As they reached the end of the corridor, Mina glanced up the narrow unlit stairs which were uncarpeted and made a sharp turn to the upper apartments. There was a faint odour of old wood and chemicals.
‘This is the studio,’ said Mr Beckler, opening the door opposite the stairs.
‘This is where the famous spirit photograph was taken?’ asked Mrs McClelland.
‘All the indoor pictures are taken here. The conversion to a studio was carried out many years ago by the previous owner, Mr Simpson.’
‘Who is rumoured to haunt the premises, I believe?’ said Mrs McClelland, but Mina thought from her tone of voice that she was teasing.
‘So I have been told,’ said Mr Beckler.
Mina had not entered the studio since Mr Simpson had taken the pictures that followed Enid’s wedding. There were sets of blinds which were only partially open, and Mr Beckler drew them fully back to reveal a room devoted to the gathering of light. The sun was high and blazed through the glass roof, its heat penetrating the rear wall which was also mostly composed of glass and looked out onto a walled yard. If there had not been some carefully placed ventilation, it would have been unbearably stifling.
Mina now saw, bathed in sunlight, the furnishings depicted in the spirit photograph, the small decorative plant table and balloon back dining chair. There was also, out of range of the camera lens, a garment stand so that sitters could divest themselves of coats and hats if they wished, and a rotating mirror on a wheeled wooden platform to reflect light if needed. The studio also offered a choice of vases, potted plants, ornaments, paintings and seating. The camera, a substantial device with a square bellows arrangement which enabled its length to be adjusted, sat on a robust wooden stand with screws and ratchets and a turning handle. The sight of such apparatus always evoked a slight shudder from Mina. She had once been encased in a steel corset in a futile effort to correct her scoliosis and recalled the rhythmic clicking of the ratchets as the garment was tightened in an attempt to force her spine straight. She breathed carefully to calm herself and pushed the memory away. This was no torture device but simply a means of raising and lowering the camera.
The area of wall that formed a backdrop to the portrait had been newly painted in plain light grey which helped soften the glare, and a set of pale blue curtains hung from a wooden pole enabling them to be drawn across, tied back or tastefully draped as required. Mina regarded the curtains with suspicion. Things or people could hide behind curtains. Was this the secret of the spirit photograph? Did Mr Beckler, unknown to Miss Hartop who would have been facing the camera, conceal an accomplice there? Did the accomplice then surreptitiously draw the covering back to became part of the picture, then adjust it later for concealment?
Mina walked over to the curtains and twitched one edge aside. The fabric hung close to a wall of whitewashed brick, and she estimated that an individual could not hide behind it without revealing his or her presence. A painting, however, or another photograph was very possible, although the surface of the wall had no picture hooks nor any sign that anything had ever been attached there. She glanced around. Mr Beckler was gazing at her, and it was evident that he knew very well what she was doing. She let go of the curtain.
‘And is this where Miss Hartop was sitting?’ asked Mrs McClelland, pointing to the chair.
‘Yes, in this very chair.’
Mrs McClelland moved to stand behind the camera and looked about her. ‘I see only the room,’ she said. ‘And when you took the portrait, there was no other person in the room?’
‘Only Miss Hartop’s maid, who was seated there —’ he gestured towards a chair by the side wall — ‘and she did not move from her place during the entire proceedings and saw nothing unusual. I can assure you I did not see the spirit until I saw the image on the glass negative and even then, I hardly believed what it was until the picture was printed.’
‘Well, that is a mystery,’ observed Mrs McClelland, but offered no further comment.
‘It is. I am utterly at a loss to know how the image appeared on the plate and can only conclude that the camera was able to record something that the eye could not see. It may be something that science will one day explain, or it may be forever beyond any human understanding.’
Mina was examining the selection of decorative paintings in the studio, but they were all landscapes.
‘Has there been another such image since then?’ asked Mrs McClelland.
Mr Beckler risked a shy smile. ‘I have been working towards that end, but in view of the public interest I can say nothing more at this juncture.’
