THE “SPIRITUALIST BOSH,” as Marshall Hinckley called it, was influencing the minds of unsuspecting people to tragic ends, and posing dangerous challenges to the reputation of legitimate science itself. In a meeting with other members of the American Institute for the Encouragement of Science and Invention, Hinckley denounced the comparison between spirits and electricity as “utter nonsense.” A fuzzy image here, a somewhat representative image there—all of it, he said, relied on luck and technical cunning. Of course, the Spiritualists would say that the living could not control spiritual energy in the same way as electricity, since spirits had once been of free mind on earth, and would be of equally free mind in the other world. But this was just another part of the Spiritualists’ game, and for respectability’s sake—not to mention for the sake of science’s reputation in general—that game needed to be stopped.
It was not the Spiritualists’ use of technical instruments like cameras that disturbed the members of the Institute; nor was it that the Spiritualists had concocted chemical formulas and methods to help them play their tricks. But the fact that the Spiritualists had dared to begin claiming science as their own—had begun to insist, even, that spirit photography was no less scientific than the study of electrical currents—this had enraged Marshall Hinckley and the other members of the American Institute immeasurably. One Spiritualist had gone so far as to write that spirit photographs would soon become as common and popular as the electric telegraph, or the sewing machine. “At no distant day,” this blasphemer wrote, “the world at large—and the investigating minds of the world, in particular—will be perusing a scientific work upon the whole subject, which will dispel the darkness that yet broods over this grandest revelation of God’s mysterious providence.” These criminals were duping the public in order to realize their own mischievous ends—whatever those were. Using the good name of science to do so was the height of arrogance and wickedness.
Worse still, word had recently reached the Institute of other spirit photographers beginning to practice these artful tricks—one in Poughkeepsie, another in Philadelphia, and there was rumor that spirit pictures were even popping up in London. The members of the Institute feared an epidemic, which furthered the urgency to eliminate the impending plague. And since no one had been a greater carrier for the Spiritualist cause than Edward Moody, it was his fraudulence that the Institute sought most to expose. The papers of Boston and other cities were aflame with reports of this imposter’s “talents.” In Moody, Hinckley and his colleagues saw an opportunity to quash the Spiritualists once and for all: take the founding card down, and the whole house would crumble.
“He must be made an example of,” Marshall Hinckley told Inspector Bolles. “It is the only way they are going to stop practicing these outrages against unsuspecting people.”
“It will be difficult to prove that he is breaking the law,” Bolles said.
“There are higher laws at stake here, Inspector,” Hinckley replied. “The laws of science are sacred. We can help you find a way.”
For some months Inspector Montgomery Bolles had been looking into the matter—he himself being of the mind that Moody’s spirits were likely a sham. He had turned his attention toward the newspapers, where one could hardly flip a page without reading something of spirit photography. How did Edward Moody photograph “ghosts” with such fidelity? And in the cases where he didn’t “get” the spirits perfectly, how was it that people still left his gallery comforted by what they saw? According to the most recent accounts, face after distinct face had lately been emerging on Moody’s negatives—a phenomenon that had transformed the city of Boston into a cacophony of ecstatic widows and widowers.
“Many of my earlier tests were not entirely successful,” Moody told one reporter, “but the beauty and truthfulness of these images demonstrate what no man has the right to deny.”
He knew how to promote himself—that much was plain. It was an interesting turn for a man who had started out as a humble engraver. He had first experimented with photography during his early days at Mrs. Lovejoy’s. “But so many were experimenting with photography then,” Moody said. “It was many years before the war, and I had not yet seen the dead in the fields. I was young and my eyes were still closed.”
The war. So, Moody had indeed gone off to the war. But a few years before that, he had left Boston for New York.
“I went to New York to apprentice with Matthew Brady. And then the war came. I was not looking for the opportunity.”
Brady had sent Edward Moody into the field, and the young photographer took pictures of the worst of the carnage at Antietam. “It was, for me, transformative,” Moody told another reporter, “because Mr. Brady’s project was, for the first time in our history, laying bodies at our very doorsteps. But when it was finished I gave up. I had to give up. Because the ghastliness of capturing those images made photography disgusting to me. I did not want to be a part of something that could depict reality so mercilessly.”
So he found his way back to Boston, determined to abandon photography and return to his original trade. It was only at the entreating of his employer, Mrs. Lovejoy, that Moody agreed to mix his chemicals once again.
“Mrs. Lovejoy’s picture was indeed a very strange-looking one,” Moody later told the Banner, “and, considering that it was taken when no one else but Mrs. Lovejoy was in the room, the indistinct and shadowy outline of the young girl who appeared in the picture was, to me, unaccountable. I immediately submitted the negative to Mrs. Lovejoy—an accomplished photographer herself—for inspection, and her opinion was that the glass had been used previously for a similar photograph. An insufficient cleaning, she said, likely resulted in residue remaining on the glass, and when a second negative was imposed upon it, the latent form, so to speak, was re-developed.”
