by David Marcum
The Blank Photograph
by James Moffett
Having been Sherlock Holmes’s lodging companion and friend for a number of years has exposed me to numerous sinister and bizarre adventures, not least this most eerie account that I now present. Accustomed as I was to the inherent dangers that normally followed my friend and myself in many situations, I must impress upon the reader that the following case almost broke my will and resolve as we were faced with an inexplicable dilemma.
It was a few weeks after a series of unremarkable events early in the year 1888, and I was just settling down for my morning breakfast when London’s finest consulting detective burst through the door with uncontained excitement. Unlike other types of behaviour I have witnessed from my friend, except in the most extraordinary of circumstances, words seemed to stick in his mouth as he mercilessly waved a sheet of paper in his right hand. A sense of utter elation and glee was written upon his face, and the smile which accompanied it reminded me of a euphoric child who had just acquired a new play-toy.
“Remarkable!” he finally spat out as he came towards me and sat down with a loud thud. “Astonishing,” he added, pulling away the breakfast plate I had started and replacing it with the sheet of paper. On any other occasion, Holmes’s attitude would have come across as intrusive at best, even accustomed as I was to his frequent outlandish conduct. However, his excitement that morning filled me with curiosity at the prospect of discovering what had shattered my friend’s cold demeanour to the point of elation.
Picking up the paper presented to me, I realised it was made of a thicker texture, almost like a card, whilst it was smoother than a newspaper or a writing sheet. Yet, there was nothing to be seen on its yellow-stained surface except for a few dark smudges. Turning it round yielded no more than yet another bare side.
“A literal mystery!” Holmes exclaimed, after a few moments of silence - his smile intensifying.
“But it’s blank,” I groaned, frustrated at his antics and the disappointing conclusion to my initial prospects. Throwing the paper back onto the table, I cautiously reached out for my plate.
“Precisely. That is the mystery,” my companion replied calmly. “Although,” he added, taking the paper away and standing back up, “it is not entirely blank.”
He held it up in both his hands, close to his face. His tall, lean figure, scrutinising every detail of such a seemingly trivial object, was both fascinating and exhausting.
“You see, Watson, what we have here is a piece of paper coated in a combination of sodium chloride and egg white - hence the presence of that faint yellow tint on both surfaces. The dark shades, which you most likely confused with careless smudges or dismissed entirely, are in fact fragments of light after having been filtered through a piece of glass and exposed onto the paper, thereby capturing a pictorial representation of our physical world.” He paused as he looked at me once more, realising the confused expression I bore.
“In conclusion, this is a photographic print,” he said, before walking over to his desk and sitting down, hunched over the paper, and examining it with the aid of his magnifying glass.
“A curious thing, no doubt, though such a pity about the individual who produced it,” added Holmes once more. He kept his gaze fixed on the intricacies of the object.
“How so?” I remarked, resettling to enjoy the rest of my breakfast, hopefully without interruption.
“For it is a vain pursuit. A man who calls himself a professional in this particular field is either in the habit of deceiving others or, as is likely in this case, misleading himself. Such a pity, given Mrs. Dillenberger’s gentle disposition.”
“Who?” I asked, unable to understand what my companion was trying to say.
“It was sent to me by a young woman of pristine reputation, as my inquiries have shown - someone who has no reason to lie or fabricate any such skillful deception.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Holmes?” I grunted. My initial frustration at his intrusion was slowly starting to rise at the continuous riddle-talk, so often a characteristic of many conversations that always preceded some sinister case upon which we were about to embark. At that instant, the doorbell rang with vigorous persistence before loud thuds were heard downstairs.
“I believe you are about to find out for yourself,” added Holmes with a mischievous grin in my direction. Leaping up from his desk with brisk vitality, he made his way towards the entrance and waited by the open door as the sound of footsteps was heard on the staircase.
“Quick, Watson! A new client is soon upon us!”
Abandoning the remainder of my spoilt breakfast, I left the table and headed towards Holmes, who had just then extended his hand in greeting.
“Mrs. Dillenberger,“ he said, “thank you for the impeccable timing of your arrival.” Holmes glanced briefly at his pocket watch before introducing me to the woman. She was of medium height with a stocky frame. Curls of displaced auburn hair protruded from under the brown bonnet carelessly placed on her head. Her cheeks were red and her forehead bore a trace of perspiration. She looked at me with clear hazel eyes through round-rimmed glasses.
“My pleasure, Doctor Watson,” she said, somewhat out of breath. Her kind smile was tinged with a hint of embarrassment and concern, a considerable difference from Holmes, who was smiling without any sign of stopping. His eyes shone bright as soon as Mrs. Dillenberger walked in. He gestured towards the sofa with enthusiasm before inviting me to sit down in our respective armchairs.
“I am quite aware as to what brings you here, madam. Yet, for the sake of my companion and the instrumental reassessment of the facts, I would not call it amiss if you were to relate your most fascinating account once more.” His tone of voice and expression were inviting, and he soon settled quite comfortably in his chair, before closing his eyes as our client began to speak.
“I can find few words that will assist in describing what has occurred to me and my husband. Dear Lord! Even now, in the light of a hopeful day, a chill of fear at the haunting memories prevents me from saying much.”