‘How intriguing,’ said Mrs McClelland. She turned to Mina. ‘You are very quiet, Miss Scarletti. I had anticipated that you would be full of the most interesting questions.’
Mina was careful to address the lady. ‘I am thinking that I know nothing about the way in which a photograph is made. Even my brother who works here has been unable to enlighten me.’
‘To give a simple description,’ said Mr Beckler, ‘I use a process that has been perfected over the last ten years or so. I first coat a clean glass plate in a preparation called collodion, then when that is set, I dip the plate in a solution of silver nitrate which is very sensitive to light. This solution alone will not adhere to glass, but it will form a coat on the collodion. The prepared plate has to be kept in a special slide to protect it from the light until it is put in the camera where in taking the photograph it is exposed to the light coming through the lens. This causes the image to be created on the glass. The image cannot last long and must be fixed by bathing it in a chemical solution. Potassium cyanide is the best thing for that purpose. Then it is varnished to protect it. But this is just the first part. The image that forms on the plate due to the action of the light is a negative. This means that what we see as light is dark on the plate and vice versa. The plate is put in a frame with sensitised paper and exposed to sunlight for the production of the prints.’
‘Well, that is a very clear explanation,’ said Mrs McClelland. ‘So it is not one simple action of the camera?’
‘No, there are several stages of preparation before the operation of the camera and then there is further work to be done afterwards.’
She gave him a humorously cynical look. ‘Now you must be honest with us, Mr Beckler. Are you sure there was no mischievous person who could have altered the glass plate afterwards?’
Mr Beckler smiled politely. ‘No one carried out that operation but myself. Neither are the plates left unattended. When I take portraits in the studio, I use a wet coating on the plate which must be used very quickly. I think it gives the sharpest results. Not long ago, photographers who travelled at any distance from their studio were obliged to take a folding portable darkroom with them. But there is a new kind of coating quite recently invented, where the plate is not wet but allowed to dry, and the glass can be prepared well in advance and processed when it is brought back to the studio. That is the method I use when I take pictures in town. Here, however, the entire operation must be completed in minutes. There is simply no opportunity for any hand other than mine to touch the plates or the chemicals.’
Mrs McClelland studied the camera through the lenses of her lorgnette. ‘I suppose the ghost image could not have been an accident?’
‘I am unable to say. No lady of that description was present during any of the work done to make the image. In fact, I can truthfully say that I have never photographed or even met the lady whose image appeared. The work is carried out by myself, alone in the darkroom.’
‘This darkroom you mention,’ said Mrs McClelland, ‘it sounds fascinating. Like a dark séance. Spirit mediums claim that darkness is essential for the visitations of the spirits. Light is the enemy. It chases them away. What do you say, Miss Scarletti?’
Mina chose her words carefully. ‘It is certainly true that séances conducted in darkness achieve far more convincing results than those where light is allowed.’
‘Would you show us your
darkroom, Mr Beckler?’ asked Mrs McClelland. ‘I mean, it makes me wonder — how can you work there when it is dark?’
‘It is only white light that has to be excluded but — well, you can see for yourself. I don’t usually encourage visitors in view of the dangerous chemicals, but on this occasion … come this way.’
Leaving the studio, Mr Beckler produced a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked another door. They entered a room where the light was so dim that it took a little while for their eyes to make out any details. The contrast with the studio could not have been greater. Just as the studio had been designed to admit the maximum light, this room was designed to exclude it. There was a single small window, and this was glazed in yellow glass which allowed in a strange sickly glow.
‘Sunlight will affect the silvered plate,’ said Mr Beckler, ‘as will the light of burning magnesium. Gas and candlelight have very little effect. All the same, it is best to have as little light in the room as possible.’
They moved about the room, Mr Beckler pointing out the tools and materials of his profession. The air was heavily scented with chemicals. There was a pervading deep musty odour, with hints of bitterness and a tang like vinegar. Mina cast her glance over the labelled glass bottles on the shelves. Many were too high for her to reach or read, but she was able to make out Argentum Nitricum, Acetas Natricus, and more mysteriously K.Cy. A paper packet had a faded chemist’s label saying simply ‘Poison’.