Moody confessed that Mrs. Lovejoy’s theory was quite acceptable to him at the time—that is, he did not suspect the presence of a spirit on the negative. “The picture was, to say the least, a novelty. I had one printed for my own amusement, and propped it up in my work area.”
The matter might have ended there, were it not for Dr. Asaph Child, a well-known Spiritualist and author of many books about Spiritualism. When Dr. Child, by chance, visited Mrs. Lovejoy’s store and spied the photograph, he stopped and stared in amazement, forcing the engraver to look up from his work.
“Do you know what you have there, sir?” the doctor said.
Moody replied that he did know what he had—a picture of Mrs. Lovejoy, taken by himself, when no other visible person was in the room.
“Admittedly,” Moody said, “I was toying with the doctor. For I was young and stupid, and I did not yet understand.”
Doctor Child left the store and returned the next day with an investigatory committee of four gentlemen, all of whom wanted to learn more about the “extraordinary picture.” They conducted a thorough examination of the photograph, and after little consultation, declared the work a “miracle.” Then each one of them requested spirit photographs on the spot, offering to pay the engraver ten dollars a picture.
“It was a very great deal of money, even for an artist as gifted as Mr. Moody,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. For she too had appeared quite a bit in the Banner of Light, and the Spiritualist Magazine, and a host of other publications concerned with this craze. It was by one of her accounts that Inspector Bolles learned how easily Edward Moody had come into his spiritual inheritance. “These gentlemen were very insistent on having their pictures taken,” Mrs. Lovejoy said …
“ … and Mr. Moody was resistant to the idea because he had given up the art. But unable to avoid yielding under the relentless weight of their entreaties, he finally agreed to sit them for a picture. Of the first gentlemen—Dr. Child, I believe—an excellent spirit photograph was taken. Two of the other gentlemen also received good spirits, and the other two were not successful. The following Sunday the article in the Banner appeared, and the very next day, by the time Mr. Moody arrived at the store, there were no less than fifty persons awaiting him in my reception room. I was behind the counter, and when he entered the store I made the announcement, ‘Here comes Mr. Moody!’ The people had grown so impatient during the wait that I began fearing a riot in the store.”
The mob surrounded Moody as he entered. Then, from the mass of admirers, two distinguished gentlemen pressed forward, “very desirous of having Mr. Moody take their pictures at that very moment.” The photographer declined, saying that he was no longer dedicated to photography; but the gentlemen persisted, and less than thirty minutes later, they were descending the gallery steps, declaring that Mr. Moody had “photographed yet more spirits!” Mrs. Lovejoy recalled that there was also a scientist from Cambridge present, who had claimed to be thoroughly acquainted with the art of photography. When someone suggested that one might introduce a second image into a photograph by using an imperfectly cleaned glass, he had replied that such an “earthly” explanation was much more difficult to accept than the spiritual. “While it might be possible, and even probable, in daguerreotyping,” he said, “it is nearly impossible to accomplish when taking a photograph on glass.”
It went on, and it grew—this obsession with Edward Moody and his photographs—until it had succeeded in touching nearly every level of society. Those who could not afford their own sitting with Moody could purchase carte de visite copies of others’ “miracles.” And then there were those at the very top of the ladder who had converted to Spiritualism after only one visit. “Like a young robin,” said Walter Barnes, the wealthy banker from Beacon Hill, “I hold my mouth open to the heavenly world for its truths to feed my soul. I swallowed Spiritualism, but not before I opened my mouth, in earnest faith, to receive it.”
Edward Moody was a problem, and not one that could go un-dealt with. So Inspector Bolles, and Hinckley, and Senator Garrett had gathered at Dovehouse’s to discuss what to do.
“It’s preposterous,” Dovehouse said to the inspector, “the way these Spiritualists are going about hoodwinking the public. For the working class, I can understand the novelty—even at the prices they’re charging for their cartes de visite. But intelligent men of society, like Barnes? And the Merriwhethers holding séances in their dining room? It’s setting a horrible example.”
“I don’t care a fig about society,” Marshall Hinckley said. “If your cronies are stupid enough to hand over their money to that charlatan, that’s their business. It’s the assault against science that I want the police to address—and address it they can, by proving the man a fraud.”
Inspector Bolles considered the two gentlemen, and then glanced toward Senator Garrett.
“As you know,” Bolles said, “we have been building the case against him with the help of certain members from the Institute’s Photographic Section. We know that a spirit photograph can be produced by taking a picture on a glass that contains the residue of a previous image. We also know that one can use a positive image on glass, in front of the negative in the plate holder, to achieve a similar effect. One member of the Institute has also suggested a third method—the actual printing of a photograph from two separate negatives. But this latter method Moody could only achieve alone, and in privacy. It does not account for the countless instances during which he has produced spirit photographs under close scrutiny.”