Mrs. Dillenberger’s quaky voice filled the silence surrounding our sitting room. The bustle of pedestrians and traffic was like a distant murmur, locked outside and uncared for, as I sat enraptured by the woman’s account. She closed her eyes momentarily, as if recalling the right words before continuing.
“I live with my husband in a quaint house just off the end of Willow Road, overlooking Hampstead Heath. It is a quiet, respectable area, and we have been living there rather contentedly for a number of years now. Roger - my husband that is - had inherited the house from his uncle and, given our deprived financial situation at the time, we found ourselves delivered from an unpleasant fate. This, however, was not sufficient for us to live comfortably.”
“Pardon my interruption Mrs. Dillenberger, but I believe your note indicated that your husband spent some time abroad, did he not?” Holmes leaned forward in his armchair, his unflinching eyes staring at our anxious client.
“That is correct,” she said. “A few years before we met, he was part of an expedition to South America. There he served as an assistant to Sir Henry Williams, the naturalist, during his explorations in the Amazonian jungles. I know little about Roger’s journey to that god-forsaken wilderness, for he has never spoken much about the trials he faced there. No doubt it left many scars in his mind as rumours surfaced of the explorers facing appalling weather conditions, disease, and being savagely pursued by local tribes. Suffice to say, the expedition was a failure and my husband returned to England a broken man. Yet, he seemed to recover some time later, following our meeting and subsequent marriage. He used the scant knowledge of chemicals he had gained in his adventures by assisting a local apothecary. However, this new beginning seemed ill-fated. The shop owner could no longer afford the employment of another person, and Roger was once more without
any means to provide for the two of us.”
The woman demonstrated a strong and steady resolve of character, yet the account she now gave us seemed to overwhelm her. She paused and breathed weakly, as if the memory of that cruel time still pained her like an open wound.
“It was just over a year ago when Roger decided to embark on the strangest of professions. I have long suspected that his travels through the South American jungles caused him to reconsider the way in which he looked at the world. What unimaginable fears and bizarre ordeals he faced are only too clear now.”
“I am sorry Mrs. Dillenberger, but I am afraid I do not follow you,” I interrupted, giving a sidelong glance at Holmes, who had his eyes closed.
“You see, Doctor Watson, my husband is a spirit photographer.”
“A what?” I blurted out, feeling a sudden sense of incredulity and confusion.
“A spirit photographer, Watson,” proclaimed Sherlock Holmes. “An individual who has decided to abandon all forms of reason in pursuit of the vain and the ludicrous. Pardon me Mrs. Dillenberger,” he added, as a side remark to our client, who seemed to agree with my friend’s opinion.
“A few weeks ago I would have said the same things you spoke of just now, Mr. Holmes. Roger’s obsession of capturing spectres and glimpses of dead relatives for their grieving loved ones seemed to me absurd and altogether troublesome. Undoubtedly, however, his services were well-received by the community, and I will not lie in confessing that it gave us some much-needed income, although we still struggle. Yet,” and here our client gave a long, exhaustive inhalation, “what I have been a witness to these last few days defies human logic.”
Holmes opened his eyes and leaned forward once more, listening attentively to Mrs. Dillenberger’s slow but clear words.
“As I have already explained to you, Mr. Holmes, Roger happened to be testing his photographic machine in the attic of our house. He always said it was the best place to do so, given the lack of sunlight available and the sensitive equipment he utilised. It was last Thursday when strange things started to occur. That photograph,” Mrs. Dillenberger said, as she pointed towards the item on the table in front of us, “was one of several he produced that day, each with the same result.”
“Every time and the same exact location?” asked my companion.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. ‘A photographic anomaly’, he called it at first.” Mrs. Dillenberger shifted in her seat and a frown appeared on her brow. “He seemed fascinated by it, and tried taking photographs from different points of the attic, all producing the same blank photographs. That’s when he claimed he began to hear strange noises and have a feeling of uneasiness surrounding him. He would say nothing more and forbade me from ever approaching the attic. Which is why I decided to come to you, after witnessing his strange behaviour. I was helpless and knew of no friends in whom I could confide about these most irregular events. I had thought of consulting a doctor, but Roger has always been a stalwart man, sound of mind and in control of his emotions.”
She gave a gentle sob, wiping the tears from her left cheek.
“I’ve doubted the resolve of his sanity ever since he embarked on this peculiar profession, and thus I was uncertain whether I should have contacted you or a medical man. Yet, yesterday’s events have me almost convinced that our physical reality is but one of yet another, a more sinister and unreachable shadow world.
“The sun had just set when I made my way towards our bedroom. As I approached the darkened corridor, I heard what I thought was a muffled yelp coming from the attic. Soon I saw Roger coming down towards me, pale-faced and shaking uncontrollably, bearing a photograph in his hands.
“‘Malpacu’s vengance!’” he cried, and would say no more. He has now fallen into a fever of sorts, and my existence seems suddenly bereft of any hope for a normal life.”
“Come, come Mrs. Dillenberger!” exclaimed my friend, placing a comforting hand on our client’s shoulder. “What do you think was the cause for your husband’s sudden distress?”