‘That is not for photography,’ explained Mr Beckler. ‘It’s white arsenic. I think Mr Simpson used it to destroy vermin.’
‘It is as well that the room is kept locked,’ observed Mrs McClelland. ‘My husband is always so very careful about keeping his medicines secure. Only his most trusted assistants are allowed to touch them.’
Mina said nothing but could only feel relieved that the room was not accessible to Richard. There were other things for the visitors to see: the sink for washing glass plates, racks for drying them, trays for the silver dipping process, a shallow bath for sensitising paper, and printing frames, ready to be taken outside and exposed to sunlight.
Mina, though interested, was relieved to emerge from the darkroom. Mr Beckler locked the door and they returned to the shop to find that Mr Winstanley had departed, and Miss Hartop was engaging Richard in conversation.
‘The darkroom is so very fascinating,’ Miss Hartop said. ‘What a wonder it is that anyone can see to work in there. And the yellow light must make one look quite ill. I am sure my complexion would not look well in there.’ She smiled up at Richard, hoping for a compliment. He did not take the bait.
‘It is trying on the eyesight, I admit,’ said Mr Beckler. ‘But one gets accustomed to it.’
‘But what of the other gentleman? He is quite elderly; how can he manage?’ Miss Hartop asked.
Mr Beckler looked puzzled. ‘The other gentleman?’
‘Yes, when you showed me the room the other day, there was another gentleman standing in the corner.’
Mr Beckler was silent. He remained surprised, but said, ‘Miss Hartop, when I showed you about the room, there was no other gentleman there. The only persons in the room were myself and you and your maid.’
Miss Hartop turned to her maid. ‘Tilly, did you not see the gentleman watching us?’
Tilly looked composed, as anyone might who was accustomed to dealing with Miss Hartop’s demands daily. ‘No, Miss, there was just yourself and Mr Beckler. I suppose it might have been a trick of the light, which was very dim.’
Miss Hartop squeezed her face into an angry frown. ‘Really, Tilly, I can think how I might imagine a shadow or a shape, but not an elderly man standing there and gazing at us.’
‘Did you hear anything?’ asked Mr Beckler. ‘Did he speak?’
Miss Hartop thought about it. ‘I heard nothing. Now you mention it, it was strange. I didn’t speak to him, as the way he stared at me was so unusual. It made me feel quite uncomfortable.’
Mr Beckler made no reply but approached the counter and opened a catalogue which bore the title ‘Photograph Frames. Our Premium Selection. Simpson and Co, Ship Street, Brighton’. He turned the pages to locate an insert with a photograph of a gentleman. ‘Was this the man you saw?’
Miss Hartop examined the picture. ‘Why yes, that was he. You see?’ she said with a triumphant squeak. ‘I didn’t make a mistake.’
The gentleman portrayed was elderly and dignified. He sat beside a table on which was a framed portrait of a lady, and an item which Mina assumed to be apparatus devoted to the art of photography, although she could not identify it. The gentleman, however, was familiar to her, and she hardly needed to read the caption.
Mr H G Simpson.
CHAPTER FIVE
The shock in the little photographer’s shop was palpable. Miss Hartop finally appeared to appreciate the implications of what she had seen and began to gasp and pant as if fighting for breath. A chair was hurriedly brought, and Tilly and Mrs McClelland assisted her into it. The smelling bottle was offered again but declined by the patient with a sharp wave of the hand as if swatting away a fly.
Mina looked at Miss Hartop closely. Her mother had threatened to faint many a time, but Mina greeted these remarks with calm acceptance, as there was never any noticeable change in her colour. The prospect of her actually fainting was rarely taken seriously but could never be safely dismissed without examination. Miss Hartop’s colour had not changed; rather, there was a calculating look in her eyes and a little smile tilting the corner of her mouth. She was a very long way from fainting.
