Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  “Oh, my God.” I crumpled my hat in aggravation. “How do I let these things slip my mind? Roy, you handled it, I hope? You’ve done it before. Good old Roy. Thank you, man, thank you.”

  “Actually, I didn’t do the session.”

  “No?”

  “In fact, I recommended Brewster go elsewhere. To another studio.”

  “Another studio? Why? And who?”

  “The studio of Roy Pecksworth.” Roy bowed grandly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m leaving your employ, Mr. Castle. I’m setting up on my own.”

  “What? How?”

  “I’ve worked for you for over a year, Mr. Castle. You are a skillful photographer when you want to be. I’ve learned a lot from you. But my opinion of your business acumen is low. Very low.”

  Roy walked over to the desk. He picked up a handful of bills and receipts. They dribbled through his fingers. “It’s been months since you attended to these things.”

  “Roy, Roy, Roy,” I protested. “Don’t you worry about that. That’s my responsibility. You’ve got to relax. Learn how to take a good picture. I mean a really good picture. I’ve so much yet to teach you. About light, composition, modeling. Why, it’s been months since we’ve taken a field trip to the museum. Let’s plan something right now.”

  Roy held up his palm.

  “Mr. Castle, you have to think about more than art. Brewster is the third client this month you’ve missed. Despite all my reminders. And as far as your business is concerned, I’ve been doing some rough calculations. In a matter of three months, Mr. Castle, you will be out of business. Bankrupt. Broke.”

  “Broke?”

  “Unless,” Roy frowned thoughtfully, “you can come up with, oh, about a thousand pounds before then.”

  I didn’t doubt that what Roy said was absolutely true.

  “This is very good, Roy,” I said. “I mean, it’s very bad. But it’s very good that you understand these things, Roy. You can help me. You seem to understand these things very well.”

  Roy shook his head. “I’m a young man, Mr. Castle. Why should I get sucked under with you? No sir, no debacles for me. I’ve been saving my money. I rented a studio over on Crofter Street. It’s not very large or sumptuous, but it’s a start. And I already have my first client.”

  Stunned, I barely heard the rest of what he had to say. Dutiful to the last, he described his final chores for me. “. . . And I did that extra set of prints you wanted. Those blotch things. For that awful policeman. They’re drying now.”

  “Oh, thank you, Roy,” I said sorrowfully, following him to the door. I didn’t think I could change his mind, so I wished him the best of luck and assured him that I was always available for consultation — on technical matters.

  “We may be competitors in business,” I said. “But we’ll always be brothers in art.”

  “Not for long,” he laughed, starting down the stairs. “You’re going to be out of the game very quickly.”

  “Now, now, Roy.” I clattered after him. “By the way, what did you think of those blotches?”

  “The policeman things? I don’t know. They were blotches, that’s all.”

  “I mean, what do you think made them?”

  “What could have made them? I don’t know.” He laughed once more as he fitted his hat on his head. “Fairies, I suppose.”

  He laughed out the front door and all the way down the street.

  Chapter Six

  How I Vexed a Great Author

  The next day, I was walking down Victoria Street with a book in my hand. The book was Death: the Great Illusion, by Walter Barrington. Is death an illusion? Tomorrow morning, I am scheduled to find out. Back then — what seems like a thousand years ago — the question was academic.

  I didn’t care what the book said anyway. I was more interested in the address inside. It was the address of the place where the book had been purchased: The bookstore operated by the daughter of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (and financed by the great man himself). This was a bookstore devoted to psychical publications, periodicals, and paraphernalia. Sir Arthur’s secretary told me I could find him there that day, signing checks for the daughter.

  I found the bookstore located on the first floor of a modest town house. As I was about to put my hand on the door, I felt something seize my elbow.

  “So,” spoke a harsh, sibilant voice. “Going to see the devil, are you?”

  Swinging around, I reclaimed my elbow. It had been taken by a clawlike hand. Stepping back, I saw a tiny, white-haired old woman. She was dressed in black, and wore an old-fashioned “coal scuttle” bonnet.

  “What are you?” hissed the crone (a cruel word, but the first that sprang to mind). “Friend? Tradesman? Business associate? Who are you that you come to see the great devil Doyle at this fiendish shop?”

  “See here, now,” I said. I looked up and down the street, wondering what kind of district this was that it put up with aggressive lunatics accosting honest citizens. Of course, the poor old thing was to be pitied. But still — “Madam,” I said, “that is none of your business. Kindly let me pass.”

  “He’s the devil, you know,” she said. “Satan. The Anti-Christ. Lucifer.”

  “Please, let me pass.”

  “All right, all right. Maybe he’s not the devil. But he’s a very evil man. Lookie here, mister. Look at the number of this store. The street number. It’s here in brass numbers. Brazen in every way. Double that number, mister. Do it in your head. Double it and add it to the numerals of the year 1910. Now subtract fifty-nine. That’s how old he is.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “You don’t have to. I already done the ciphering. It adds up to six-six-six. That’s right: The evil number. The mark of the beast.”

  “Oh, please . . .”

