Boston Metaphysical Society Page 2

  For unlike most men, he had all the time in the world.

  SEE NO EVIL, HEAR NO evil, speak no evil. It was the first thing Andrew thought every time he saw the three box cameras sitting on the top shelf in his workshop. They reminded him of the three monkeys of an old children’s tale. One would think that cameras could not tell the difference between good and evil, Andrew knew better. For these cameras had heard evil, seen evil, and spoken of it through every photo Andrew took.

  A faint breeze wafted through the photos clipped to the twine causing them to shift like wind chimes. The jars of zinc bromide, silver nitrate and sea salt jingled. On the other side of the room hung several wooden shelves lined with daguerreotype and tintype photographs along with developing chemicals, paper and glass plates.

  “Duncan? Behave yourself,” Andrew said to no one in a light Irish lilt.

  The breeze shifted to muss up his thick gray hair with reddish streaks. Andrew batted his hand at the invisible source of mischief. “You’ll be the death of me yet.”

  Dust on his worktable swirled around until the words Old Man appeared, written by some unseen hand.

  “Old man, my arse. I be less than two score, you nattering ghost.” Andrew snorted.

  An opaque blur formed into an ethereal young man of twenty years. His body gave the impression he was laughing though no sound could be heard. Andrew shook his head in amusement until the quivering of the ground from the coal mining factory distracted him. Its regular pulse was as if a giant mole burrowed its way underneath the tenement streets devouring life from one end of South Boston to the other. Most of the inhabitants never heard it anymore, except for Andrew. The pulses changed in frequency and duration throughout the day. Andrew had no need of the fancy clocks and gear pieces favored by his betters to know what hour it was; he had memorized the timing of those pulses.

  Andrew sat in the dim glow of the candle in his makeshift photography room. He knew it wasn’t a mole that sucked the life out of the ground, but the vast gears that ground their way through the earth to spew up coal that powered the steam engines which lit up Beacon Hill. Lights he and his never saw or could afford to own. It was a reality he had accepted long ago though he hoped life would be different for his young daughter.

  He tried to ignore the rumbling as he returned to work preparing his photographic plates. Andrew washed them with water to clean off the oily surface left by the manufacturer and set them out to dry on a row of wooden plate holders. When the first one was dry, he took a glass plate and laid it out flat on his workbench. Then he reached for his bottle of silver nitrate collodion emulsion and a small wooden trowel whose edges he had flattened out to perfection. He poured a small portion of the emulsion on the plate then smoothed it out with the trowel. When he was satisfied with the result, he set it to the side and started on the next one.

  His diligence was born of necessity. For without this skill and his other very special talent, he and his family would be living in such poverty that despair would have been a luxury. But his abilities carried a heavy price on himself and his family. Though they had lived there for more than a decade, their presence was tolerated but never accepted. Andrew hoped that his daughter would be free of his particular gift and he watched for any signs she might be afflicted. So far, the girl had shown none. The older she got, it was less likely she inherited his family’s talent. It was the one hope he grasped onto in his otherwise dark and dreary life.

  Andrew would wince every time he moved his shoulder a certain way. The straps from his camera had left a permanent dent around his neck. His trousers were black woolen as was his shirt with no brass or copper filaments as befitted a man of his station. This was the man Duncan would have grown up to be—if he had lived.

  He finished his task and walked over to review a row of paper photographs clipped on a piece of twine strung across the room. Each photograph told a story of the end of someone’s life. The blood. The gore. The last moment of terror etched on their faces. His photos were a visual transcript of death. Without pity, mercy or remorse, Andrew documented each one through his camera lens. He understood that death was not an absolute. For unlike other photographers, he could draw the spirits of the dead to him. From the frightened child to the most corrupt of demons. And what was worse, he could reveal them through his photos for Andrew O’Sullivan was a Medium and a Spirit Photographer.

  “I hope ye did not die like this, Duncan. But that be a faint hope, I fear.” Andrew turned to his spectral friend. “Would you do me a bit of a favor? If I die, would you take care of my little girl? I mean as best as ye can under the circumstances.”

