“Pay attention now because I am going to say something to you that my father said to me when I was your age. You are to remember it always because it is very important.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It does not matter whether your father was ever legally married to your mother. You are not responsible for what he did. But you are responsible for what you do. Every man must see to his own honor, and you will see to yours. That is what is important.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gabriel rose and put his hand on Edward’s shoulder. He steered the boy toward the door. “Now that we have got that clear, we will go down to breakfast.”
“Yes, let’s.” Edward grinned widely, looking suddenly a good deal happier than he had a moment ago. “Usually we have only buttered eggs and toast on Wednesdays but Mrs. Trench says that because there is a man in the house now, we will also have kippered salmon today. She says men need substance in their meals.”
“Mrs. Trench is obviously a wise woman.”
They went out the door and down the narrow attic stairs.
On the landing Edward looked up at Gabriel. “You never told me the right word, sir.”
“Right word for what?”
“For Mr. Cleeton. You said bastard was not the correct word to describe him.”
“Right.”
“What is the correct word, then?”
Gabriel reflected on his obligations as a brother-in-law. “I will tell you the proper term but you must bear in mind that a gentleman does not use it when ladies are present. Is that understood?”
Edward glowed with anticipation at the prospect of garnering secret manly knowledge. “Yes, sir. I promise I will not repeat it in front of Aunt Beatrice or my sisters.”
“You must not use it in the presence of Mrs. Trench, either. She is a respectable woman and she is owed the same good manners as your aunt and sisters.”
“Very well. I promise not to use it around Mrs. Trench.”
“The appropriate term to describe Mr. Cleeton is son of a bitch.”
“Son of a bitch,” Edward repeated carefully, clearly wanting to get it right. “Does that mean his mother was a female dog?”
“No,” Gabriel said. “That would be an insult to female dogs everywhere.”
18
THE TWO OF YOU discovered Mr. Burton’s body at the exhibition last night?” Beatrice put one hand to her breast and swayed in her chair. “You say he was likely murdered? Dear heaven. We are ruined.”
The shock and horror in her voice caused Gabriel to look up from his kippered salmon.
He studied Beatrice, who sat at the opposite end of the long table. It had not been his idea to sit at the head of the table but Mrs. Trench had made it plain that in her view he was expected to occupy the position that Polite Society had ordained as the proper station of the master of the house. When Venetia had walked through the doorway a short time later, dressed in black, he knew immediately by her expression that he was sitting in the chair that she normally occupied.
“I don’t think that will prove to be the case,” Gabriel said. He looked at Edward. “Would you please pass the strawberry jam?”
“Yes, sir.” Edward spoke around a mouthful of buttered eggs. He dutifully handed the jam pot to Gabriel. “Sir, what does a murdered person look like?”
“Edward,” Beatrice said tightly. “That is quite enough. One does not talk about such things at the breakfast table.”
“But, Aunt Beatrice, you were the one who brought up the subject.”
Beatrice sighed. “Eat your eggs and do not interrupt your elders when they’re talking.”
Edward went back to his eggs but Gabriel knew that the boy was taking in every word of the conversation. The ghoulish subject of murdered people was not going to be ignored so easily.
“Aunt Beatrice,” Venetia said firmly, “please do not fly into a panic. The situation is well in hand.”
“How can you say that?” Beatrice rounded on her. “We are talking about a great scandal. Why, if it gets out that you discovered a body at the exhibition last night there will be no end of gossip.”
“The word is already out, I’m afraid.” Amelia walked into the room, waving a copy of the Flying Intelligencer. “And you will never guess who wrote the piece.”
Venetia made a face and reached for the coffeepot. “Mr. Otford?”
“The very same.” Amelia sat down beside Edward. “It is an exciting review, to say the least. I expect everyone will be reading it this morning. It is rather rare to find a dead body at a photographic exhibition, after all.”
“We are doomed,” Beatrice intoned. “We shall be forced to vacate this lovely house and give up the gallery. We will lose everything.”
Gabriel looked at Amelia. “Why don’t you read the article to us?”
“Certainly.” Amelia cleared her throat.
SHOCKING EVENTS
AT PHOTOGRAPHIC EXHIBITION
by Gilbert Otford
The body of a photographer was discovered during the course of an exhibition of photographs on Tuesday evening. The deceased was identified as Mr. Harold Burton, of Greenstone Lane.
It is believed that Mr. Burton’s lack of success in his chosen field, together with recent financial reverses and mounting debts, led him to take the sad course of drinking potassium of cyanide.
The body was discovered quite by accident by Mrs.Jones, the well-known photographer. Her husband, Mr.Jones, was with her when they happened upon the corpse. Readers of this paper will recall that Mr. Jones is only recently returned to London and the arms of his loving bride after having been presumed dead for a year.
Needless to say, the discovery of Mr. Burton’s body cast a pall of gloom over the exhibition. Mrs. Jones, whose striking pictures won admiration from all present, appeared quite distraught. There was great concern that she might faint. She was seen being tenderly escorted out of the hall by her devoted husband.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Venetia fumed. “I was nowhere near fainting.”