“Undoubtedly it was this,” she said, producing a photograph and placing it on the table. “It is more disturbing than the one I sent to you with my request for an appointment.” Holmes reached out for it and, standing up abruptly, he examined every inch of it.
“Remarkable!” he muttered.
Standing beside him I glimpsed once more what looked like another yellowish-white piece of paper with black speckles on its surface. Upon further inspection, however, the grainy fragments seemed to merge into a visible form until the unmistakable silhouette of something looming in the front of the photograph. A sudden chill crept along my spine as the bizarre image gave me uncomfortable thoughts. Surely this was some trick and not the work of a restless spirit! I looked at Holmes, who placed the faculty of Reason above everything else. His eyes were locked onto the photograph and I could clearly feel the intense emotions that suddenly ran through his brain.
“Most intriguing,” he uttered. His voice bore the same typical cold and calculating tone whenever he was presented with new clues.
“Holmes, what is that?” I asked, glancing once more at the photograph in his hands. The image was certainly far from anything resembling a human being, but one could not deny the obvious. „Surely this is not the presumed spirit of whom Mr. Dillenberger speaks?”
“Absolutely not, Watson. This,” and he held the photograph above his head, waving it carelessly about, “is but the product of a mechanical failure and the trickery of light. Yet, there is a crucial point in time when the human brain stops seeing the real world and ventures dangerously close to fantasies and illusions. That, my Good Doctor, is when a person is at his most susceptible and impressionable. Nevertheless,” he added, smiling back at a concerned Mrs. Dillenberger, „I shall endeavour to assist you and your husband by examining the premises for anything which may be amiss.”
It was quite unlike Sherlock Holmes to accept a case based on so little evidence, especially that which he had just so categorically denied. I could not understand why he decided to pursue the matter, given that he had shrugged it off so blatantly as nothing more than something trivial.
Yet, Holmes had already demonstrated his willingness to see this case through, as shown by his excitement that morning at the breakfast table. Now, he was already escorting Mrs. Dillenberger out of the front door and into Baker Street.
“Watson! Your coat and revolver,” I heard my companion shout from downstairs.
“Why would I need my revolver?” I enquired at the top of my lungs as I was putting on my coat.
Holmes had ascended the stairs with astonishing agility before peering into the room where I stood.
“Ghosts lurking in attics? Surely you do not expect us to face such danger unarmed?” he spoke lightly, with a sheepish expression on his face.
So it was that I soon found myself huddled inside a cab, having placed my revolver deep within my coat pocket, as we made our swift way to Willow Road, Hampstead Heath.
The pale-hued house at No. 24 was situated on the corner between Pilgrim’s Lane and Willow Road. As we climbed down from the cab, a cold wind blew from the west, flowing round the corner and brushing against the façade of our client’s house, towards the other side of the road, and across to the wooded park directly opposite. A light fog had settled between the trees, and the sun made no attempt to penetrate the cloudy haze that seemed to have enveloped London that day.
We followed Mrs. Dillenberger up the slippery steps, still moist with dew, and made for the front door, which was already pushed ajar, allowing a faint glimpse of the interior of the residence.
“Welcome ma’am,” proclaimed a gruff voice. A man had opened the door, inviting our client inside. His face was partly concealed by the shadows lingering in the dim hallway, yet I could descry the curly wisps of thin, grey hair dangling from his head and the crooked teeth prot
ruding from a mangled mouth.
Our client faced the man with a concerned look. She leaned closer to his right ear and her head nodded gently. A series of indistinguishable words were exchanged between the two as my companion and I arrived on the doorstep.
The man gave a low growl as if in response. “No ma’am, still in the main bedroom. Doctor said he’ll need all the rest he can get,” he said loudly.
Mrs. Dillenberger nodded gently before turning round towards us, forcing a smile, while the concerned expression she bore did nothing but intensify.
“Mr. Lynch is our household servant and has been in my husband’s employ these last few years,” said our client as we walked in, constantly under the oppressive gaze of the man. It turned out that Mr. Lynch was the only servant in the house, and given the shabby appearance of the front garden, along with the overall weathered aesthetic of the exterior, Mrs. Dillenberger’s account of their financial difficulties had not been exaggerated.
We were led towards a narrow corridor, brushing our coats against the stained wallpaper. Although there were no lights, the passage was warm and stuffy, which was a welcoming change from the keen wind blowing outside. Yet, having but taken a few more steps inside, the air became heavy with the smell of humidity and the uncomfortable sensation of moisture slowly creeping into one’s bones.
If Sherlock Holmes felt any of these symptoms, he made no attempt to reveal his discomfort. He walked defiantly behind our client, with his eyes staring at every room we passed, keeping his hands behind his back and listening to Mr. Lynch’s mutterings.
“‘Tis all nonsense, I say!” he proclaimed as he arrived at the bottom of a narrow winding staircase on the other side of the corridor. He began to climb, somewhat painfully, as evidenced by a rather severely bent back and the occasional puffing and grunting which he gave out. We all followed behind as Holmes and I allowed ourselves a glimpse of the surroundings.