  Duncan’s hand pointed at Andrew in a rapid urgent manner. The ethereal mist that ebbed and flowed around his body swirled in anxiety.

  “No, my boy. When I die I’ll be gone from this world. Whatever holds ye here won’t hold me.” Andrew chuckled. “I not be like normal folk. My ties to the spirit world will not let me linger. And I do not care to be in a place without feeling my girl’s arms around my neck.”

  The ghost floated closer and placed his unsubstantial hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Ah, if I had a son like you, Duncan, then I’d never worry over my little girl.” Duncan’s wispy shape writhed then curled into itself and disappeared.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! The door frame shuddered under the impact. Wood fractured. Splinters shook lose. Andrew closed his eyes to control his annoyance. He opened them, then wiped away the words the ghost had written with one of his leather gloves. Andrew took a breath to calm himself, then opened the door. There stood Constable Strong.

  Copper buttons strained against a blue wool uniform with a leather belt buckle that appeared to hold him together. A lone copper filament wound around his cap indicating his status as a lowly street constable. The constable’s one fashionable flourish was a pair of tiny brass thimbles that latched onto the tips of his overgrown mustache. A bamboo cane swung over his shoulder. Not used as a walking stick, it had a more immediate and practical nature of having something handy to hit someone or something when he deemed necessary.

  His type was used as errand boys for their superiors and they hated every minute. They often took out their frustrations on those who could do nothing about it. Constable Strong enjoyed trying to intimidate Andrew, but it never worked. Andrew had seen things far more frightening than the likes of him.

  The constable’s bulk overwhelmed the small windowless room that served as kitchen and parlor. The three room apartment had been scrubbed clean down to the wood splinters. There were a few worn pieces of furniture covered by multi-colored handmade cotton and wool quilts. It was the one piece of beauty here in an otherwise desolate room.

  Sweat beading across his brow, Constable Strong fidgeted with his collar. His small eyes looked nervous and betrayed his uneasiness at being there. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a flurry of red hair launching herself across the room and into her father’s arms.

  “Da, don’t go. You promised to teach me more about the cameras.” Caitlin O’Sullivan, seven-years-old, was the picture of freckle-faced exuberance. Dressed in a brown woolen shift and oversized shoes with no socks, her youthful energy filled the entire room. Caitlin’s lack of comportment made Constable Strong frown. With her vivacious smile and enthusiasm for learning, all that Andrew could do is hug her back. “If you go, you’ll be too tired to teach me,” complained Caitlin.

  Andrew brushed her hair back as he looked into her green eyes. “Never for you, love.”

  “Caitlin, leave your da be. He’s got work to do. Don’t he, Constable?” Erin O’Sullivan’s harsh brogue reverberated through the small room. She stood over a small coal burning stove stirring a pot of stew. Unlike most of their neighbors, there was real meat and fresh vegetables in there mixed with rich brown gravy. It was a testament to Andrew’s abilities to provide for his family.

  Erin’s once fabulous mane of vibrant red hair was now gray and cut short across her neck. She was younger than Andrew, but
looked older. Erin’s beauty had long since faded leaving a furrow of lines creased across her forehead. Her back hunched over from washing scores of floors. Erin resented this apartment, this city, this life that Andrew had talked her in to. His dreams of a new world had turned into her own personal nightmare. The woman herself wore a woven brown and black woolen dress. Scuffed laced up leather boots were the one thing that looked of any quality. “Go on now, girl. You’re da has a job to do.”

  Caitlin looked defeated, then perked up. “I could come with you, da. Help you carry your plates or your bag?” Her hope was dashed with a resounding “no” from both her parents. Crestfallen, she slumped on to a wooden bench next to the only table in the room.

  Andrew knelt and took her hands into his. “Caitlin, love. What I do, where I go, is no place for a wee girl.”

  “I can take pictures,” Caitlin insisted.

