Cindy Spencer Pape - Photographs & Phantoms

Photographs & Phantoms
By Cindy Spencer Pape

Brighton, 1855

As a member of the Order of the Round Table, Kendall Lake is overqualified to be investigating strange phenomena at a seaside photography studio. But since the photographer is related to the Orders most powerful sorcerer, Kendall reluctantly boards a dirigible to Brighton.

Amy Deland is haunted by a shadow that appears in some of her recent portraits. In each case, the subject died within days of the sitting. Does she have her grandmothers gift of foresight, or has she somehow caused the deaths?

As Kendall and Amy search for answers, their investigation draws them together in a most improper waybut it seems the evil presence in the studio is determined to keep them apart

20,000 words

Dear Reader,

A new year always brings with it a sense of expectation and promise (and maybe a vague sense of guilt). Expectation because we dont know what the year will bring exactly, but promise because we always hope it will be good things. The guilt is due to all of the New Years resolutions we make with such good intentions.

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Southern England, June, 1855

Kendall, Marquess Lake, stood on the observation deck of the dirigibles gondola as it flew west toward Brighton, wishing he was heading north instead. London beckoned. Hed spent far too long in the countryside, overseeing the implementation of automated harvesters at Lakeview, one of his fathers estates. The early June haying had been a trial run of the equipment before the serious harvest in the fall.

He wanted adventure, craved it. His restlessness had been aggravated by his delay in Essex to witness the wedding of a childhood friend. While Kendall understood the social obligation of marrying someday, at thirty he was in no hurry to do so, and watching a friend get leg-shackled had been more than a little discomfiting.

A man of action, a Knight of the Order of the Round Table, Kendall was more used to fighting vampyres or rogue mages than dealing with disputes between tenant farmers or partnering bridesmaids. As the heir to the Duke of Trowbridge, however, he knew he had to get used to juggling missions with estate and social obligations. Upon his grandfathers death a year earlier, Kendalls father had been elevated to the dukedom and Kendall to the marquisate. Kendalls responsibilities to both family and the Order had increased substantially, leaving him little time for fieldwork. He longed for a nice, simple task like putting down a goblin invasion.

Instead, he was off to Brighton just as the middle-class tourists began to flood the seaside town, to hold the hand of the niece of one of his fathers cronies and assure her all was well. The task was one they could have assigned to a clerk rather than a Knight, but Lord Drood was one of Kendalls fathers closest friends and he was the most powerful sorcerer in England, perhaps in the world. Kendalls father tended to jump when Drood asked for a favor.

As the airship approached the town, the first outlying buildings came into view and the scents of coal smoke and salt air reached his nostrils. They flew over a few grand country estates, an old stone church, a livery stable, a tavern, an automaton factory and a country store. The airfield was right outside the town proper, and once hed debarked, Kendall traded his goggles and cap for his top hat and tucked his belted leather duster into his valise.

Out on the street, he hired a hansom, checked the piece of paper hed shoved into his pocket and spoke to the cabbie. 150-B Lilac Lane.

The cabbie looked at Kendalls expensive frock coat, superfine trousers and custom-made boots and raised one grizzled eyebrow. You sure about that, milord?

Quite. The Order didnt make mistakes on something as simple as addresses. The files in their analytical engine databases were quite extensive and included things like the addresses of distant relations of Order members.

The driver shrugged, clicked to his ancient mare and headed toward the bustling resort town. The painted wood and pastel brick buildings reminded Kendall of Easter eggs in a basket on this hazy afternoon. The Queens Road was lined with candy and souvenir shops, clothiers, rooming houses and photographic studios.

Ah yes, photographic studios. As a steam tram chugged past them toward the beach, filled with sunburned tourists and local workers, Kendalls cab turned west off the Queens Road, the main thoroughfare, away from the Pavilion and the other grand buildings, into a slightly less prosperous section of town.

Hmm . The farther they went, the less appealing the neighborhood became. Surely this Amelie Deland, a relative of one of the foremost Knights, didnt live in abject poverty.

After another block or two, though, the neighborhood perked up into basic middle-class housing. The cabbie found Lilac Lane, and Kendall discovered that number 150 wasnt a photography studio at all, but a neatly tended rooming house, probably the nicest one on a modest street, just a block or so in from the oceanfront shops of Kings Lane. So this spinster photographer hed been sent to reassure had given her home address instead of her business. Hopefully she would be home for luncheon. If not, Kendall could wait if he had to. He tapped the toe of his boot on the floor of the cab.

You want me to wait? the cabbie asked.

No. When his business was over, Kendall could walk back to a main road and find another cab.

At the front door, he set his valise and trunk by the step and pressed the bell.

Yes, may I help you? A modestly dressed, middle-aged woman answered a few moments later. She had a pleasant face, showing the lines of frequent smiles and a life well lived, and blond hair fading gracefully into gray.

Miss Deland? He doubted it, but hed been given absolutely no description to go on. All he knew was that Lord Droods niece was a photographer. This woman, though, had no chemical stains on her fingers nor hint of developing fluid to her scent. Rather, he detected furniture polish, rosewater, roast beef and fresh shortbread. His stomach rumbled.