  “He’s in league with the forces of darkness. He conjures spirits. He talks to Ouija boards. He thinks he’s talking to the dead, but he’s really only talking to demons. Our Savior warned us, mister. Doyle is in league with the strange and ghastly. And it is only through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ that he can be driven out. Help me, oh brother, that the precious blood of Christ can prevail over — ”

  Poor mad old thing! I reached into my purse and gave her a coin, patting her withered hand. She was babbling and inspecting the coin as I went into the shop. A little bell tinkled as I walked through the door. I glanced around. The books were separated into categories: Astrology, Automatic Writing, Life After Death, Numerology, Telekinesis, Palmistry — that sort of thing. The building also housed a “Psychic Museum.” But a sign said it was closed.

  There was only one customer in the shop. He was a pale young man with a wispy beard. When he slunk out with a purchase, I felt like an infestation had been lifted.

  “Can I help you?” asked a young lady.

  This could only be Doyle’s daughter, I thought; she resembled him about the eyes and forehead.

  “Ah, how pleased to meet you,” I said. “No books now, thank you. I’m here on personal business.”

  “Personal business?”

  “Yes. You may think my business is strange. Well, maybe you won’t. I’ll bet you hear a lot of strange things in this shop.”

  The young lady nodded. She gave a knowing smile.

  “Why, yes,” she said. “We do find ourselves involved in many phenomena that the outside world might consider — unusual.”

  We laughed together complicitly.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’ve come to speak to your father.”

  She looked startled for a moment. Then she composed herself.

  “Of course,” she said. “It can be done. I’ve spoken to him myself, you know.”

  “I should hope so,” I said, laughing.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes suddenly gazing into the far distance. “I
spoke to him only last week. He said he was very happy. He’d finally found the peace he had been seeking so long.”

  “That’s good to hear — ”

  “Not in so many words, naturally,” she said, flushing slightly. “It was a sort of rapping. One rap for yes. Two for no. But I asked if he was happy and he did rap once.”

  “There must be some sort of mistake. Isn’t your father here? In the shop? I was told he was probably in the back room.”

  The young lady eyed me with shock; her lip began to quiver. “My father has been dead for four years!” she sobbed.

  A man’s voice suddenly boomed from behind me. “She communicated with her late father at a séance,” said the voice. “I was there. I heard it all.”

  I turned around to see the tall figure of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A beaded curtain shimmied in the door-frame behind him.

  “So you’re alive,” I said.

  “I can see there’s been some confusion here. This young lady is not my daughter. She is my daughter’s employee.”

  I uttered profuse apologies to the teary-eyed young woman, but Sir Arthur cut them short. He sent the girl on some task behind the counter. Then he peered at my face.

  “We’re acquainted, aren’t we? You are Mr. . .?”

  “Castle,” I said. “Charles P. Castle.”

  The look of standard greeting fell from Sir Arthur’s face.

  “Oh,” he said. “You.”

  “Did you get my note?”

  “You said you had something to show me? Some psychical materials pertaining to . . .?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m very busy today. Did you bring them?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Would you be good enough to come upstairs?”

  The beaded curtain concealed a staircase. We climbed up to a surprisingly sunny second-floor room. There were a desk and chairs, overflowing filing cabinets, and boxes and trunks full of books.

  Sir Arthur introduced me to his real daughter, Mary; a tall, stout woman, whose features were a humbler, milder version of her father’s.

  “Bit of a misunderstanding downstairs, Mary,” said Sir Arthur. “Mr. Castle here thought Irene was you. He asked to speak to her father. It confused her. It was the sort of mix-up that can only happen among people like us — people who actually do communicate with the dead.”

  “Did Irene think Mr. Castle had come for a séance?”

  “Something like that.”

  “It must have been very funny.”

  “It was somewhat amusing.”

  Neither father nor daughter cracked a smile.

  “Mr. Castle is a photographer,” Sir Arthur went on. “He did my portrait. You remember that problem with the Italian edition, don’t you, Mary?”

  “So this is him?” Mary looked me up and down. She seemed to be memorizing my appearance for a future textbook on criminal physiognomy.

  “Let’s leave that in the past,” said Sir Arthur. “Mr. Castle sent me a letter this morning. He mentioned a subject very close to my heart right now. Can you guess what that subject is, Mary?”

  Mary cocked her head and made a fluttering motion with her fingers, mimicking a flying thing.

  Sir Arthur nodded.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re interested,” I said, half-bowing. “I think you’ll be excited by what I have to show you.”

  “I hope so too,” said Sir Arthur. He walked behind the desk and sat down. “I’m a publicly avowed spiritualist. The whole world knows my beliefs. I’m interested in spiritualism, the occult, psychic phenomena, and the supernatural. This can be a problem sometimes. I’m besieged by cranks, knaves, and fools of every description. The world of spiritualism is full of such types.”

  “Charlatans?”

  “I take great moral satisfaction in exposing the fakes,” said Sir Arthur. “But as an earnest investigator, I cannot afford to overlook anything. I simply hope that you are not going to waste my time.”

