Chapter Two

Thankfully for James, the glass did harden properly in his mold. He’d been rather taken by it’s color, an odd grey-purple he hadn’t seen before, but it was as clear as crystal. The practice he’d taken by grinding more mundane glass into lenses for his hand built wide view camera in preparation for having a spirit lens to work with had put him in good stead and he had a completed rig in less then two days of labor.

His theory, the motivation behind the lens, was based on the concept of spirit photography. While most active practitioners of the ‘art’ were likely con-men there had been enough photos, taken by untrained photographers wielding the new, roll film cameras with ghostly images that it had caused James to wonder what allowed it to happen.

His theories were that first an event of enough intensity to stain reality with a psychic impression had to happen, and secondly the environment had to be just right before such an image could form.

The scenes of such events were, relatively speaking, no real challenge to find as displayed by the fact that he was walking through Whitechapel at night with thirty pounds of kit on his back. The hard part was gaining access to those places or, as with the filthy East End of London, ignoring the jeers of drunks and the propositions of prostitutes.

“Stop for a bit of relaxin’ gov’?” One such lady of negotiable morals called out to him, causing James to smile awkwardly and wave her off with a shake of his head.

“Um… Thank you but no. I’m on a spot of business tonight, you see.”

“Sod off then.”

James shook his head again, this time in chagrin. With such customer service he was sure she’d do well in her chosen profession.

He returned to his musings and hurrying along the fog slickened cobblestones. The problem with the environmental conditions to produce such photos was that, in all the cases he’d studied and determined to be possibly credible, no details about the atmosphere, weather, or any of a myriad of other possible factors were ever given. Without such details there was no way to know what needed to happen, much less to begin crafting a way to produce the effects. At first, he’d been stymied, but folklore had held a potential answer.

In some old herbalists’ lore and wife’s tales an infusion of mugwort, rubbed on a cold iron blade, could cause spirits of the dead to appear, and might even give the one who did it right some modicum of control over those ghosts. Granted, it sounded outlandish, but having soothed headaches and fevers with wormwood teas since he was a boy, James didn’t rule out the power of simple herbalists’ tricks.

Two months of shattered glass and frustration later, the glass mixed with trace amounts of mugwort and iron, and he had a lens that he hoped would negate the need for any specific environmental conditions that might otherwise be a concern. It was, he admitted, a personal conceit more then a true scientific hypothesis on his part but it had helped to soothe the stress suffered by a new, untenured physics and engineering professor. Working with the molten glass had also been strangely cathartic.

He reached the doorway he sought a few short minutes later, a small apartment next to an apothecaries shop. He set up his developer’s box, winding the newly built machines clockworks and filling its small chemical reservoirs. Then he set about assembling his camera upon its tripod.

The leather bellows folded out smoothly, and the ground glass plate used for composing a shot slid into place in the back. He checked the shutter mechanism and smiled as the home built camera worked perfectly.

When all else was ready, he pulled the small, velvet lined box he had secreted in his frock coats pocket. He’d saved installing the les for last, save loading the powder into his flash pan, due to the fog which eternally haunted London at night. Gently he retrieved the lens and screwed it oh so carefully into place.

He aimed the camera carefully, peering through ground glass and custom lens to make sure his aim was truly focused on the bloodstains still darkening the cobblestone stoop. Then he changed out the glass plate, replacing it with an actual photography plate. Lastly he filled his flash pan with black powder.

He paused then, with the silly feeling of being a boy speaking to an invisible friend again. “Miss Campbell… should you be at all aware of… this… from wherever you may be, I am no journalist nor am I a ghastly loon seeking a sick souvenir. This is a scientific experiment, thank you.” He chuckled to himself, muttering “Glad I didn’t let Emily tag along; she’d be laughing her fool head off.”

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Taking up the plunger, James depressed the small button and fired his flash pan. For a moment the stoop was bathed in daylight, and then a soft cracking sound penetrated the damp air. “What the blazes…oh bugger.”

The lens, so painstakingly crafted by his own hand, had shattered moments after the shutter had rattled. “Still flawed, but it lasted long enough!”

Carefully pulling the photo plate out, one of several he had brought but sadly the only one he was going to get to use, he slid it into his developer machine, pulling the devices small lever and sending it to work.

He set about disassembling the camera as the box rattled along, quickly stowing everything away. Then, when the small bell of the device rang, James opened the door to eagerly claim the developed photo.

So, who is Jack the… what?”

The photo, which clearly showed the stoop and apartment door, also displayed a young woman wearing a simple dress and a midwife's apron standing upon those short stairs, glaring at the camera.

