“I think so.”
“Why?”
As always, Pegg was thoughtful before she gave a response. “All I can think is that when you torment a person—and, Horace, they did torment Eleanora—the soul dies. When the soul dies, I suppose mercy dies too. Eleanora was good and kind. But all that remains of her is the torment. That’s the part of Eleanora that’s come back to seek revenge. Horace, I haven’t lived very long, but I’ve seen too much death.”
I reached out and wiped tears from her cheeks.
All I could think was, I must do something—if only for Pegg’s sake.
THIRTY-FIVE
I FOUND BREAD AND CHEESE to eat and then made the weary Pegg rest in Mr. Middleditch’s bed. While she did, I gave myself over again to trying to find a way to deal with Eleanora’s ghost. Never was my sense of urgency greater.
I paced restlessly for two hours, trying to find some plan that might work. To no avail. At best, I was reduced to my earlier thought: It was with photography that I had brought the ghost into life, so might there not be something in the same process that could reverse the thing?
Desperate, I returned to the The Silver Sunbeam and kept skimming through its three hundred and forty-nine pages. I found nothing.
I was reduced to staring at the title page, as if I might see through the text and thereby uncover some answer. Then my eyes fastened on the words at the bottom of that page:
And God said, let there be light: and there was light
Call it inspiration, call it a gift from the divine, call it anything you wish: That phrase provided me with a clue, an idea—a possible means of ridding the world of Eleanora Von Macht’s ghost!
Leaving Pegg to sleep, I spent an hour thinking through my notion, trying to imagine how I could put it into effect. I also went into our studio and checked to see if the materials I needed were at hand. Only when I was satisfied that everything required was within reach did I wake Pegg.
She was refreshed but hungry. I rummaged for what food we had: oatmeal, apples, bacon, and bread, enough to satisfy us. While we ate, I kept myself from telling her my idea. I wanted her to be fully alert, intent on my words.
As the hour was growing late, and time pressed, I finally said, “Pegg, I think I may have a way of dealing with the ghost.”
A mixture of doubt and hope played on her face. “How?” she asked.
“‘And God said, let there be light, and there was light.’”
“The Bible. Genesis. But why quote it?”
“Pegg,” I began, “the way Eleanora came back—the way I brought her back—was so like a photograph. It’s almost as if she is a photograph. Remember, the more pictures I took, the more she came into focus, until she became real.”
“But we need to make her . . . go away,” said Pegg.
“Exactly so,” I agreed. “My idea is to reverse the process. So that she becomes nothing again.”
She offered a look of puzzlement.
“Pegg, do you remember when you watched me in the scullery? I showed you how, when you prepare a photograph, you treat the glass plates with a bath of nitrate of silver. When that nitrate of silver is exposed to light, the image is captured. Then, when I put the image into the developer—pyrogallic acid and silver iodide—the image appears. That’s the way Eleanora’s ghost came to be. But if you keep the image in that acid and iodide solution for too long, do you know what happens?”
She shook her head.
“The image disappears.”
“Forever?”
I nodded. “Listen, Pegg. I believe the ghost is attracted by light. Wasn’t it light that brought her forth? It’s fire she’s using for her vengeance. Well, if we could soak Eleanora’s ghost with the developing solution . . . if we had enough light, perhaps we could . . .” I faltered. My idea now seemed so improbable, even to me, I was embarrassed to say it.
“Could what?” said Pegg.
“Like an over-exposed photograph—make her vanish.”
Pegg stared at me.
“I can’t promise it will work,” I hastened to admit. “But I can’t think of any other way.”
“Where would we do it?”
“Where she’ll most likely be. At the Von Machts’ house. She’s in pursuit of them, isn’t she?”
“But . . . when?”
“It has to be now,” I insisted.
She said nothing.
“Pegg, can you think of a way to get into the house?”
