The Seer of Shadows Page 3

  “But sir, won’t there be some risk?”

  “Risk?”

  “What if they discover what I’m doing? You know, taking . . . those . . . secret pictures?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said, then added, “if you are careful.”

  Careful! My mind was full of such doubts, questions, and worries it amounted to alarm. But what was I to say? After all, Mr. Middleditch was an adult. My employer. I was apprenticed to him!

  “Consider this, too,” Mr. Middleditch rushed on with cheerful enthusiasm, “that Mr. Von Macht—as I have taken pains to discover—is a fish merchant. One of the big ones. Thereby, rich. No doubt Mrs. Von Macht has wealthy friends who have their own dear departed. I’ll combine being a society photographer with being a . . . spirit photographer.” He laughed. “Doesn’t that sound fine? Me! A society spirit photographer! Can’t you just see it?”

  “Yes, sir, I can,” I said sulkily.

  “Now, Horace,” he said, responding to my tone of displeasure, “how many times have you begged me to let you be the photographer? I’m about to give you your chance. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered. “I would.”

  “Besides,” he said with abrupt sternness, “as my apprentice, it’s not for you to question my orders, but to carry them out. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I repeated.

  “Very good,” said Mr. Middleditch. “Then we must practice using the concealed camera.”

  I noted he said we, when in fact it was I who would be taking the risk by using his spy camera. But I felt I had little choice in the matter.

  That evening, as I lay upon my bed, I went over what Mr. Middleditch was going to do—and my part in it. The sum of it was, he was going to present Mrs. Von Macht with a photograph of such making that she would think the ghost of her daughter was near—seeing something which did not exist!

  It was a lie. A hoax. And a cruel one. For all I knew, it was even criminal. What’s more, I was being required to have a key part in the misdeed.

  I did consider walking away. But where would I go? Not home. I could not expect my parents to take care of me. I was fourteen, old enough to stand on my own. And if I left my apprenticeship, might I not be throwing away my chance of becoming a photographer?

  Then, too, was I not going to have a camera in my hands at last? Did I not long to be a photographer? That meant I must take photographs! Should I cast off my first opportunity?

  I wondered if I should aim the secret camera the wrong way and thereby spoil his plan. What would that gain me? I might be dismissed outright. I had no doubt Mr. Middleditch could find another boy to get the images he wanted.

  In the end I allowed myself to recall my master’s words: “I promise I’ll not force Mrs. Von Macht to make any judgments about what she sees.” With some luck, Mrs. Von Macht would see through the fraud. No harm would be done.

  In short I had two hopes: one, no one would be tricked into believing ghosts existed, and two, the fraudulent scheme would not touch me in any way.

  As it turned out, both hopes were to be completely dashed.

  EIGHT

  THE PHOTOGRAPHING of Mrs. Von Macht was set for Saturday. As prearranged, on Friday afternoon she sent her carriage to our door. As soon as we loaded the necessary equipment for our temporary darkroom—we would bring the bulky camera and tripod the next day—the fine horse stepped out smartly, if slowly. A good thing too, since the plate-glass negatives and bottled chemicals were fragile, and the streets with their granite cobblestones were bumpy.

  The Von Machts’ home was on wide, wealthy, fashionable Fifth Avenue, just above Twenty-seventh Street, north of Madison Square. While more modest than the vast mansions of the Astors and Mr. Vanderbilt, these were elegant homes, quite beyond the apartment dwellings of our downtown neighborhood.

  Here, the street was lined with poplar trees, elegant gas lamps, flagstone pavements, and in front of most houses, handsome cast-iron fences. These wealthy homes—three to five stories tall, three windows wide—all had steps (or stoops, as they called them in Dutch New York—and still do) that led up to the first floor’s main entrance. Virtually all the houses were faced with brown stone. Well dressed strollers passed by, men in hats, ladies in wide skirts with bustles and bonnets, many with parasols, plus a few nursemaids with children in tow or in perambulators. No doubt it was the police who made sure there were no common beggars, newsboys, or bootblacks loitering about. Certainly there was less horse manure on the street than elsewhere in the city.

  Though Fifth Avenue was crowded with a great variety of fine horse-drawn carriages, wagons, omnibuses, and cabs, we arrived in good time. Of course, as a self-proclaimed artiste, Mr. Middleditch was not one to use the servants’ entry, commonly found beneath the stoop. So, while I unloaded the plates and chemicals and other apparatus, he went up the steps and worked the bell-pull.

  Mrs. Von Macht’s servant, Pegg, opened the door, a large door key in hand. Her attentions were all directed at Mr. Middleditch. In fact, I sensed she avoided looking at me. In any case, she carefully set the key down on a little side table by the door, then led us inside.

  We went down a long, high, dimly lit hallway. It felt close and thick, akin to the air just before a heavy August storm.

  That it was the home of very wealthy people there was no doubt. The floors were richly carpeted. The ceiling, from which hung an unlit gas chandelier, was decorated with elaborate plaster cornices, painted in three tones so as to accentuate richness. The walls were covered over by French paper of a deep red color. As an added touch there were candled wall sconces, though at the moment only one candle was lit.