  “That you can, love. But sometimes, I have to do something more,” Andrew replied lowering his voice, but Erin still heard and shot him a withering glance. An impatient Constable Strong tapped his foot while Andrew leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You study your school books. That way one day you’ll be a teacher.” Erin snorted and turned back to her stew.

  “Yes, da.” Chastised, Caitlin stared at her feet in defeat.

  The Constable pursed his lips. “Best hurry, picture man. Doesn’t pay to keep your betters waiting.”

  THE HORSE-DRAWN BUGGY LURCHED ACROSS the cobblestone road. Andrew hung on to his camera less the road exact its revenge over being trod on and tossed his livelihood onto the floor. Constable Strong looked pale after enduring a series of potholes that would jar even the hardiest of men. Andrew knew the exact instance when they crossed the boundaries of the South Side into the Middle District. The broken cobblestone road became gravel and their journey became one of grinding instead of jerking.

  Andrew gazed out the window to see a few steam-driven buggies pass by. Constable Strong watched them go by with obvious envy. Andrew had no doubt the Constable felt he was worthy of at least that much from the powers-that-be. Outside stood the solid brick buildings of middle class merchants and journeymen. Those with enough money to live “properly” as Erin said. Never scrounging for food or coal, they were always clean and fed. A few homes even had flowers in clay pots growing on their front steps. The only sound one could hear was the gravel spewing from buggy wheels and the occasional laughter of children. The pulse of the mining factory was far behind them.

  A dash of color caught Andrew’s eye as he dared to lean out the window. It was a matron wrangling a brood of children. Her dress layered with different green hues of cotton and wool. Though her jacket was plain black wool, it was smooth and had copper wire embroidered in the lapel and pewter buttons in the front. Andrew wished he could buy Erin such a dress, but even if he could she would refuse to wear it saying it would make her look like a peacock amongst a flock of black phoebes. What Erin hated most in the world was to stand out. In her mind to be different was a sin—a work of the devil.

  When she discovered Andrew’s particular talent drew the interest of men she considered to be sinners, there was literal hell to pay. At first she demanded he be exorcised, but the priests refused. For years, she berated him thinking she could argue the “devil” out of him, but that did no good. When she realized she had failed, Erin ignored what he did in the hope it would go away. It didn’t.

  In between all this, Caitlin was born. Tired of a wife who ignored him, Andrew focused his love and attention on his little girl. She was his joy and happiness. His wife did little to hide her resentment.

  The buggy lurched, and the ride smoothed out. They had entered the borough of Beacon Hill.

  Here the roads were smooth and carved stone where there was neither a hole nor a rock to impinge the progress of the buggy. Horse-drawn carriages were few and far between here. Steam-powered buggies chugged along the thoroughfare making a gasping sound like a dying fish whenever the driver switched gears.

  When they arrived at Beacon Hill, Andrew had the same reaction he always had—awe and wonderment.

  The buildings were constructed of the finest timber and brick and embellished with brass and gold ornamentation. Carved wooden trim hung from the eaves and each window held luxurious curtains made of velvet and tied off with silver or gold threaded rope. Flowers too exotic for Andrew to know their names stood guard in large ceramic pots by each entrance. He did recognize the roses for those were his favorite, especially the yellow ones.

  On many doors hung large brass knockers while others had a uniformed man standing outside waiting to greet and announce visitors. The uniforms themselves told you whose house you were entering. Each designed a specific way to reflect the house and the family that lived within. The Hartstone’s doorman donned a smart imperial looking uniform that was deep burgundy and trimmed with gold epaulets. Their grandsire had connections into the courts of Queen Victoria and the Dowager Empress Catherine of Russia. The Monplaisir’s man next door wore suede and leather pants and a tunic with a beret on which feathers protruded at odd angles. Their money came from west of the Alsatian province of Louisiana. Where and what they did remained a mystery to the common folk.

  Andrew looked these doormen over as he shook his head in bewilderment. “They be nothing but human door stops.”

