear it.

  “Your agony is … spécial,” Henriette said. “It is the agony of waiting—l’agonie du néant.”

  Only Joseph understood this last bit—it was the agony of “nothingness.” Henriette was a friend—a restorer of souls—and yet her words sounded more like a curse.

  “Heal him,” Joseph said. “Take pity on him. Heal him.”

  “Don’t you mean you?” Henriette said. “Don’t think I’m fool enough not to see.”

  Joseph moved his mouth. His discomfort was immense.

  “I lost her too,” he said.

  But Henriette took no notice. All along, she had been exhibiting a strange kind of favoritism toward Moody.

  “You two go over there now,” Henriette said. “I have customers, and there is plenty of time.”

  There was no hesitancy in her voice. Her every word was definitive.

  “Later,” she said. “We can begin.”

  XXXII

  IN BOSTON, INSPECTOR Bolles studied the telegram from New Orleans.

  The crowds were larger than normal, as there were three boats that arrived around the same time that day. A man matching the sketch you sent was spotted, with a negro, but when we pursued him past Levee Street, he mysteriously disappeared. We will continue to monitor the French Quarter closely, as we suspect he may have absconded into one of the buildings there.

  None of this was helpful, as it left Bolles with nothing new. It was as if Edward Moody and his assistant had somehow figured out how to remain two steps ahead. Why had Moody and Winter gone all the way to New Orleans? Were they planning to leave the country, via the Gulf?

  There were so many oddities about this case, the fugitives’ strange and purposeful route being only one of them. There was also the intensity of Mr. Dovehouse’s involvement, which in the inspector’s opinion seemed entirely uncalled for. The case was doing things to people … consuming them, changing them. Garrett, Dovehouse, even the men at the American Institute—all had taken an interest in the case that bordered on obsession.

  And all of it over a photograph.

  A photograph?

  Bolles stared down at the telegram again.

  What did the photograph show?

  That was the question at the heart of this matter. The answer to that question would explain everything.

  Bolles returned to Washington Street to speak with Mrs. Lovejoy. Of all the players in this game, she had been the most valuable.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she told him. “But I never set eyes on that negative. Mr. Winter was taking care of everything in the gallery after Mr. Moody’s collapse. And really, it was no business of mine. At least not at the time.”

  “But that day,” Bolles said, “the day the photograph was taken—you were not up in the gallery at all?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I was down here in the store. Mr. Winter, well—”

  She paused, and began straightening the cigar cases on the counter.

  “Yes?” Bolles asked.

  “Well, Mr. Winter was a bit … you might say, possessive—about the gallery. He didn’t want anything touched until Mr. Moody had recovered. I do like Mr. Winter. I think he is a very respectable man.”

  “Do you mean that he prohibited you from entering the gallery?”

  “No, I wouldn’t go that far. But while Mr. Moody was recovering in my apartments, Mr. Winter kept the gallery. I don’t know what he was doing in there, but you see … there had been a great disturbance. Nothing like this had ever happened before.”

  “What exactly do you mean?” Bolles asked.

  “The Garretts,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “Nothing had ever happened—like the Garretts.”

  “This is a bit of a riddle,” Bolles said.

  “What I mean is that in his entire career as a spirit photographer—a career which I have witnessed from the very beginning—Mr. Moody has always arrived at one of two places. Either he brings forth the spirit, or he doesn’t. When he brings forth the spirit, there is usually great joy. When he can’t, great sadness often follows. I know because I see the faces of every customer who comes down those steps. I am always the first person, other than Mr. Moody, to see the results of the sittings.”

  “And the Garretts … when they came down that day?”

  “That was what was different. That was how I knew that something different—even something terrible—had happened.”

  Bolles urged her on.

  “It was Garrett. He looked—”

  “Unwell?” Bolles asked.

  “Worse than unwell. I would say—”

  She paused again, searching the air for the right description.

  “I would say—devastated. Mrs. Garrett was bringing him down—like an angry mother dragging away an inconsolable child. She looked enraged—at what I cannot say. And that was unusual too, you see, because the women are usually the ones who come down discomposed, not the men. It was … a reversal, of sorts.”