“What the devil?” He muttered, walking to where the young woman was standing in the photo, turning so he could face the location where his camera had stood. “Looking at the eyes, and comparing to the newsprint picture…and guessing from the fact she was standing in the middle of the blood stain the woman must be… Anne Campbell!” He raised his hands above him, gripping them in victory. “It works!” He crowed.

“Yes, it works. Lovely, I’m sure my poor stoop will be as popular as tower of London now, people will come from all over to gape and gawk and pretend that they’ve seen me! Anne said sarcastically as she leaned against her door’s frame. “Congratulations.” She waved one finger in the air

The young man jumped and spun around staring at her. It took her a second to realize that he was staring AT her; not through her or past her but actually at her.

She took a step forward, and watched as he took a step back. “By my word, you can see me cant you?”

The man’s eyes darted everywhere, trying not to look at her now.

“You can! You can see me!” Oh thank heavens!”

“You really are Anne Campbell?”

“Yes, yes I am Anne.”

“Ms. Campbell this is wonderful, what is it like being a ghost?

“Sir?”

“Can you interact with the real world? What about your senses? Are they heightened?

“Excuse me?”

“Did you see a tunnel of-”

“SIR!”

The man jumped. “I apologize for yelling, but I don’t even know your name?”

“My apologizes, madam! James, James St. Cloud, at your service.”

“It truly is a pleasure to meet you James. I will be more than happy to answer your questions-“she held one hand up to forestall another barrage. “However first I require your assistance.

“What can I do for you?” asked James in a confused voice.

“I cannot tell you how many people came to gawk at… You are the first person to see me. Anyway I saw the man who killed me; I need to give the police my report, before he kills again.”

She could tell it all sounded very heroic to the handsome man. “Of course. He dug a pad out of his bag, I’ll be more than happy to assist you Madame.”

Anne smiled and half reached out her hand, then her smile fell and she looked at her hand and let it drop. “He’s tall, a good head taller than me, with sandy colored hair and eyes as blue and cold as ice. He is well formed, and dressed far too well for this area.

“Wait. Wait. You want me to go to the cops and tell them a description of the man that killed you?

“Yes, of course, they need this information.”

“I hate to be a killjoy, but all they are going to do is call me mad if I go up to them and give them a description I got from a ghost, I thought you new the man, a name or something. I mean, what’s that officer? No, I’ve never been in a sanitarium, why do you ask?” “Why would I know his name, I’ve never met the man before?”

“Well I know names aren’t that important in your profession but I thought you would at least ask.”

“In my profession? What in God’s name are you talking about?” the young man was turning an odd shade of red. “My word!” She exclaimed "You think I’m a bloody doxie!”

“Um well Jack kills…you know.”

“Jack kills prostitutes and so, since I was killed by jack I must be a prostitute! I’ll have you know, you pompous ass, that I was an herbalist and a midwife! I died as pure as a Christmas snow so get your filthy mind out of the gutter!

“Look I’m sorry, the papers didn’t print a lot of information on you, I’m sure lots of people...” the man’s mouth shut, as he realized what he was about to say.

Ann felt despair grip her.” Your sure lots of people would make the same assumption.” She drifted down to sit on her stoop. “All of London thinks I’m a light-skirt…” She wanted to cry, not only was she dead, her reputation was ruined too.

“Look I’m sure the paper’s will tell everyone you’re not...you know. They just haven’t had time to research you properly.

“Please talk to the cops, this has to stop, he mustn’t do this to someone else. I can’t do it. I can’t even leave this stoop” Anne’s voice was almost a whisper. “Please.”

“I’ll try to swing by from time to time… visit a bit… but I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

Anne watched as he walked away, she knew he wouldn’t be back. He didn’t want the burden she represented. Her eyes fell on a small blond hair caught on the stoop, and felt her resolve stiffen. Providence had provided what she required. Anne just needed the strength to do what must be done.

“Well sometimes we don’t get what we want! I sure as sheets didn’t. And I am not going to just sit here moping! I am my mother’s daughter after all!”

She took a second to clear her mind then using her own sparkling energy she spun a circle of protection around the single strand.

“Do not dare, dear little hair, to fly on wings of wind.

For carried in your golden length a message I would send.”

It wasn’t her best cantrip but it worked, the single hair was held in place by a gleaming golden circle of energy.

"Now, James St. Cloud, I may not know my murder’s name but I know yours, and you did say you were at my service. I think I shall require you to keep that promise!”