“I think the fact that you were quite distraught and that you had to be tenderly escorted out of the hall was a nice touch,” Amelia announced, putting aside the paper. “I agree with Mr. Jones. I don’t think this news will create any severe problems. In fact, I would not be surprised if it attracted a few more clients. People will be more curious than ever about the mysterious widow photographer.”
“Former widow,” Gabriel corrected mildly.
“Yes, of course,” Amelia said, scooping eggs onto her plate. “Forgive me, sir, I must not forget your miraculous return. It is, after all, the latest installment in the legend of the mysterious Mrs. Jones.”
“Happy to be of service,” Gabriel said.
Beatrice’s brows came together in a baffled frown. “I don’t understand.” She looked at Gabriel. “I thought you said that Mr. Burton was murdered.”
“That was certainly the conclusion that Venetia and I arrived at,” Gabriel said.
“But the newspaper article clearly implies that Mr. Burton took his own life.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Gabriel contemplated that information while he ate another bite of salmon. “And there is no mention of the fleeing figure that Venetia saw in the hallway. Interesting. I wonder if the police decided to keep certain details quiet in hopes of letting the killer think that his crime has gone undetected, or if they truly believe Burton’s death was a suicide.”
“There may be another explanation,” Venetia said. “Mr. Jones, last night you and I were primarily concerned with our own situation. We forgot that there was someone in the building who had every reason to try to ensure that the exhibition hall not be tainted with the scandal a murder might cause.”
“Of course,” Beatrice said immediately. “Christopher Farley, the sponsor of the exhibition. Mr. Farley is a very influential gentleman both in art circles and in Society. I would not be at all surprised to learn that he was able to apply some pressure to the police to
get them to announce a suspected suicide instead of murder.”
Either way, Gabriel thought, he had one less problem on his hands today. The fact that the reporter had not learned that Venetia had seen someone fleeing the scene of the crime meant that in all likelihood the killer did not know it, either.
Venetia regarded him with a considering expression. “What are your plans for today, Mr. Jones?”
He wondered how much longer she intended to address him with such excruciating formality.
“I made a list, as it happens.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and put it on the table. “First, I am going to give you the negative of the photograph of the strongbox that you made while you were at Arcane House. I would appreciate it if you would develop it as soon as possible.”
She inclined her head. “Very well. What will you do with the picture?”
“I have already deciphered the encoded passage that was inscribed on the lid of the strongbox. It is merely a list of herbs that mean nothing to me or to my cousin. I cannot conceive of how it might be important. But there is a member of the Arcane Society here in London who has done a great deal of research on the alchemist’s papers. Perhaps he will be able to make something of the design that surrounds the names of the herbs.”
“You plan to show the photograph of the strongbox to him?” Edward asked.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “But just to be on the safe side, in the event that Mr. Montrose, who is quite elderly, loses the print or if it falls into the wrong hands, I am going to request that it be slightly retouched. I want to change the name of one or two of the herbs. Is that possible?”
“I can do that for you,” Beatrice offered.
“Thank you,” Gabriel said. “I will tell Mr. Montrose what is missing, of course, so that he will have the right information with which to work.”
Edward beamed with admiration. “That is very clever, sir.”
“I do try,” Gabriel said. “But I must admit that I am not hopeful that Montrose will be able to tell me anything that my cousin and I have not already deduced. However, he may be able to assist me in another aspect of my search.”
“What is that?” Venetia asked.
He looked at her. “Montrose has been in charge of maintaining the membership rolls of the Arcane Society for a number of years. The records include not only the names of those inducted into the society but also the names of their relatives.”
Venetia frowned slightly. “You are expanding your investigation to include the families of the members?”
“Yes.” He sat back, coffee in hand. “I am broadening the pool of suspects to include the relatives of those members who would have known about the excavation of the alchemist’s laboratory. In addition, I made note of the names of some of those present at the exhibition hall last night. I am curious to see if any of them have any links to the Arcane Society.”
Beatrice’s expression darkened with anxiety. “You are convinced that this thief you seek has been watching Venetia, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry to say it, but I fear that is extremely likely. That is why I felt it necessary to return from the grave.”
“One thing is certain,” Beatrice observed with a thoughtful air. “If the villain is hanging about in Venetia’s vicinity, you will most certainly have his full attention now. He must know who you are.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Quite likely.”
Venetia put down her fork. Somber comprehension lit her eyes. “You think that now that you are here, the villain will refocus his attention on you. You hope to distract him from me.”
Gabriel shrugged and reached for another slice of toast.
Beatrice suddenly cheered. “Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense. What a brilliant ploy, Mr. Jones. Why would the villain pay any more heed to Venetia now that you have reappeared? The thief will naturally assume that if anyone knows anything about the code on the strongbox, it will be you. After all, Venetia was just the photographer.”
“It is a simple plan,” Gabriel admitted. “But in my experience, they are usually the best.”
