He gave her the dates of his prints and she fell silent, her mind quickly calculating their significance. A staccato quietness filled the room and she looked at the floor, the corner of her mouth twitching softly, as if something was working in her throat. It seemed wise to change the landscape and the subject.
‘My other experimental work is progressing excellently,’ he interjected. ‘I have captured the movement of many animals in my cameras, even humans!’
His attempt to raise the energies of his host met with a heavy silence. She raised her forlorn eyes to look into his, and he had to look away.
‘I am inventing new cameras,’ he continued awkwardly, ‘with faster shutters. Triggers that work repeatedly to grab an image. A bit like your wonderful rifle, ma’am, which I once used in Arizona; a superb mechanism. I aim to develop something similar in my cameras, that same speed and accuracy, dividing time…’ Her expression silenced him.
She held one hand to the nape of her neck and blinked, clearing her throat as her voice prepared to be used.
‘Can you…’ she paused again, seeming unsure of how to phrase her query. ‘Have you ever… photographed the dead?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure I understand, ma’am,’ he said carefully.
‘I am told that certain European photographers are able to capture images of those who have passed over to the spirit world,’ she stated sternly, burying a wave of emotion beneath her severe exterior. ‘I am looking for such an artist. According to the Stanfords, you are the best there is. If anyone might be capable of catching such likenesses, I am told it would be you.’
Muybridge was appalled, but stiffened himself towards an answer.
‘I have never made such pictures,’ he replied, trying not to betray his inner wave of disgust.
‘Would you be willing to try?’ she asked, hope piercing her eyes and his internal complexes. He paused before answering, enthusiasm eluding his disenchanted artistic streak.
‘For you, Mrs. Winchester, I will try.’
It was with a heavy heart that he carried his cameras, tripods and other equipment through the polished tunnels of the expanding house two days later. The séances were held in a room designed for the purpose, a circular table at its centre and small, high windows at its edges, which opened onto the interior of the house. There was no direct light; the room was located at the core of the twisted architecture, a long way in every direction from an external wall or the scent of the outside. Not that it mattered: his photographs would all be taken in the dark.
He had seen the ‘spirit’ images she had spoken of. All were conspicuous fakes: double exposures and ridiculous montages, executed without any subtlety or skill. His opinion of Sarah Winchester had collapsed in that moment. How could anybody be taken in by such manipulated lies? It reeked of the worst excesses of affluent, puerile fiction, dressed up as truth. But the fact remained that he needed her patronage, her circle of friends, her wealth. And, with that in mind, one could forgive the beliefs and sad fantasies of a grief-ridden old woman who never left her home. Perhaps when she understood the qualities of his work and the accuracy of his scientific objectiveness, her fanciful commission may lead to more serious work offers.
He positioned his cameras in the far corner of the room and set his face in the great seriousness of an Old Testament patriarch: it was his best posture.
Sarah brought three other people into the room – all devout spiritualists, he guessed. Today’s medium was to be Madam Grezach, a striking woman of Polish origin. She had a smouldering attractiveness which hid beneath a face that melted uncontrollably between the ages of eight and sixty-five. She sat at the table, flanked by her sitters. Elder Thomas sat close to Sarah, to the left of the medium. On her right sat a large, horse-faced woman, whose name Muybridge instantly forgot.
A prayer was said. Soon after its finish, Madam Grezach started to sway and softly moan, her eyes rolling beneath their closed lids. It could all be clearly seen by the light of the dim lamp that hung above. Unlike many larger circles, they did not hold hands, but placed their palms down on the table, fingers evenly splayed. Muybridge was vividly reminded of a photograph he had never stopped to take: Mexico; a row of freshly caught deep-sea spider crabs, laid out to dry in the bleaching sun, their salmon pink shells vacuous and surrendered on the sand. He shook the thought and its attendant smile out of his head without moving a muscle. Madam Grezach groaned again, in a deeper, more masculine tone. She said her spirit guide was called Wang Chi, that he was here now, to help them and guide those who had passed over to the table.
Muybridge took his first picture on a wide-open lens and silently wondered why any Chinaman would help in this way. Outside, on the streets, the Chinese were little more than slave labour, treated like dogs, their ancient culture spat on. Sixty miles from here, he had witnessed a ‘chink-hunt’; four of the best local pistoleros had placed wagers to see how many Chinese they could shoot from horseback. Their targets were the immigrant labourers, recently dismissed after building a stretch of the new railway line. The distressed men had fled in panic, dropping their few possessions to gain more speed. Sixteen fell that day, under a laughing hail of bullets. Nine died. One of the sportsmen was using a Winchester ‘73. It was unclear who had won the wager, but Wang Chi had either gained great benevolence or vast ignorance on the other side, for he was apparently bringing Sarah’s lost child to the table.
The medium’s voice tightened into falsetto and Muybridge took his second picture, this time in a blaze of flash powder. All – including the spirits – had been warned about the potential intrusion, so that most closed their eyes when he said ‘NOW!’ and fired the light.
After-blurs danced in their heads and added to the sense of aura, the smell of nitrate and magnesium stinging the closed air of the wooden chamber. Amid choked sobs and watery sighs, a child expressed her innocent love for her mother.
Muybridge was preparing to take his third picture when the medium announced that another presence had joined them. As he squeezed the bulb to slice out another long exposure, something moved in the corner of his vision. He jolted to see it, but there was nothing there. The sitters seemed oblivious to his change of attention.
‘Who are you?’ asked Madam Grezach, in long, drawn-out, saggy words.
She brought her hand to her face and made a few passes over her eyes.
‘Someone is here for you!’ she said in operatic surprise. ‘For you, Mr. Muggeridge, for you!’
He flinched to hear his real name being spoken, especially in front of the Winchester heiress. He moved to correct Madam Grezach when she spoke again.
‘A poor woman is here. She asks why you made the gins which hurt her so terribly?’
The medium’s voice was changing again, and now a slippery Cockney accent emanated from the same mouth, where the child and the Chinaman had so recently been.
‘Why did the sun’s shadow cut me so?’ it wailed. ‘The face that finished me was white, all white and looking in at the sides of me; inside me.’
The other sitters were agitated by the change of direction; their lashes twitched with desire, longing to examine his expression. Muybridge fumbled with the plates and pretended not to hear the tone of these questions and comments. Even though he knew it was all nonsense, he still felt the dread of this charade raking up his troubled past. He half-expected the ghost of his idiot wife to waltz into the room and tell stories of his cruelty and lack of manhood, to gabble his secrets aloud from the yapping mouth of this charlatan Pole.
‘The lights crawled inside, I had to find the shadows and get ‘em out!’