by Avi
I stepped inside and cast a quick glance about at the pictures: framed certificates, heraldry, and naval pictures—warships and the like. Of Eleanora, the daughter his wife said he grieved so deeply, not one.
Baffled, I went on to the next room. As before, I approached with care. It proved to be a bedroom, furnished lavishly with a large four-post bed, dressing table, chairs, armoire, and chandelier. The appointments of comfort and wealth. They did love candlelight! On the wall, framed pictures. Of flowers. Of birds. None of Eleanora.
The third room was a bathroom. I did not expect to see any images there, and indeed there were none.
I retreated to the hallway. It was bad enough being where I should not be. Worse, I was as yet unable to do the job I’d been asked to do.
Another flight of steps led to a third floor. Though these steps were neither as wide nor as grand as the first-floor steps, I felt compelled to investigate. I went up. The third-floor ceiling was low, with plain bare walls. Along a narrow hallway were four rooms, doors closed. I checked them one by one. The first two rooms were small and drably furnished: narrow bed, table, chair, and chest. No room for any more. I took them to be servants’ rooms.
The third room was the smallest. No furniture. Old, dry, wooden floor, walls, and ceiling. A storeroom, perhaps, but nothing stored. Indeed, quite desolate.
The next, final room contained an undersized and narrow bed, a chair, and a table. On that table was a propped-up picture. Though small, I instantly recognized it as a faded photograph of Eleanora Von Macht.
At last!
The face—showing the girl at an earlier age than the portrait below—revealed joy. That is, Eleanora was wearing a large sunbonnet, a light-colored dress. A smile was on her face. Moreover, the image was at table height, making it easy to focus upon with my hidden camera. Moving quickly, I photographed it.
I was still gazing at the face when I heard a sound behind me. Taken by surprise, I spun about to see who was there. As I did, I tripped the shutter a fourth time.
Pegg had come into the room.
THIRTEEN
WE STARED AT EACH OTHER: I with much embarrassment, she openmouthed with surprise.
Pegg spoke first and she did so with anger.
“What are you doing here?”
Mr. Middleditch’s words came to mind. “I . . . I was just admiring the house,” I managed to say.
She glared at me. “There’s nothing to admire here.”
At a loss, I turned and pointed to the picture. “There’s that.”
The anger seemed to drain from Pegg. Tears welled in her eyes. “She was my darling sister,” she said softly. “She had the room next door.”
“She . . . was up here?” I said. “In that . . . empty room?”
“Those were her happy times,” said Pegg. “When we were alone together.”
I was bewildered. Could this girl be “touched” after all, as Mr. Middleditch had suggested? I found it impossible to believe that Eleanora Von Macht, daughter of such wealth, would have lived in so mean a place. Nor that this black servant girl would be her sister. “And was that,” I asked, trying to draw her out, “when she told you she had died of neglect?”
“Of course not,” she returned, her voice instantly tinged with fierceness. “She told me that after she died.”
I stared at her. “How was she able to do that?”
“She whispered it into my heart.”
“Stood there and told you?”
“She was dead,” returned Pegg. “I know that. But since I knew her better than anyone, I can always hear her voice.” Then, wistfully, she added, “I would give anything to speak to her again.”
I almost said—but didn’t—my father’s refrain: “Let the dead bury the dead.”
She sensed something of my thoughts. “You don’t believe me, do you?” she said.
I saw no point in arguing. For as my father also used to say: “Don’t debate the superstitious. Pity them.” And I needed to get back to Mr. Middleditch.
“I’m wanted below,” I said, and I fear I went rudely past the girl as I made my way to the first floor.
My timing was good. Mr. Middleditch had just concluded his photo session. The exposed plates were stacked. Mrs. Von Macht was sitting in much the same way as before.
“Ah! There you are, Horace,” said Mr. Middleditch, his face working hard to suppress a smile when I appeared. It was a relief he did not wink at me. He nodded to the plates. “They’re ready for you.”
So I was not able to tell him that I had only taken three pictures. I simply gathered up the boxed plates and went down to the scullery.
Once inside the room I locked the door. Not only did I not want Pegg to come in and distract me with her strangeness, I truly needed to concentrate. Besides, I needed to take off my coat and remove the secret camera from around my neck.
I began my work by pouring the developing solution into one porcelain tray, the fixing solution into another. Next I ran some water into one of the sinks. Then I took the exposed plates from their shields and put them into the developer fluid—pyrogallic acid and silver iodide.
There is something almost magical about the developing of a photographic image. Consider: You stand quietly in a room with a dim yellow light that fills the air with an enchanting twilight glow. That glow always seems to transport me to another place, a demiworld where images, like shy spirits, lie in wait.
Holding your breath, you peer into a chemical brew. Not so very different, I suppose, from sorcerers of old when they gazed into their magical potions. Gently you slide the exposed but blank glass plate into this chemical bath. You wait for something to appear as if waiting on the shore of a mist-shrouded lake.