Venetia returned her attention to her food. He noticed that she did not look at all relieved by Beatrice’s conclusion. He wondered if he dared hope that meant that she was anxious about his own safety.
It had not been easy to watch her walk out of the study last night. Everything inside him had longed to keep her with him. Didn’t she understand that they belonged together? Had she forgotten the vow she had made in the throes of passion that last night at Arcane House?
I am yours.
19
HAROLD B URTON’S SMALL, shabby photographic gallery was sunk in gloom. It was almost as if the business had somehow sensed that the proprietor would not be returning and had closed its own doors.
The heavy fog did nothing to brighten the atmosphere, Venetia thought. She stood in a doorway directly across the cramped lane from the entrance to Burton’s Photographic Gallery. It was early afternoon, but the vapor was so thick she could barely make out the little shop. She raised her eyes to the windows of the rooms above the gallery. There was no indication that anyone was about up there, either. Those rooms had no doubt been Burton’s private quarters.
She had made the decision to come here today on impulse, leaving Amelia and Maud, the shopgirl who managed the gallery, the task of choosing the model for the next portrait in the gratifyingly successful Men of Shakespeare series.
The possibility that Burton had taken other photographs of her, photographs that he had not had time to deliver to her doorstep before he died, had been worrying her since she had awakened. There was no knowing what mischief Burton might have been up to with his retouching tools before his untimely demise. She could not afford to have an embarrassing photograph fall into the hands of one of her competitors or, worse, land on a client’s doorstep.
There was little activity in the lane. The shops on either side of Burton’s Photographic Gallery were open but there were no customers. The few hearty souls who had ventured out in the heavy fog wandered like lost ghosts, so concerned with not bumping into walls or stumbling over the paving stones that they did not notice Venetia lurking in the doorway. She realized that, garbed in black from head to toe, her face clouded by a black net veil, she was almost invisible.
She waited until an empty hansom rattled past, moving slowly in the mist, and then she crossed the lane to the gallery.
It came as no surprise to discover that the front door of the shop was securely locked. Shades had been lowered in all of the windows. Burton would have closed for the day before taking himself off to the exhibition hall and the encounter with his killer last night.
She made her way to the corner, turned and went down a narrow walk that led to a thin alley intended to service the shops. If anything the fog seemed even denser in this narrow passage.
She found the rear door of the gallery and discovered that it, too, was locked. She removed a hairpin and went to work. One became quite handy with tools and mechanical devices when one took up a career as a photographer, she reflected. It seemed one was always having to improvise.
The door opened. She paused, taking a last look around to make certain that there was no one about to see her enter the shop. Nothing stirred in the sea of fog that had drowned the alley.
Moving quietly, she let herself into the back room of the gallery and closed the door. She stood still for a moment, surveying the cluttered, gloom-filled space.
The room contained the usual paraphernalia that proliferated in a photographer’s gallery. Cartons of old negatives were stacked to the ceiling. Faded backdrops of various colors and designs were pushed up against the wall. An aged, well-worn sitter’s chair, one leg broken, occupied a corner. A pair of small-sized ladies’ shoes was tucked under the chair. The shoes were in a style that had gone out of fashion at least two years earlier.
An unexpected pang of sympathy went through her. Poor Burton. He had either not realiz
ed how important it was to stay current with the latest fashions or else he had not been able to afford to replace the shoes when styles changed.
There were three pairs of ladies’ shoes in her own gallery. They were all in the very latest style and considerably more elegant than the pair here in Burton’s establishment. But they had one thing in common with Burton’s shoes. They were all sized for the smallest and daintiest of feminine feet.
She was quite certain that Burton had invested in the shoes for the same practical reason that had led her to buy three pairs that were too small for anyone in her family. Delicate, elegant footwear proved extremely useful when one was confronted with a female client who desired a full-length portrait that did not display her own large feet.
One simply placed the smaller shoes in front of the sitter’s real feet and arranged her skirts so that only the tiny, pointed toes of the more dainty pair peeked out from beneath the hem of the lady’s gown. It saved a great deal of retouching.
On a nearby table lay two framed photographs. The glass had been shattered in each frame. Curious, she went closer to get a better look.
A single glance underlined the depths of Burton’s animosity toward her.
The photographs showed scenes of the Thames. She recognized both. Burton had entered them in one of Farley’s exhibitions. Her own Views of the River at Dawn had taken the first-place honors in that show. Burton had been furious when he left the hall that night. She could well imagine him returning to his gallery, his losing photographs under his arm. Very likely he had stormed in here and slammed the pictures onto the workbench with such force that the glass had shattered. He had never bothered to clean up the broken shards. Perhaps he had taken some perverse pleasure in looking at them every day, reminding himself just how much he hated a certain Mrs. Jones.
She turned away from the disquieting scene on the workbench. The toe of her shoe caught on an object that lay on the floor. A length of iron clattered on the wooden boards at her feet. The sound was unnaturally loud in the even more unnatural silence.