by E. E. Holmes
I felt him a second before I heard him, and so I managed not to jump too badly as his gruff voice echoed down the alley.
“You came.”
I turned, keeping my face a mask of calm. If I remained calm, I had found, the spirits I interacted with had a better chance of staying calm, too.
“Yes, I did. I could tell that you needed my help.”
He stepped out of a shadow, taking form before my eyes. He was short but broad, with a torso like a whisky barrel and muscular arms. He was glaring suspiciously at me through one eye—the other one seemed to be swollen shut. “’Ow is it you can see me, then? Ain’t never met no one what could see me before.”
“It’s my… talent. My gift,” I said, knowing a true, detailed explanation would try this man’s patience. “It’s also my job, to help spirits such as yourself.”
The man snorted. “Some job. ‘Ow’d you get landed wif it, then, a little scrap of a thing like you?”
I smiled grimly. “Just lucky, I guess. Can you remember your name?”
“What you mean, then? O’ course I can remember me own name! It’s Albie Turner,” the man said, thrusting his chest out in front of him and bellowed, “A name I intend to clear, you ‘ear me?”
“Loud and clear, Mr. Turner,” I said gently. “I’m glad to help with that. Why don’t you tell me why you need your name to be cleared?”
“They think I killed me girl, Rosie, but I never. She never come back, see, from her shift at the factory. We looked for ‘er all over, and couldn’t find no trace of ‘er.” He swallowed hard, and his lips trembled. “I was lost without her. Then, she done washed up on the shores of the Thames. The coppers said some pigeon-livered scum strangled her and… and other things.” He looked down at his own feet, breathing heavily, trying to master his anger. “They came down the Red Dragon to bring me in for questioning. I told ‘em, I says, I ain’t going nowhere with you. I ain’t done nothing and I want to help find the monster what killed my Rosie.”
“Then what happened?” I prompted, after a few moments of silence.
“I tried to run. I know it was stupid, but I was half-mad with grief and I’d drunk meself near under the table. I fell out into the street as a lorry was passin’. Killed on the spot, I was,” Albie said quietly.
I waited a few moments to allow him to reflect as he needed to on his own demise. It couldn’t be an easy thing to think about, even more than a hundred years later.
“What happened after that, Albie?” I asked.
“Got confused. Lost,” Albie said, furrowing his brow like he had a hard time recalling the details. “Took me a while to get my head clear. When I managed it, all I wanted was to find my Rosie. I searched and searched, but I couldn’t never find her. At last, I figured she’d gone on to ‘eaven. She was always too good for me, too good for this world, and that’s the God’s honest truth. Why should she wait around for the likes of me?”
“So, why didn’t you follow her?” I asked him. “Once you realized she was gone, didn’t you want to go, too?”
Albie looked at me suspiciously. “I ain’t spent as much time in a church as I ought, it’s true, but I know a thing or two about good and bad. I done bad things in my life, and I ain’t never made ‘em right. I don’t trust what’s waitin’ for me on the other side of that… that thing you’re tempting me with.”
“Well, if you don’t want to Cross, how can I help you, Albie? Why did you reach out to me?”
Albie licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Well, now, like I said, I done some bad things in my life. I admit to it, and I’ll accept what’s comin’ to me, whatever that might be. But I never done nothing so ‘orrible as what they think I did to my Rosie, I swear to it. And I been trying for a while now to find a way to clear me name, see? But…” he looked around him, at a city he didn’t know any more. “It’s all so strange now… the places… everything looks different, and I don’t reckon I know where to start.”
“You came to me,” I said, trying a tentative smile. “That was a good place to start.”
Albie’s face brightened at once. “You think you can help me?”
I nodded. “I’ve got an important tool you haven’t got, Albie.”
“What’s that, then?” Albie asked.
I held up my phone. “The internet.”
Albie looked mystified. “What the devil—”
“Your Rosie,” I said, cutting him off before I had to launch into an explanation of modern technology, “Was her full name Rose Hathaway?”