“The doors will be locked. But behind the house there’s an alley. Back there, at the base of the house, is a coal chute. It has an opening. We might get in that way. I don’t know if it’s locked or not. I’ve never checked. Coal was Cook’s task.”
“It’s already night,” I said. “If we’re going to do anything, we have to act right away. Are you willing to try?”
She considered me solemnly, and nodded.
THIRTY-SIX
FIRST WE NEEDED TO MIX UP the developer solution. As I put it together, Pegg looked on. If she doubted my idea, she said nothing.
I poured the chemicals into a large flask. These special flasks, as you may recall, were painted black to keep out the light. When filled, the flask proved very heavy. The notion of carrying it all the way uptown seemed daunting. And if it broke, all was lost. So I took all the money that remained in my chest, and leaving Pegg to wait in front of the house, went around the corner to Hudson Street and hailed a horse cab.
It must have been close to ten o’clock in the evening when the cab let us off at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street. There was little traffic. Such light as there was came from windows and the few street lamps. No star or moonlight cut through the overcast sky. The air was damp and chilly. I found myself shivering from the cold and nervousness. And fear. The only sound came from an occasional wind flurry teasing dead leaves along the stone curbs, a sound that grated on my ears.
“I’d better check the house first,” Pegg whispered.
She left me on the corner and went up the street to look. She returned quickly.
“I could see no lights on in the house,” she said.
“Any policemen at the door?”
She shook her head. “And I tried both front doors. They were locked.”
“What do you think?”
“The Von Machts have either gone or . . .”
“Or what?”
She did not say.
“Or what, Pegg?” I pushed.
“Or Eleanora already has”—she took a breath—“killed them.”
“Pegg,” I whispered, “would you rather not go on?”
“We have to try.”
I said, “Lead the way.”
Clutching the heavy bottle, I followed Pegg slowly and carefully.
Directly behind the line of elegant avenue houses was a narrow, dirt-paved, dim alley. It was here that garbage was collected and coal delivered—as if such natural functions were best kept from the eyes of the wealthy world.
We went along this alley. I would have been hard put to find the right house, the buildings being not just lost in the night but very much alike. Pegg had no such problem.
“Here it is,” she announced, all too quickly for me.
The Von Macht house loomed over us. Still, not a spark of light in any windows.
Having actually arrived at our destination, I faltered. But perhaps because Pegg was entering what was for her familiar territory, she became bolder. She felt about the boards. “Here’s the coal door,” she announced.
I crept closer and could see an indistinct square some three feet by three feet. It was not so much an entryway as a trapdoor.
“There’s a lock on it,” she said, giving it a rattle.
I set down my flask and took hold of it. It consisted of an old padlock with its shackle set through a hasp eye. I twisted it round. It gave somewhat, the screws or bolts that held the hasp to the door having worked loose in the old, pulpy wood around them. A few more vigorous twists a
nd the lock fell to the ground. Though the noise made me wince, we were left alone.
Pegg pulled open the trapdoor. It fell out on rusty hinges. If it was dark outside, it was even darker within that square: absolute blackness.
“What’s there?” I whispered.
Pegg knelt down and put her hands inside. She stuck her head in and then pulled it out.
“I think,” she said, “I’m feeling a chute, for coal to slide down.”
“How far does it go?” I asked.
“Don’t know.”
We held back for a few moments, uncertain what to do next. “Horace,” she coaxed, “it’s the only way.”
“I know.” I gripped the top edge of the open square, hoisted myself up, put my feet into the hole, and then sat on the bottom edge of the opening. From that perch I squirmed forward by kicking my feet. I felt the chute.
“Let me have the flask,” I called.
Pegg handed it to me. I cradled it on my lap, holding it with one hand, then squirmed and hitched myself farther in. Balanced on the opening’s edge, I wrapped my other arm protectively around the flask. Wiggling, I tried to inch forward.
My balance shifted abruptly and I dropped. Right away I hit the chute and, it being smooth from much use, slid quickly down. The ride down was short. Too short. When I suddenly hit the bottom, the flask popped out of my hand.