“Close scrutiny!” Marshall Hinckley howled. “I say that if he has achieved the effect under scrutiny, there was not scrutiny enough.”
“But the case, Inspector Bolles,” Dovehouse said. “What is the basis of the case itself?”
“Our own spirit photographs,” Hinckley interrupted. “We’ve made a bunch of them ourselves, and detailed the exact methods for the authorities. We’ve even gotten Barnum to pose for one—with the ‘spirit’ of President Grant.”
“A spirit of a living person—ingenious,” Dovehouse said.
“Ingenious, yes,” Bolles replied. “But it does not necessarily guarantee a conviction.”
“I will settle for nothing less than a conviction,” Hinckley said.
“The conviction—” Bolles continued. “The conviction can only come through physical evidence. So far we have no real evidence that Moody is fabricating his spirits. It is all speculation on our part.”
“I have seen the man at work,” Garrett said, “and I am convinced that his only talent rests in preying upon the desperate and the grieving.”
Garrett touched his neck, for his collar had grown tight around it.
“Which brings us to the matter at hand,” Dovehouse said. “We have come to the conclusion that it might be time to, shall we say, speed things up a little?”
“Appleton is fully prepared to prosecute the case,” Bolles replied. “But as I said, we do not yet have the guarantee.”
Dovehouse narrowed his eyes.
“You can obtain the guarantee by searching the gallery and seizing his instruments—can you not?”
“Perhaps,” Bolles said. “Even likely. But again, there is no guarantee of what we will find.”
“To the devil with guarantees,” Hinckley said. “We have enough. Our fabricated spirit photographs are every bit as good as his are—even better in some cases. The jury will have no problem seeing the fraud.”
“Mr. Bolles,” Dovehouse said, addressing him as a gentleman, “there are some necessities that sometimes take precedent over technicalities like guarantees.”
“Sir?” the inspector said.
“There is a negative in that gallery,” Dovehouse continued, “a negative that must never be exposed to the public. I trust I have your confidence in saying that its ultimate fate is of great personal interest to us.”
“I’m not sure I understand you,” Bolles said.
Garrett stiffened and leaned forward.
“What Mr. Dovehouse is saying, Mr. Bolles, is that there is a spirit photograph of me and my wife somewhere in that gallery.”
Garrett paused.
“And that we would like to … how shall I put this—”
He looked toward his friend Dovehouse, and then stared straight back at Bolles.
“Obtain it.”
“You have gone for a spirit photograph, sir?” Bolles said.
The senator nodded.
“Garrett,” Hinckley exclaimed. “Good God!”
“It is of no great concern,” Dovehouse said, “a mere whim of Mrs. Garrett’s, and it appears that there is nothing remarkable on the negative, but the release of such a photograph would undermine the cause of the case—and the Institute—irreparably. It’s why we must act with such speed, before Moody has the chance to profit from this work.”
“But if there is nothing remarkable on the negative,” Bolles asked, “how can the man stand to profit by it?”
“Nothing is beyond that man,” Hinckley interjected. “He could turn a puff of smoke into the face of my dead mother, and find a way to make a profit.”
Bolles turned toward the senator, whose bottom lip had frowned.
“Senator,” he said. “You have done so much for me—”
“Your father was a great man—one of the dearest friends I had.”
“And you know,” Bolles continued, “that there is almost nothing I would ever refuse you. But it seems that you and Mr. Dovehouse are suggesting the—”
He paused uncomfortably.
“—confiscation of important evidence.”
Garrett did not reply.
“We prefer the word obtain,” Dovehouse said. “And yes, it is a delicate matter. The last thing we wish to do is compromise you, my good man. We only ask that you consider the seriousness of the senator’s situation.”
Then Garrett spoke up. He was careful to measure his words.
“I agreed to accompany my wife to a sitting with Mr. Moody, not realizing how much I would regret my actions when the deed was over.”
“Everything you’ve been building—” Dovehouse continued. “It will all be further compromised if the Spiritualists get their hands on that photograph. The man has the image. You saw how much press he got from Colfax. Imagine what he could do with the image of a man whom the people adore ten times as much.”
“I agree,” Hinckley interjected. “The time to move is now. The last thing we need in the press is the spirit photograph of another illustrious figure. Next thing you know, he’ll be finding some way to get Grant to come in for one.”
“Senator Garrett?” Bolles said.
Garrett looked into the eyes of the inspector. He had known him since he was a boy.
“It would be …” Garrett said with some difficulty. “It would be a great favor to me.”
Inspector Bolles and Marshall Hinckley left Dovehouse’s not long after this exchange. It was agreed that Dovehouse and Garrett would be permitted to “inspect” Moody’s gallery during the seizure of evidence. Of course, the negative could be anywhere—locked away in any number of cupboards, or even somewhere downstairs in Mrs. Lovejoy’s store—but this was the chance that Garrett was willing to take, and after Moody’s removal from the building, he and Dovehouse would have their time.