Richard and Mina exchanged glances. Both understood without a word passing between them that the event would be the subject of later discussion. Mr Beckler was silent, but as he gazed at the photograph of the late Mr Simpson, the tips of his long thin fingers were shaking. Mina could guess his thoughts. The ghostly vision would bring another raft of fame to the shop, another nod of approval from his patron, but he must be regretting that the elusive shade had chosen Miss Hartop as his conduit.
Mr Beckler turned and looked questioningly at Mrs McClelland, then at Mina.
‘I am sorry, but I saw nothing,’ said Mrs McClelland. ‘Miss Scarletti, did you see anything? I would have thought you, with your gifts —’ she ventured.
‘I have no gifts,’ said Mina, patiently. ‘I am so sorry to disappoint you, but that is a story put about by the newspapers. I have never seen a ghost. But I have an appointment now, and I must go.’ She handed Mrs McClelland her card. ‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
‘Likewise,’ said Mrs McClelland, proffering a card in return. ‘We must take tea very soon. I would enjoy conversing with you,’ she added, meaningfully.
Mina smiled. She judged that Mrs McClelland was an astute lady who had guessed that her silence during the tour was not because she had nothing to say.
Mina began to move towards the door. As she did so, Mr Beckler darted ahead of her and opened the door with a respectful bow. ‘Miss Scarletti —’ he began. She continued on her way and left without speaking to or looking at him.
Outside, Mina paused for a moment to inhale the freshness of the clean Brighton air. It was then that the noise started. Miss Hartop had got her breath back and was using it to emit a loud, keening wail. A customer approached the shop, hesitated, cautiously opened the door, peered inside, then quickly closed the door, turned and hurried away.
Mina walked on. It was only a short stroll to the hotel along Kings Road in clement weather, and she did not trouble to take a cab. Her efforts that day existed, she realised, in an awkward place between Dr Hamid’s prescription of gentle exercise and his admonition against overstraining herself, and she was unsure as to where this expedition ranked.
Her business at the Grand Hotel was soon done without difficulty, and she was grateful for a rest from her walk, a pot of tea and a little treat. The hotel’s scones were a miracle of lightness compared with the redoubtable efforts of the Scarletti cook. The latte
r had the notable distinction of being able to last several days in a tin box, which was not, thought Mina, the first quality one looked for in a scone.
There was time for reflection. She had now seen for herself that Miss Hartop was, as she had been told, an unmitigated flirt. Like so many ladies she was attracted to Richard’s good looks, but since she lacked modesty, was unable to make a secret of it, and would probably propel herself into his lap at the first opportunity which presented itself. There was no doubt in Mina’s mind that the lady had only made such strong overtures of friendship to her because she was Richard’s sister, a strategy to bring the huntress closer to her quarry.
Miss Hartop’s sudden claim to have seen the spirit of Mr Simpson, made in Mina’s presence, was almost certainly a ploy to gain her interest and further the friendship. The lady had visited the shop many times and had had ample opportunity to examine the catalogues and see Mr Simpson’s portrait. If she had seen his ghost before, Mina would have heard about it from Richard. Mrs McClelland, on the other hand, she thought to be a kind and intelligent person and would be happy to know her better.
Mina had never denied her interest in the activities of spirit mediums. It was clear, however, that her reputation for being a medium herself, initiated by Mr Hope and further spread by the newspapers, persisted. Many practitioners she had found were well-meaning persons. They offered genuine comfort and reassurance to their clients for a modest fee, or even for none. Others, however, were criminals, draining their trusting victims of gold and casting them aside when they offered no further sustenance. Mina’s recent exploits in unmasking these leeches were unfortunately seen by some as merely disposing of rivals.
Here, Mina was obliged to pause in her ruminations and consider all the possibilities. Without actual evidence, she could not entirely discount that Miss Hartop really had seen the ghost of Mr Simpson. Perhaps the image on the photograph was genuine, perhaps despite all her vigorous protests she really did have the powers she obstinately refused to acknowledge? Mina sighed and poured herself another cup of tea. Her reflections, she thought, would be so much simpler if she did not spend so much of her private time devising stories with surprise endings.
The Cyanide Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 6) Page 5