  “And you would jump at the chance to be one,” Constable Strong retorted. “With tips and bonuses, they live in the Middle District. Some even have mistresses.” The Constable motioned his head toward the opulent homes. “And most times they don’t have too far to walk to service those in need,” he leered.

  “These folk have no shame.”

  “They can afford not to.”

  The buggy veered off to the right and through an alley next to House Bridgeworth. One of the largest homes in Beacon Hill, the family controlled the majority of the banking on the east coast. Unlike their more ostentatious neighbors, the Bridgeworth’s livery was one of clean simplicity and intimidation. Their men wore black military style suits with gray piping and black leather caps. Each wore a side arm of the latest pistol sword manufactured by the French-Croatian consortium.

  The wheels rattled as the roadway turned to brick. Even the alley was constructed for comfort and cleanliness with proper gutters and trash bins locked and secure. Constable Strong used his bamboo cane to thump the roof of the buggy. It stopped. He opened the door and hopped out. “Come along, picture man.”

  Andrew took a deep breath and relished the freshness of the air as he stepped out of the buggy. It had a sweetness consisting of flowers and fresh linen. Unlike the South Side, here there was no trash, no sewage and no rat droppings lurking in every corner. Even the servant’s entrance had small pots of flowers and the occasional ivy trellis winding its way up the side of the building. It was heaven on earth to most of his kind, but he knew ugliness and evil existed here. In Beacon Hill, it hid behind decorum and polite society.

  A humming sound grew louder and louder. Andrew looked up to see a commercial dirigible cruising overhead. He could make out the figures of passengers gazing out the windows of the ebony gondola latched beneath her. It was a sight not seen in the tenements as the coal dust and the grit churned up from the factory blackened the sky. For a moment he imagined himself flying high above the earth and wondered what it would be like to linger over the world not bound to anything.

  His revere was broken by a sharp pain behind his eyes. It shocked him for a moment until he remembered what it meant. Andrew spun around to see a lovely teenage girl in blue silk with gold and silver filigree woven through the material and carrying a matching gold and brass parasol. She stared at him from the street entrance to the alleyway. Her eyes wide in terror and her lips trembling, Andrew pitied her for reasons never spoken in high society.

  An older woman, twice the girth of the girl and wearing a dress made of lavender silk brocade and brass filigree, walked up behind her and saw where the girl was looking. She glared a
t Andrew then motioned with her head to the constable. He responded by shoving Andrew in the back.

  “Don’t be staring at your betters. Particularly, a young girl. Some might get the wrong impression,” the constable groused.

  The woman ushered the girl away though she glanced back one more time before disappearing around a corner.

  “Who was the young mistress?” Andrew asked.

  “That is none of your business, picture man.”

  “Please. I won’t bother her. You know that.” Andrew insisted.

  The constable sighed. “She’s Miss Elizabeth Weldsmore. Daughter to one of the richest men in Boston, not that you would know that.”

  But Andrew did know that. And he knew something else. The girl was a Medium and she was terrified. Andrew wondered what she was frightened of more—him or the fact she had met someone like herself. He guessed she hid it from her parents and her friends, but over time it would consume her unless she had guidance as he did from his mother and uncle. He thanked God or whatever entity controlled their destiny that his dear Caitlin was not this young woman. She would be free to live a life without the burden of hearing and feeling tortured spirits caught in the limbo between this life and the next.

  “Stop dawdling. The detective is waiting.” Constable Strong gave Andrew another shove. They entered through the servant’s entrance off the kitchen.

  Detective Angus Mallory was a strange man with an even stranger upbringing. Born to a prostitute and a wealthy Middle District merchant, he had the distinction of being able to walk across social boundaries where others would be barred. His raw intellect and ability to find dirt on anyone allowed him to cajole and bribe his way into a job he was well suited for. It was a gift he learned from his mother who blackmailed his father into giving him an education above his social station. Mallory rewarded her devotion by buying her a cottage in the Middle District with a small stipend on which to indulge her fascination with needlepoint. Attention to detail did not fall from the tree nor did his mother’s looks.