Albie gasped. “That’s right! ‘Ow did you… I ain’t never told you that!”
I tapped the phone screen. “God bless the British Library.”
“What do you—”
“They’ve got a wonderful digital archive,” I told him. “You can access it from almost anywhere.” I saw the bewildered look on his face and adjusted a bit. “Sorry, I got ahead of you there. They have a collection of old newspapers. Do you remember Rosie’s death being in the papers?”
Albie nodded. “It was awful, seeing her name over and over again like that.”
“Well, Rosie’s wasn’t the only name in the paper at that time. Other women were attacked as well, three of them. Did you know that?” I asked him, holding up the phone screen so that he could see the image of the headline and article I had pulled up.
“No, I never ‘eard,” Albie said, eyes wide as he took in the words, then pointed to the phone. “What is that contraption, then? I seen people all over the city with them.”
“Never mind that, it’s not important,” I said. “Now, it says here that Rosie’s body was found on the 12th of May 1889, is that right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right,” Albie said.
“And you died… when?” I asked gently.
“Next day,” Albie said. “May the 13th.”
“Well, these three other women who were attacked, Mary Murray, Ann Gladstone, and Irene King—they were all killed after you died, from late May to early July, all strangled, and all dumped in the river, just like Rosie. Their killer was caught, tried, and convicted in December of that same year. His name was Edward Hobbs. They hanged him.”
Albie blinked. “They… they caught him? The man what killed my Rosie?”
“Yes,” I told him. “And executed him. He was found guilty of all four crimes.”
Albie closed his eyes and mouthed silently to himself. Finally he whispered, “I prayed. I prayed so many times that he would rot for what he did. But then I thought, that’s not a prayer that anyone’s goin’ to answer. It ain’t right, praying for another man’s destruction. But I did it. I did it every day.”
“It’s not wrong to want justice for Rosie,” I told him gently. “And she got it, in the end.”
Albie didn’t seem able to speak. He just nodded and sniffed loudly, dragging the back of his hand across his face.
“So, now that you know that your name is clear, what do you think about… maybe… Crossing?” I asked him.
He looked wary again. “That… that’s that feelin’ I’ve got. That pull, then?”
“Yes,” I told him. “It’s how you found me, and it’s how you’ll find Rosie as well.”
“Well,” he said, sounding very nervous now. “Guess I ain’t really got no reason to stay, now I know what you told me. But…”
“If the only thing holding you back is your fear, don’t let it,” I told him. “It’s where you’re meant to be, surely you can feel that.”
“Aye, that I do, to be sure,” Albie said, still sounding wary.
“Have you ever felt that sense of belonging before in life?” I ventured.
Albie’s eyes began to sparkle. “Every time I was with Rosie,” he murmured.
“Then why not go join her?” I asked him. “I’m sure she’s been waiting on you.”
Albie sniffed loudly. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Ain’t never regretted a moment I spent with her, even knowin’ how it ended.”
; “I don’t think you’ll regret this either,” I told him.
Albie took a slow, deep breath, and then blew it out. “All right then. I trust you. But is there any reason I should use this one?” Albie asked, pointing at me.
I frowned. “This one?”
“Well, yeah,” Albie said. “I mean, I know you ain’t the only one is town. There’s another one right up the road ‘ere.” He cocked his thumb over his shoulder back toward the main road.
“Hold up,” I said, laughing incredulously. “Another Gateway? On this street? You’re joking, right?”
“Wouldn’t joke about something like that,” Albie said. “It’s just there, at Pickwick’s.”
My heart skipped a beat, then pumped into overdrive. “Pickwick’s? Are you talking about Pickwick’s History of Photography? The museum?”
“That’s the one, all right,” Albie agreed. “Been feeling that pull for a bit now, but I ain’t never been tempted.”