  “I hope not too.”

  “You know,” Doyle began playing with a letter opener, “your name came up a few days ago. Strange thing. It was in my office. An offensive sort of man. Said he was a policeman. He came barging in claiming to have photographs of fairies. Naturally, I was eager to see them. Unfortunately the photographs showed no such thing.”

  “The man you are speaking about is Constable Walsmear. I know. He came to consult me.”

  “Well then, I’m sorry about all that, you know. I just wanted to get rid of him. Your card was in my drawer and I just sort of grabbed it and stuck it in his hand. You should have seen this fellow, Mary. There was this air of violence about him. Violence and diffidence — a not unusual combination, really, in both criminals and policemen.”

  “In Constable Walsmear’s defense,” I said, “he seemed to be a bit of a fish out of water in London. And he was not really accustomed to meeting with prominent or famous people like yourself.”

  “Still,” said Sir Arthur. “I apologize. I hope you were able to get rid of him.”

  “Actually, that’s what I’ve come to see you about. Constable Walsmear’s photographs.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve studied them. And made a rather curious discovery.”

  I had taken the liberty of having Roy make copies of the original photos at the same time he was making the enlargements. I handed one to Sir Arthur.

  He waved it away.

  “I’ve seen this,” he said. “And those spots. Dust on the lens, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I thought so myself,” I said. “Then I had my assistant make some enlargements.”

  I pulled the crucial enlargement out of my valise and set it on the desk. The eminent author and his daughter leaned forward to look. After a moment, Sir Arthur asked, “What are we looking at?”

  “I don’t expect you to see anything at first.” I gave a chuckle of undeferrable satisfaction. “I didn’t see anything at first either. But now, note . . .”

  Using a pen as a pointer, I traced the figure in the enlargement. I tapped each anatomical point. I discoursed on the role of proportion in verisimilitude. I pulled out a piece of thin paper, and actually traced the figure off the enlargement. But I could tell early on that I wasn’t getting the proper reaction from Sir Arthur and his daughter. They evinced no shiver of recognition. The figure did not pop out at them, as Walsmear put it, “like a deer out of the woods.” The enlargement remained inert under their gaze; and my sweat began to give off the sour odor of failure. As I paused for breath. Sir Arthur got up and walked to the window.

  “Mr. Castle,” he said. “Come over here.”

  I did as he asked.

  “Look up there in the sky, Mr. Castle,” he said. “Do you see that cloud? Over behind that chimney there?”

  I could see it coming. Sir Arthur was going to dismiss me with the same patronizing demonstration I had used with Constable Walsmear. What goes around comes around, I thought.

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “What does that look like to you?”

  “Hmmm. I suppose it looks a bit like an India elephant. Not the African kind. The sort with the small ears.”

  “Yes, and — ”

  “And there’s some sort of structure on its back. I don’t know. It looks like Brighton Pavilion — ”

  “So you see — ”

  “And the elephant seems to be holding Henry the Eighth by the ankle, while sliding down a kind of spiral staircase.”

  Sir Arthur was a patient didact, waiting until I was finished.

  “To me,” he said, finally, “it looks like a ball of cotton. Not very imaginative. But you see what I mean.”

  “I think you’re trying to tell me that you see nothing in my enlargement.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  �
��Does Mary?”

  Mary slowly shook her head. I think she pitied me.

  “Well, then, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “Don’t think of it that way.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m impressed by your sincerity.”

  I bowed with mock humility.

  “And I admire your courage.”

  “Courage?”

  “Yes. In championing that policeman. Most people would avoid linking themselves to that type. A snob sort of thing.”

  “I hope you won’t tell anyone.” I was abashed.

  “No, no, no. And don’t feel bad. We’re all new to this. We’re groping in the dark. We’re bound to bark our shins once in a while. You, at least, have an open mind, Mr. Castle.”

  Sir Arthur exchanged a smile with his daughter.

  “And to make up for our differences in the past,” he said, “I’m going to show you something. Something that will startle you greatly.”

  Sir Arthur gestured to Mary.

  “Do you think — ?” she said hesitantly.

  “It will be all right if Mr. Castle knows,” he said. “Soon, the whole world will know.”

  Mary cleared away some boxes. She bent down. I could hear her opening a safe. Hinges creaked. She stood up and handed her father a clean brown envelope.

  “Can you guess what’s in this envelope?” Sir Arthur grinned with schoolboy pleasure.

  “No.”

  “It contains some photographs,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Extraordinary photographs. Photographs that will change the world. Photographs that actually show in clear and perfect detail what your policeman’s photographs only purport to show.”

  “What?”

  Mary pulled up a chair. “You’d better sit down,” she said.

  I did.

  “Photographs,” Sir Arthur said. “Of fairies.”

  My heart sank. I’d been a dope. Of course Sir Arthur wasn’t interested in Walsmear’s photographs. He didn’t need some vague shadowy stuff. He had the real goods in his safe.

  Sir Arthur must have noticed my discomfiture. There was a twinkle in his eye as he undid the envelope.