  We passed two paintings on a wall. One was of a dignified man in a military uniform—perhaps from the Mexican War. The other picture was of a girl. The girl’s portrait was draped with black cloth, so I assumed it was a painting of Mrs. Von Macht’s deceased daughter, Eleanora. I gazed up at her.

  As painted, the long hair was light, the face pale, the eyes clear, and the frock a pure white. There was a delicate mouth, too, with a touch of dimple on one cheek. But while everything helped confirm my impression that the girl must have been the sweet angel her mother described, there was a lurking hint of some other complex emotion or tension which I could not identify. Unfortunately, I passed too quickly to take in more.

  As for Mr. Middleditch, he barely noticed the painting other than to say, “Lovely girl,” while adding his bothersome wink. It was a clear message that this must be one of the paintings I should photograph. My response was renewed guilt as to the swindle we were about to enact, as well as nervousness concerning my part in it.

  Farther along the hall we passed a wide flight of steps that led upward. At the foot of these steps stood a grandfather clock ticking with a monotony that suggested time was of no import. On the other side of the hall were large, closed double doors, so I could not see into that room, not then.

  Upon reaching the far end of the hall, Pegg led us down a narrow flight of steps. This brought us to the lower floor and a hall, also narrow.

  “The coal storage is in the back,” said the girl. “The scullery is up front.” It proved to be a small room with half windows that made the light dim. I could make out a water tap, a long marble table, tile floors with drains, and some large zinc tubs with scrub boards and a mangle off to one side. It smelled of soap.

  “Excellent,” proclaimed Mr. Middleditch, whose barely suppressed grin told me he was enjoying himself immensely. “Now if you will take me to Mrs. Von Macht, my boy will set things up.”

  The girl curtsyed. “This way, please.”

  When they were gone, I set to work by nailing yellow paper over the small windows. That gave us the dim light and hue required for the manipulation of the photographic plates. Other colors or too much brightness would cause the plates to turn black from overexposure.

  The diffused light obtained, I brought out the bottled chemicals and, as was
my habit, lined them up in order of use. Then I set out the plate vises, drying racks, and suction-cup devices that allowed me to avoid touching the photographic plates with my fingers—grease and dust being the great enemies of photography, particularly in New York City, where grime is everywhere.

  Finally I began to prepare the glass plates—each six and a half inches by four and a half inches—upon which the negative images would be created.

  I began by cleaning the glass with a mixture of bichromate of potash, sulfuric acid, and water. As always it stank and made my nose itch.

  After using cotton swabs to dry the glass, I wrapped the plates loosely in paper to keep out dust and laid them in a row on the marble table. No sooner had I done that, there was a knock on the door. I thought it might be Mr. Middleditch. It was the servant girl.

  “Mr. Middleditch is with my mistress,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  To my surprise she did not leave but remained and gazed upon my work with open curiosity. For my part I was not above taking kindly to her interest and presumed admiration. My parents taught me that intolerance was despicable, that I should be open and friendly to all kinds of people. Then too, the better I got on with the girl, the more easily I’d be able to ask about those odd comments she’d made when she’d left our rooms.

  So I said, “Stay if you like, but you must close the door. I can’t have light.”

  She did as I bid.

  After observing me for a while, she said, “What are you doing?”

  Trying to sound professional, I said, “I am about to prepare the materials for making the negative plate.”

  I held up a glass bottle, which had been painted black. “In our studio I mixed two ounces nitrate of silver with twenty-five ounces of water. It’s the nitrate of silver that makes the image. When exposed to light, the silver specks get darker. Do you see my fingers?”

  I showed her my black-stained hands. “Photographer’s hands,” I informed her with pride.

  She nodded solemnly.

  “Then I added three grains of iodide of potassium.”

  “What does that do?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, blushing to have my self-importance so easily pricked.

  Thankfully, she did not laugh, and the exchange had the effect of putting us on a more equal footing.

  Still talking as I worked, I said, “I’ll take up a glass plate—using the suction cup to avoid touching it—and pour some collodion and—”

  “What’s . . . collodion?”

  “Like thin glue. It holds the silver nitrate in place. See, I pour the collodion on the glass. Now I tip the glass this way and that so that the collodion covers it evenly. Takes a while to set. You want it tacky so as to hold the silver nitrate.”

  There I hesitated. I also needed to treat the circular glass plate for my secret camera. I glanced at the girl and decided she had no full idea what I was doing and would react to my round glass in just the same way as she did the regular plates.

  So it happened. If she noticed anything out of the ordinary, she said not a word.

  I continued: “Over the plates—lightly—I put some paper, to keep away the dust. Now, I’m setting a little tab on each paper. Not that I expect anyone to move them, but if there’s some shaking, or wind, the plates might gather dust. A shift of the tab will tell me if that has happened.”

  The girl nodded.

  “And that’s all I’ll do today. The rest is for tomorrow, when we take the photographs.”

  “Will you take them?” she asked.

  “Mr. Middleditch will take the photos of Mrs. Von Macht,” I said, not about to admit what I’d be doing. “Will you take me to him?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “You don’t need to call me sir.”