Frantic, I flung myself out and began to grope around what appeared to be a pile of coal. I found the flask, unbroken. The coal had cushioned its landing.
“Are you all right?” Pegg called.
“Fine. It’s only a short drop.”
Hearing her crawl in, I moved away.
“Coming!” she whispered, and in barely a moment, she stood safely by my side.
Though we could barely see each other, Pegg found a doorway at the far side of the coal room. She opened it with ease and we stepped into a hallway.
We were now in the house proper, as far as I could tell, in the lower hallway where the scullery and servants’ door were located. For a moment we just stood, listening. The house was silent around us—except for the distant, infernal ticking of the grandfather clock above.
“Do you think anyone is in the house?” I whispered.
“I can’t tell,” Pegg said.
“Where do you think Eleanora might be?”
“She could be anywhere. You thought she would be attracted by light.”
“I hope.”
“We could light a fire in the parlor.”
“Good idea.”
I gripped my flask with one hand while holding on to Pegg with the other, and we made our way up the steps, with Pegg as guide. In the dark all our movements seemed magnified, so that our careful steps creaked and cracked and echoed around us.
We reached the main hall.
Whether I had become accustomed to the dark or whether the light came from some other source, I can’t say. Despite the thick gloom I could see better now. The walls were vague and without substance, while the high ceilings faded into emptiness. The air was still. Carpeting muted our footsteps, though by contrast the ever-ticking clock seemed to have become the amplified heartbeat of the house.
As we moved down the hallway, I glanced up at the portrait of Eleanora.
“Look!” I gasped, pointing to the painting. The black mourning cloth had been ripped down, and the painting itself had been slashed in an X, so that the four canvas segments peeled back toward the corners.
Pegg stared at it.
“Would the Von Machts have done that?” I said.
“Eleanora” was all Pegg said.
“Why?”
“Perhaps she can’t bear to see what she once was. Come,” she said, and opened the front parlor door slowly.
I had been in this elegant room before, but it now appeared very different. There was a musty smell, and white cloth had been draped over every piece of furniture. The effect was to render all shapes glowingly indistinct, like a gathering of bulky white shadows, as if—it came to me with a start—we had entered the world of a negative photograph.
As I stood gazing about, Pegg dropped to her knees at the fireplace, piling coals atop wood kindling. In moments she was striking a match, producing a small fire. It was soon burning brightly.
Coming back to my senses, I looked about for candles, found some in the dining room, and brought them into the parlor. All was ready.
Side by side we sat down near the door. There was nothing to do but wait. We did not talk. We were too keen on listening; trying, I suppose, to anticipate all that might happen. The only sounds were that ticking clock and the occasional pop and snap of burning wood or coal.
Exactly how long we sat there I don’t know. At one point I may have even dozed off. I was made alert by a sharp poke on my knee. “Horace,” Pegg whispered, “someone is coming.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
I JUMPED UP, GRABBED THE FLASK, scrambled to the other side, and frantically swiveled around on my knees and set the flask before me in easy reach. Pegg, meanwhile, shifted to a place close to the candles, matches in hand.
From outside the door I heard footsteps. Whoever it was did not enter. Instead, the sound halted just beyond the door, as if someone were hesitating. At last, the door began to open.
I gripped the flask and held my breath.
Very slowly, someone entered the room. I was already on my feet, ready to throw the liquid, when I saw just in time that it was Mrs. Von Macht who had come.
As though unaware of us, she stood at the threshold, her face turned toward the fireplace where the fire burned low. In her hand was a small, lighted candle, which she held close to her body. The candlelight created what I thought was her shadow hovering high on the walls. Then I realized it was not her shadow; it was the sorrowful gray angel I’d seen at the cemetery. Her great wings were beating slowly. Her face, looking down, was full of grief.