I hesitated only a moment. I had promised Tia that we would visit the museum together, and I felt guilty going without her. At the same time, it was just too much of a coincidence to ignore that this spirit would lead me practically to its doorstep. How could I come this close and not at least get a peek? Charlie had said he was working Tuesday and Thursday, and I could just pretend I had just happened to be in the neighborhood… which was true, leaving out the bizarre circumstances that had brought me here. And I could always call on Milo if I wanted a second opinion or needed help. A tiny voice in the back of my head woke up and whispered, so quietly that I could almost pretend to ignore it, “Finn would be so pissed if he knew you were going to this place alone.”
Finn’s not here, I told the voice. And he’s not going to be, so we might as well stop waiting around for his permission. We’re never going to get it.
I turned back to Albie.
“Can you show me where it is?” I asked. “I just want to take a quick look around.”
Albie looked surprised, but nodded. “‘Appy to oblige. Least I can do, seeing as ‘ow you ‘elped me today.”
Albie picked up his chimney sweeping brush, slung it over his shoulder, and set out in front of me, whistling a tune as he walked. He led me out of the alley and strolled along the main street, utterly at his ease amongst a throng of modern-day Londoners going about their digital, hashtagged existences.
Damn, being a ghost must be really weird sometimes.
We crossed Fleet Street and had followed two quieter side streets only a couple of blocks when Albie stopped, swung the chimney brush from his shoulder and pointed it down a side street.
“Right there on your left, duckie. Pickwick’s History of Photography in Gough Square. ‘Course, it was just a place to get your likeness taken back in my day. Never had two farthings to make a jingle in me pocket back then. Watch yourself,” he added, his face suddenly grave. “They don’t all take as kindly to living folk as I do, and you will certainly attract some attention.”
“I’ll be careful, thank you,” I assured him. “And will you think about my offer? To Cross you over?”
He tipped his hat respectfully. “I will, at that,” he said. “And if I decide to accept?”
“Just reach out and find me, like you did with the drawing. It should be a lot easier now, since we’ve spent a bit of time together. Any time you’re ready, we can arrange it.”
“Cheerio, then, miss,” Albie said. “I won’t never forget the help you gave me.”
I watched as Albie turned on the spot and walked back the way we had come, his form fading with each step until he vanished altogether. I sighed, pushing away the sorrow of his story, forcing him to take it with him. I couldn’t afford to have it clinging to me, weighing me down. I needed a clear head for what I was about to do. I turned and faced the building.
30
Pickwick’s History of Photography
PICKWICK’S HISTORY OF PHOTOGRAPHY looked like something straight out of a Dickensian fantasy, an impression that was only strengthened by the fact that I had followed behind an actual chimney sweep to get there. The building itself was so old that the bricks had a faded, rounded, crumbling look to them, and the whole structure seemed to lean slightly to one side, like a block tower a child might build. It seemed out of danger of tumbling over in the same manner as a block tower, though, due to the fact that it was wedged so tightly against the buildings on either side of it. The top two stories were brick, while the street level was paneled in shiny lacquered black wood set with a tall row of glass windows through which displays and glimpses of the museum itself might be gazed at. No one was gazing, however. People drifted by Pickwick’s as though it were a ghost itself; old, forgotten, and practically invisible. Peeling, gilded gold letters were painted across the top of the lacquered panels: “Pickwick’s History of Photography.” The front door, with an ornate brass doorknob right in the center, was painted a bright lilac purple. And beside it, an old lamppost had been affixed to the wall, a sputtering gas flame burning inside it, even in daylight.
All of this would have been sufficient to pique my curiosity about the place. The chilling and overpowering aura of concentrated spirit energy was just the icing on this weird cake of a situation.