  Bolles thought for a moment. Something had happened to Garrett. He had seen something, heard something—felt something—in that gallery. Bolles re
membered their conversation, how the senator had deflected his direct questioning about the negative. Now Bolles was certain that there was something Senator Garrett was refusing to admit.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you,” Mrs. Lovejoy went on, “but I can only tell you what I remember seeing that day—the senator, appearing as if he were taking his last breaths, and Mrs. Garrett, as if she were the one leading him to his grave.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lovejoy,” Inspector Bolles returned. “You’ve been of more help than you realize.”

  THE GREAT HOUSE on Louisburg Square had grown much sadder since Inspector Bolles’s childhood. He remembered, as a young boy, coming to that house when the new baby had been born, and the great joy that had filled the entire neighborhood. “Now mind, Montgomery,” the senator had said to him, “since you have no brothers or sisters, William Jeffrey here will be your brother. You will help me watch over him, as you are older than he is, and will always know more than he does.” The young Montgomery Bolles had been thrilled with the new charge. Senator Garrett had always treated Montgomery like a son.

  Which is why when Garrett’s own son died, the young Bolles felt not for himself, but for the senator. By then he had grown used to the senator’s firm yet benevolent ways … but the death of William Jeffrey had brought about a different senator. While Bolles’s own father had expressed great sorrow over the loss, the senator himself had transformed into someone else. The senator’s eyes had grown vacant.

  And then there was Mrs. Garrett—dressed from head to toe in black. Emaciated and quivering, she walked about the somber, unlit house. Overnight the whole place had become unkind and unwelcoming.

  Of course he had been to the house many times since then, but that house—the funereal house—was the house that never left him.

  “Master Bolles!” Jenny said, when she opened the front door. “We don’t see you enough. Come in, come in!”

  Jenny took his hat from him. She had forever been kind and caring.

  “You’re looking well, Jenny. Life is treating you—well?”

  Jenny gave him a smile, but beneath it there was something else.

  “Yes—I know, Jenny,” Bolles said. “There have been … tensions.”

  Jenny nodded.

  “You remember—” Jenny said in a very low voice. “You remember the way it once was in this house, after …”

  Her voice trailed, and Bolles laid a hand on her arm.

  “It’s like that again, Master Bolles. Different though. I always said the boy would—”

  “Montgomery!”

  The call was bright and cheerful. Elizabeth was descending the steps.

  “To what do we owe this pleasure?” she said.

  “Ah, Mrs. Garrett,” Bolles said. “I was hoping to have a few words with you.”

  Elizabeth gave Jenny a nod and dismissed her. Then she led Bolles to the drawing room.

  “Please, sit. Can we get you anything?”

  “No ma’am. Thank you. I am sorry to hear you’ve been unwell.”

  “Unwell?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The senator has told me that you’ve been feeling somewhat upset—since the photograph.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  Elizabeth looked off to the side for a moment.

  “Yes, well,” she said. “It was a troubling event.”

  “Forgive me,” Bolles said, “but this case has taken so many strange turns, and I’m wondering if you might help me.”

  Elizabeth again shifted her eyes in another direction.

  “You see,” Bolles went on, “I am curious as to why the negative itself is so important. Is not Mr. Moody the real object of our pursuit?”

  She stared at him now

  “The man is a criminal,” she said.

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “And he must be prosecuted, and stopped from perpetrating these crimes. What he has done, it’s absolutely unspeakable. And the senator’s reputation is at stake.”

  “But according to the senator,” Bolles said, “there is no spirit on the negative.”

  “Between us, Montgomery,” Elizabeth said, “the senator does not always see what other people see.”

  “Mrs. Garrett, do you mean to tell me that there is a spirit on the negative?”

  “That is not what I said.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that people will see what they want to see. The presence or absence of a spirit on the negative is immaterial. The fact that there is a negative—that is what matters.”

  “I see,” Bolles said.

  He paused for a moment, looking at her.

  “What is on the negative?” he pressed.

  Elizabeth met his gaze. How he knew that vacant look. It was the look that, as a boy, he had wanted so desperately to understand.

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied.

  “What is on the negative?” he repeated.

  And still she did not answer.

  “Is William Jeffrey on the negative?”