Slowly, a shadowy image begins to reveal itself. It’s as if the shadow were coming from some mystic depth, emerging from another world, little by little, taking bodily shape and form until that shadow becomes . . . real. Just what one would expect—would want—from a ghost.
But the image on the glass is backward—that’s to say, what is dark is light, what is light is dark—a negative image, which only enhances its otherworldliness.
During the whole process, you must watch the image intently. Too much developer and the negative turns as black as soot, becoming irretrievably lost. It’s as if the image, coming as it does from an unreachable void, plunges back into the emptiness from whence it came. Unless you hold the shadow and embrace it tightly, it will vanish—forever.
So it was then: As each image came into view, I had to determine its peak, after which I snatched it from the developer and plunged the plate into the fixing solution. By so doing, I locked each image in time—caught it in visible life.
Though it all appears magical, even mystical, the true wonder is that the process is entirely chemical. Human reason—my reason—controlled it. What a sense of mastery it gave me! I, Horace Carpetine, could turn a shadow into something real.
Once the developing process had been accomplished, the plates went into a water bath to wash away any remaining silver nitrate, and thus make certain no further development took place.
One by one I did this for Mr. Middleditch’s eleven plates. All his negative images appeared good. He would be pleased.
After I’d finished processing Mr. Middleditch’s images, I turned to the circular plate, the secret pictures I’d made. In this case all three of my images would be on one plate.
My first pictures! Never mind the circumstances. I was excited.
With great care—consider how much depended on what I had accomplished!—I placed the round plate into the developing bath, then watched and waited with great expectation. Almost simultaneously the images of a girl’s face rose up before my eyes: one, two, and three . . . four.
Four!
There is an ancient, and surely worn-out expression, that of not believing one’s own eyes. Such was my state as I stared at the small, round glass plate and its four images. What I was seeing made no sense.
I struggl
ed to find an explanation.
In fact, I stared at the images for so long I had to plunge the disk into the fixing solution before I lost them utterly. As they lay in the water bath, I made myself recall the pictures I had taken.
I had begun by taking two pictures in the hallway—of the portrait. The third was taken in Pegg’s room—the small picture that she had on the table.
I was certain I had only taken those three images. Nonetheless there were—I could see quite plainly—four images.
How could that be?
Then—with great relief—I remembered: When Pegg came into the room, I had been so startled I swung about in haste and tripped the shutter. In so doing I must have taken a picture of Pegg. That would be the fourth image.
My emotions calmed. I had found a rational explanation for what occurred.
I gazed into the water. Because the pictures on the round plate were quite small, negative, and in water—the identity of that fourth image remained unclear. Surely, since no one else was in that room, it had to be Pegg.
But was it?
FOURTEEN
BEFORE LEAVING MRS. VON MACHT, Mr. Middleditch made an appointment for the following Thursday to bring his finished photograph.
As the carriage pulled away, I said, “Mr. Middleditch—”
He silenced me with a gesture reminding me that the driver might hear. But as soon as we reached our rooms, he said, “Did you get them?” Meaning images of the girl’s portraits.
“I did, but—”
“Did they process well?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“But what?”
“When Mrs. Von Macht said there were portraits of the girl all over the house, she misspoke. There was only that one in the hallway.”
“Not possible,” he said.
“It’s true,” I insisted, and told him where I had gone.
“Other than the hallway—not one other picture?”
“Well, one.”
“Ha! I knew you were mistaken!”
“It was in the servant girl’s room. The very top floor.”
“Didn’t I tell you that girl was jealous of the dear departed? Were you able to photograph it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then how many pictures did you take—in all?”
I hesitated. “Three.”
He fussed with his mustache. “Let’s hope that will be enough,” he said. “Now go and varnish the negatives.”
Varnishing the negative images was done for protection, so they would remain free from dust and scratches. Compared to the other chemicals, I found the smell of varnish sweet.
As I did the round plate, I held it up to the light, trying to gain some sense of that fourth image. But the images were so small and negative, I still could not determine whose picture I had taken. And until the varnish hardened—twenty-four hours—I could not use the negative to make the larger positive prints that would allow me to see them distinctly. I left them to dry.
Next morning, Sunday, I went to my weekly dinner with my family. I used the opportunity to take my father aside and told him what was happening, at least some of it.
“Father,” I said, “if an employer is taking advantage of a customer, how should his employee react?”
“A most interesting question. First I should ask, is the employer doing something illegal?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Second: Will it harm anyone?”
“It might upset someone.”
“‘Upset’ is an emotional response. You and I are rationalists, Horace. We observe things clearly, scientifically. We do not get upset. So, now, will it truly harm anyone?”
“I suppose not.”
“Will the employer’s actions do harm to the employee?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
“Then I conclude this: Do nothing. It might jeopardize your employment. But—learn that not all men are honest. Just as important, tell yourself that you will see things rationally and scientifically and that you will act honestly and uphold the highest code of personal behavior.” He wagged a finger at me. “Failure brings excuses to the weak but strength to the strong.”