I approached carefully and peered into the first window. A length of red velvet had been draped across a multilevel display case, which showcased a number of dusty old cameras and other gadgets I could only assume were used with them, though what they were, I couldn’t say. In front of each piece was a small, blue-lined notecard pinned to the fabric, on which someone had typed out the name of each device. The labels looked like they’d been typed on a vintage typewriter, because the letters had that slightly askew typeset quality to them. Although, I thought to myself, the labels looked so old, curled, and faded, that the typewriter used to create them might have been state-of-the-art at the time.
I skirted a large hanging basket of red geraniums and looked into the next window. Here, a wooden dummy of a woman in a high-necked Victorian gown sat on a wooden stool as though posing for a photograph. What could be seen of her faded, painted expression was somewhat dour. Before her, another dummy of a man in a jacket with coattails was bent over behind a camera on a tripod. The top half of his body was obscured beneath a black velvet cloth save for his left arm, which was raised above him holding a dented metal tray meant to hold flash powder. I recognized the setup from old movies, where the photographer would usually wind up disappearing behind a puff of smoke and emerge coughing with a blackened face and a singed moustache. I smirked and moved on. The third and final window display held a number of framed sepia-toned portraits suspended from fishing line, so that they seemed to float in the air behind the dusty glass. I was so engrossed in looking at them that I didn’t notice the little boy with his face pressed to the glass of the front door.
“Oh!” I said in surprise when I looked down and saw his dirt-smudged face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice…” But my voice trailed away. The boy wore a pageboy cap, fingerless gloves, and knickers, and the dirty little face that glared up at me had long since been buried.
“It’s not what you think,” he said to me, his little mouth puckered in an expression of extreme consternation.
“What’s not what I think?” I asked him.
He pointed a filthy little finger at the glass door of the museum. “Don’t let her fool you, that woman. It’s not what you think.”
“What are you…?” The end of my question was lost in a gasp as the tiny figure shot up from the ground so that his smudged and freckled nose was barely an inch from mine. His eyes were so dark they looked bottomless.
“It’s not real!” he hissed at me, and then vanished.
I stood for a moment with my heart in my throat. Then I exhaled slowly, stepped forward, and placed my hand on the doorknob. Typically, when the ghost of a Dickensian street urchin warns you against entering a place, you run screaming.
When you’re me, you pop inside for a look around.
A friendly little bell jingled upon the opening of the door.
My first thought as I looked around Pickwick’s History of Photography, was that I wasn’t entirely sure it knew what it was supposed to be. The walls were covered in an ornate gold and green wallpaper. Gas lamps flickered in sconces at intervals along the walls. A chandelier hung from a medallion in the center of the ceiling, and a number of settees and fainting couches had been set along the walls. In this respect, it looked like a Victorian era parlor of some sort. But between the couches were tall glass cases full of an assortment of photography artifacts of various shapes and sizes, from tiny snippets of film negative and batteries, to what seemed to be an early movie camera on wheels. On the walls between the cases, velvet drapes hung in folds to the floor, swept back with gold-tasseled tie-backs to reveal not windows, but collections of framed photographs. Glass-topped display cases stood all around the center of the room, crammed full of still more artifacts, and from what I could see, the collection continued into two further rooms and partially up a narrow staircase. The air was thick with dust, mildew, and the chill of spirit presence.
“Um, hello?” I called.
“We’re still closed!” called a woman’s muffled voice from one of the back rooms.
“Oh, I’m sorry. The sign says ten o’clock.”
“So, common sense should tell you to wait until ten o’clock before trying the door,” the woman’s aggravated voice replied.
“It’s 10:07,” I told her, checking my phone display.
“What?! Oh my… hang on, I’ll be right with you!” I heard a series of bangs, a bit of cursing, and then a woman emerged from the far door, rubbing her hands on the pant legs of her jeans and wiping sweat from her brow with a white handkerchief. She was a tall, thin woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with thick, dark hair pinned up under a bandana and a deep olive complexion that was shining with sweat and sticky with dust. She looked up at the clock on the wall. It said 9:20. She looked down at her watch and swore again. Then she looked up and smiled a bit maniacally at me.