  It was bold of him to ask so directly. Perhaps it was too bold.

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “William Jeffrey is not on the negative,” she said.

  And that’s when he realized what she was seeing. She was seeing William Jeffrey—again.

  “William Jeffrey is not on the negative,” she repeated.

  “I believe you,” Bolles replied.

  She was falling away from him, but he was determined to press forward.

  “Mrs. Garrett,” he said quietly, bending closer toward her. “Who or what is on that negative?”

  She opened her mouth to answer. Her eyes had grown wet and red. She had never, in all the years he had known her, appeared so unprotected and honest.

  Then he heard the front door open, and the slam of the door as it shut.

  “Good afternoon, Senator,” Jenny said out in the entryway. “You’re home a bit earlier today.”

  That quickly, Elizabeth resumed her composure. There would be no more discussion that day.

  XXXIII

  IT WAS A strange kind of sleep … neither a vision nor a dream. He was waking from it now, trying to remember how it had started. When had he first lost sight of Joseph … Henriette … the cabin? The men had been whispering with Henriette at the bar, and Joseph’s whole figure had changed colors in the lamplight. Then there were footsteps … the closing of a door … and a light that faded into black.

  He had drunk the ale too fast.

  But there had also been Henriette.

  They had been waiting for her to finish up her business at the bar. She had the answers, and this Moody intimately understood. It was an unspoken knowledge he shared with Joseph. But his partner was different now—he was no longer so brave. The place had changed Joseph, too.

  She had approached them with some sort of hollowed-out gourd. Or shell, or wooden bowl—it was difficult to tell what it was. Joseph was beside him, close to him, and motionless. Joseph could not save him this time.

  It was not true that he could not move, for he raised his hand to his head … could have stood up and left the boat if that was what he wanted to do. But the heaviness that had overcome him was like nothing he had ever felt. It was a chastising, almost painful heaviness, and he wanted nothing but to close his eyes.

  “Cleansed,” Henriette intoned. “You must be cleansed of your transgressions.”

  Joseph was undressing him—removing his coat—yet Moody clutched the negative to his chest. He felt the throb of it, at one with his heart as it had been on this journey, but Henriette nodded and then the negative was in her hands. The negative had gone to her … a child running back. Moody had not been able to hold onto it any longer.

  Henriette removed the negative from its case and propped it on a table. There was nothing ceremonious about what she had done. It might have been any old picture …

  The neg
ative stared at him. Isabelle stared at him … though he could only catch glimpses of her in the uneven shades of the lamplight now. She had faded even more—receded farther into the blackness. His obsession had been for nothing. The protection, the pursuit … in the end, it would all come to nothing.

  She was leaving him again. He was a fool to believe anything else. She had never really belonged to him. She had always belonged to them.

  All of his clothes were now in a pile at his feet. He was exposed, and yet he was enshrouded by what surrounded him. Joseph gently took his arm and led him across the room. Henriette was waiting for him there.

  “And now,” Henriette said, “we go.”

  She held out her hands toward him.

  “We go back—to get rid of this junk.”

  Moody touched the old hands. They were smooth, as if dusted with chalk. Her bracelets surrounded her wrists like dead ribbons on an old tree.

  And then he was in it—in the water. He could not remember stepping into the tub. It was as if Henriette’s hands had transported him there. Time and space no longer held any reason.

  The wooden panels of the cabin smelled of an age-old must.

  What were they trying to tell him? What was it that they knew?

  Moody stood in the washtub, his body free in its nakedness, as Henriette held the gourd, and began dousing his shoulders with water. There was a scent to the water—something unusual, something herbal. Henriette had collected this water and suffused it with summer herbs.

  Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean:

  Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

  The words had come from somewhere. The words had come from Joseph.

  “He knows what to do,” Henriette told Moody. “He is smarter than you think. He has led you the right way. You should count yourself lucky, photographer.”

  Moody looked at her, unresponsive. She was pouring the water over his head.

  “Do as he does,” Henriette whispered.

  Then, as if angered:

  “Moody, say the words!”

  Moody repeated the strange verse that Joseph had been chanting. He felt foolish reciting it, even in his altered state. These were not his words. These kinds of words belonged to others.