It was after six o’clock when I returned to the Charlton Street rooms. By then it was dark. I let myself in with my key, lit a candle, and saw that Mr. Middleditch had not returned. Nor was there any note as to when he would get back. Nothing unusual there.
Normally I would have gone to bed, most likely reading some of The Silver Sunbeam, for I was always keen to learn more about photography. That night, however, I was too consumed by curiosity about my first photographs.
Happily the varnish-coated plates were hard. And once I committed myself to make positive images, I began the process in earnest. My desire was to accomplish everything before Mr. Middleditch returned.
In the room we used for such work, I set up the porcelain basins beneath the regular dim yellow lantern light. Then I processed Mr. Middleditch’s work—the eleven images he had taken of Mrs. Von Macht. They came out quite well. He had done a creditable job.
I did see that each image contained the candlestick. That struck me as odd. I made a mental note to ask Mr. Middleditch about it.
Next I placed my round glass negative plate above a treated card, exposed it to bright, focused yellow lamplight, and then slipped the card into the developing solution.
As always, the images blossomed up before my eyes in wonderful fashion. I then set the paper in the fixing solution and washed the whole print with care. Finally, I set the circular print on blotting paper and brought normal light back into the room. Only then was I able to closely examine the images I’d taken with the secret camera.
I had produced four small images set around in semicircular fashion—rather like a half moon. Not surprisingly, the first image was very much out of focus. Blurry. Then, progressively, I did better. This is not to say the last was a sharp image—far from it—but there was considerably less haziness from first to last.
One by one I examined the pictures:
The first two images were the Eleanora Von Macht of the portrait that hung in the hallway. Aside from not being in focus, they were rather distorted—but I had angled the camera up. I was not sure they would work for Mr. Middleditch’s need.
The third image I’d taken was of the photograph in Pegg’s room—the one that sat upon her table—the cheerful face of Eleanora Von Macht beneath the large sunbonnet. Insofar as it had perched chest-high, it was more in focus than my earlier efforts. That it was somewhat fuzzy added a ghostlike quality. I thought Mr. Middleditch might be able to use it.
Finally I examined that fourth image. Or rather, I should say I stared at it. By my rational understanding, if the image of anyone had been captured in that accidental picture, it should have been Pegg’s.
Gazing up at me was the face of Eleanora Von Macht.
I was so startled I nearly dropped the card. I blinked and shook my head—as if to break loose from the impossibility. But when I looked again, the image of Eleanora Von Macht’s face remained.
I gazed at it for a long time. There was no question as to whose face it was. But this fourth image was altogether different from the third.
Item: In Pegg’s image Eleanora wore a bonnet. The girl in the fourth picture had no bonnet.
Item: Pegg’s image had a smile. The girl in the fourth picture was angry, frowning.
Item: Pegg’s image revealed a light-colored dress. In the fourth image the girl wore what appeared to be a dark, perhaps black, frock.
In short, a different image altogether!
My eyes shifted from one to the other with growing agitation. Gradually I realized that the fourth image was also in sharper focus. Far from what it should have been perhaps, but certainly better. This was odd, because my taking it was an accident.
Which was all to say that in some fashion, in some way, I had photographed an entirely new image of Eleanora Von Macht, one that didn’t appear
on the hallway painting or on Pegg’s table.
But that was impossible. Eleanora was dead.
FIFTEEN
NEXT MORNING I WOKE tired and uneasy. Right away I recalled the fourth image and knew I did not wish to tell Mr. Middleditch about it. Aside from my own puzzlement, it touched on Pegg, and I did not want to give him an opportunity for more of his insulting remarks. But right after breakfast he asked me if I was ready to print the images he had taken.
“They are already printed,” I said.
“Horace, you are a wonder! Sometimes I think I should let you do everything. Let’s have a look.”
First I brought out the pictures he took, the formal portraits of Mrs. Von Macht. He examined each of the eleven carefully.
“These two are particularly flattering of the lady,” he said, setting them aside. “I think she’ll care for them a great deal. And do you see, Horace, how I left space for . . .” That infernal wink. “You know what.”
“Sir, why is the candlestick in all the pictures?”
“Mrs. Von Macht requested it: she said it was the last gift from the departed girl. Well, then,” he went on, “so far, so good. Now, bring in the pictures you took.” There was something sly in his voice—like a little boy smirking over an impending practical joke.
I had no choice. I brought in the round image, took a deep breath, and handed it to him.
He studied the sheet intently. “I thought you said you only took three pictures.”
“I was mistaken,” I said, trying to be as neutral as possible.
“They are not in good focus, Horace.”
“My first pictures, sir. And it was hard to sight the spy camera.”
“Fair enough. We might say they already are ghostlike. Now, these first two,” he said, “they are the portrait in the hallway—am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps too obviously so. This one?”
“I took it in the servant girl’s room.”
“Ah! So you said.”
“And this one . . . ?” He pointed to the fourth image.
I could not even look at him. “I’m not sure.”