I glanced at Pegg. Her eyes were on Mrs. Von Macht. I don’t think she even saw the angel—nor could she.
Neither Pegg nor I dared move.
Mrs. Von Macht advanced farther into the room. She was completely altered, even from the pathetic creature I’d last seen in our rooms that morning.
It was not just that her clothing was all black. They were rumpled, not even fully buttoned. Disordered is the word. As for her hair, once so carefully groomed and black, it had turned completely white and dangled down her back in a tangle. Pale hair and skin framed eyes wide with terror. She continued to take no notice of Pegg and me.
Upon reaching the middle of the room, Mrs. Von Macht paused. She now lifted the candle and looked about, as if searching.
“Where are you?” she called, her voice low and raspy, almost a moan. “Why are you hiding from me?” The desperate and despairing sound of it sent a shudder down my spine.
“Please, Eleanora,” Mrs. Von Macht pleaded, her head cocked slightly to one side, as if listening for a distant answer. “Show yourself . . . to me.” Each phrase was followed by a breathy pause.
“I know you’re here, somewhere,” she went on. “You’re in the house, aren’t you? I know you are. Are you near? You want to find me. I know you do. You wish to punish me for what I’ve done. Then come to me. I won’t hurt you. Never again, my child. You have my word. I was wrong. Terribly wrong.”
She sank to her knees in a pleading attitude, hands pressed together before her. “Show yourself to me, Eleanora. I’ll restore your money. I’ll be your servant. Your true mother. I’ll beg your forgiveness. Please let me do so.”
Above her, the gray angel loomed, wings beating slowly.
Then, even as Mrs. Von Macht continued to speak to the darkness, she crouched lower and lower until she was—the only word for it—cowering.
“Eleanora, I promise. Frederick shall never bother you again. I won’t neglect you anymore. My place is with you. Eleanora, come to me and I’ll beg your pardon. Ask your forgiveness. Just come to me, dear child.”
Pegg and I exc
hanged looks over her head.
As far as I was concerned, the woman was completely mad, but surely no more than I—weren’t we both summoning the spirits of the dead?
Now Pegg moved forward until she stood directly before the woman. Even so, Mrs. Von Macht gave no sign she recognized Pegg or was even aware the girl was standing there.
“Madam,” said Pegg.
The woman sat up straight.
“Is that you, Eleanora? Are you speaking to me at last? I can’t see you. Where are you? Show yourself to me!”
“It’s me, Pegg.”
“Eleanora? Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you. I’ll so gladly come to you.” Her head was cocked to one side, as if listening. “Ah!” she cried. “I think I hear you. Is that you?”
She stood and began to move toward the door. Pegg stepped aside. Mrs. Von Macht passed right by her.
“Horace!” Pegg called across the room. “She’ll lead us to Eleanora.”
I heaved up the flask and we went out into the hallway.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MRS. VON MACHT WAS STANDING at the foot of the steps, holding the small lit candle before her. Near the high walls of the stairwell, the angel hovered, the beating of her wings in perfect rhythm with the grandfather clock.
Mrs. Von Macht gazed up expectantly. Her breathing was shallow yet agitated.
Pegg and I stood just outside the parlor door, watching.
“I know where you are,” cried Mrs. Von Macht, and she began to climb the stairs. She went slowly, hesitating at almost every step, her free hand on the banister for balance, her head constantly shifting, as if listening for something. I had little doubt she was hearing something we could not.
Pegg and I followed silently.
Mrs. Von Macht, however, was still speaking, though her words had grown indistinct. She certainly did not notice us.
Upon reaching the first landing, she paused. Suddenly she turned sharply and looked up. It was as if she had just heard something.
All three of us froze in our places. But then she continued up. So did we.
When Mrs. Von Macht reached the second floor, she went down the hall until she reached her huband’s study. She opened the door and looked in brielfy. Then she continued on, going from room to room, peering into each one. Now and again I heard her indistinct mumbling.