  “As you wish.”

  I looked around. “Can we make sure no one comes here?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Von Macht says while you are here it’s to be your room.” From her apron pocket she took out a small key. “No one will enter.”

  “Good.”

  She locked the room and gave me the key. I put it in my pocket.

  As we started up the steps, it occurred to me that I should scout out the pictures of the daughter so that things might go better—which is to say, faster—for me the next day. It was also an opportunity to question the girl about her remarks from the other day. “Did you know Mrs. Von Macht’s daughter?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “Is that her in the painting in the hall upstairs?”

  “It is.”

  “What was she like?” I asked.

  She hesitated before replying. “She was my mistress’s daughter.”

  Upon reaching the top of the steps, I paused. “What did you think of her?”

  “A girl in my position is not expected to have thoughts about such things,” she said. I noticed that her hands had become balled into fists; my question had made her tense.

  “Then why,” I said, thinking I had cleverly trapped her, “did you tell me that the girl did not die of a fever? You did say that, didn’t you?”

  Frowning, Pegg hastened down the hallway, as if to get away.

  I called after her. “You didn’t like her, did you?”

  It was as if she had been stung. She whirled about and cried, “I loved Eleanora! As she loved me! No two sisters were ever closer!” I was too startled to respond. In any case she turned away, as if huffed that I’d tricked her into saying too much.

  Not knowing what else to do, I went closer to the portrait and gazed upon it. As I’d first observed, Eleanora Von Macht had a sweet face. And yet . . . as I’d noticed before, the painter had caught something else: a certain look about the eyes—or was it the mouth?—which I could not quite grasp. Some sadness or . . . was it anger . . . ?

  “Is this a good likeness?” I said.

  “Somewhat,” the servant girl whispered.

  I shifted slightly so I could see Pegg. She was staring up at the painting, as if speaking to it rather than to me.

  “Are there other pictures of her about the house?” I asked in as casual a way as I could.

  “No.”

  Taken by surprise, I blurted out, “Your mistress said otherwise.”

  “She lied,” Pegg snapped. Then she immediately edged down the hallway as if regretting having spoken.

  My thoughts shifted between working out how I should position myself to photograph the painting and trying to grasp what Pegg was saying. How could I get her to speak and reveal more?

  I gazed up at the painting again. As I did, I became aware that Pegg had crept back and was standing directly behind me. She was breathing deeply, as if agitated by some great emotion. The next moment I heard her whisper, “Madam was very cruel to Eleanora.”

  “What?” I whispered, uncertain if I’d heard right.

  “Eleanora died . . . because . . . because the Von Machts neglected her greatly.”

  “How neglected?” I said, having the presence of mind not to look about.

  “They said she’d disobeyed them, and then, as punishment, they kept her isolated and weak. When she fell into a decline, they would not send for the doctor.”

  “But . . . why would they do that to their daughter?”

  “She was not their daughter.”

  “Then, who—?”

  One of the hall doors opened, and Mr. Middleditch stepped out from the room. He bowed to someone inside. “Until tomorrow, madam,” he said, shutting the door. Turning about, he saw me. “Ah, Horace, there you are. Are the plates all ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dust-free? Secure?”

  I patted the key in my pocket. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good lad,” he said. He nodded to Pegg. “We shall return tomorrow.”

  The girl led us down the hall. As we went, I glanced back, wanting to get another look at Eleanora’s portrait.

  “Horace!” calle
d Mr. Middleditch. “Come along!”

  I swung about. Pegg was glaring at me fiercely.

  As we stepped out into the bright autumn sunlight, Pegg slammed the door behind us, rather more forcibly than necessary. I thought, Something is very wrong.

  NINE

  PEGG’S WORDS SO TROUBLED ME that over dinner I told Mr. Middleditch what she had said about the Von Machts’ daughter: that Eleanora wasn’t their daughter, that they treated her cruelly, that she hadn’t died of a fever.

  “Now, Horace,” said Mr. Middleditch, leaning over his boiled beef and pointing his fork toward me as if to pierce me with his judgment, “who should you believe? The elegant, wealthy Mrs. Von Macht or an ignorant black girl?”

  “But Mr. Middle—”

  “Horace, I do hope your father isn’t one of those radical Republicans. One of those who thinks blacks should be educated or—what are they proposing now?—even vote! Oh, goodness! You’re not named after that awful radical Horace Greeley, are you?”

  Before I could answer, he waved a hand. “Never mind. Look here, Horace, a black servant girl is bound to be fanciful about another girl who—being about the same age and white—was naturally set over her. The servant probably fancies herself the daughter now. Jealousy, Horace, jealousy. I’ll even wager the girl’s touched.” He tapped his head. “Let me teach you something, Horace. America calls itself a democracy. I’m all for it. Trouble is, the ignorant sometimes think it applies to them.”

  “But—”

  “Eat your food, Horace, and let adults provide you with the proper answers to weighty questions.”

  I bowed over my food, too cowed to object. But after a while I said, “Sir, when I’m taking my pictures, what should I say if someone finds me in a forbidden place in the Von Macht house?”

  He laughed. “Just say you are going about admiring it.”