She froze, her heart pounding. Calm yourself, she thought. There is no way anyone outside this gallery could have heard that small noise.
After a few seconds, her pulse slowed. She glanced down and saw a long iron head clamp and stand. In the days of daguerreotypes and tintypes, such devices had been widely used to secure the sitter so that he or she would not move while the picture was taken. The advent of newer, faster film mediums and improved cameras had rendered the clamps unnecessary from a technical point of view but many photographers still relied on them to keep a sitter perfectly still. It was always a great temptation to employ a head clamp when one was faced with taking the portrait of a restless little boy.
She crossed the room and opened a door. The reek of strong chemicals that had been stored too long in a badly ventilated space nearly knocked her over.
Trust Burton to ignore all of the sound advice in the photographic journals regarding the safe storage of his darkroom chemicals, she thought. No wonder he’d had that perpetual cough. He had probably locked himself in here for hours at a time, breathing the concentrated fumes in a small, confined space that had no provision for a healthy circulation of fresh air. She sighed. It was a common problem in a profession replete with hazards.
She held the door wide for a moment, letting the worst of the fumes dissipate, and then moved into the darkroom. The dim light angled into the small space, revealing the fixing tray and the bottles of chemicals.
Burton’s equipment was shiny and quite new-looking, she noticed, and of the very best quality. Several of the bottles on the shelf were still sealed.
The room was so dark that she almost failed to notice the wooden chest stored under the workbench. Crouching down, she opened it. Inside were several dry plate negatives.
She needed to examine only one to realize what she had found.
She never heard the telltale footfalls behind her. By the time a powerful male hand closed over her mouth, it was far too late to scream.
As she was hauled to her feet, she grabbed the only potential weapon that was available, a set of tongs used to remove prints from the chemical baths.
20
DO NOT,” Gabriel said into her ear, “make any loud noises.”
She went limp with relief, nodded frantically and released her grip on the tongs.
He took his hand off her mouth and spun her around. In the shadows of the darkroom he looked very large and very annoyed.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing here?” he asked in a voice that was much too soft. “I thought you were spending the day at the gallery.”
She collected herself with an effort. “I should be the one asking you that question. I seem to recall that you were going to interview an elderly member of the Arcane Society this morning.”
“I have already spoken with Montrose. I was on my way back to Sutton Lane when I decided to stop by this address instead.”
“What did you expect to discover here?” she asked warily.
“I was curious to learn more about Burton.”
“For heaven’s sake, why? Surely his death is not connected to the missing formula.”
Gabriel said nothing.
Something fluttered wildly in her stomach. “Is it?”
“The answer to that is perhaps not,” he allowed.
She cleared her throat. “I cannot help but notice that the phrase perhaps not leaves some room for equivocation.”
“As always, madam, you are extremely perceptive.” He glanced at the wooden chest. “I see you found the negatives of the pictures he took of you.”
“Yes.”
“I went through them. With the exception of the cemetery monument inscribed with your name on it, they all appear to be quite innocuous. There are pictures of you coming out of a bakery and going into your gallery and chatting with a client, that sort of thing.”
She shuddered. “Burton’s envy must have inspired him to some sort of weird obsession with me.”
“Personally, I’m starting to wonder if he really was that fixated on you,” Gabriel said.
“What do you mean?”
“I find the fact that Burton had been following you about for several days and then managed to get himself murdered in close proximity to you last night troubling, to say the least.”
“What?” The implications slammed through her. “Hold on, sir. Are you saying that Mr. Burton’s death may be connected to me?”
“It is a possibility I cannot discount without further evidence.”
“I hesitate to remind you, sir, but I am the only person we know thus far who had a motive to kill poor Burton. Given the fact that I did not do it, we must assume that someone else murdered him for some entirely unrelated reason.”
“Perhaps.”
“There is that word again,” she said. “Where, pray tell, is the flaw in my argument?”
“Your reasoning is excellent, my sweet, but it relies upon a disturbing coincidence. I have never been fond of such explanations.”
It irritated her to hear him call her my sweet in such an offhand manner. It was as if their association had progressed to the point where such familiarity was second nature.
He looked at her. “You have not yet told me why you chose to stop by this place and commit a small act of breaking and entering this morning.”
She set her teeth together. “I didn’t actually break anything. I merely fiddled around a bit with a hairpin and the door opened.” She stopped suddenly. “How did you get in?”
“I did some fiddling, too.” He nodded toward the door in the other room. “But I made certain to reset the lock after I was inside in order to forestall the possibility that someone might walk in on me unannounced.”
“Good thinking,” she said, struck by the logic. “I must remember that in future.”
“In future,” Gabriel said deliberately, “you will discuss any plans for this sort of activity with me before you execute them.”
“Why would I do that?” she asked. “You would no doubt try to talk me out of them.”
“In case you have not noticed, Mrs. Jones, this is an excellent way to get yourself arrested. That detective who interviewed us last night was not inclined to view you as a suspect in Burton’s death but his view of things may shift if you are discovered in a situation like this.”
“I was very careful not to be seen. In answer to your question, I came here because I was afraid that Burton might have taken other photographs of me and perhaps retouched them in ways that could prove embarrassing if they were to fall into the hands of my competitors.”
“That thought occurred to me, too,” he said. “Aside from the apparently harmless-looking negatives in that wooden chest, I found no other pictures of you.”
“Thank goodness.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “What about his lodgings?”
“Nothing of interest up there, either.” He picked up the wooden chest and walked out of the darkroom. “Come, we will take these pictures with us and examine them more closely after we are both safely away from this place.”
She trailed after him, intending to follow him to the back door. She stopped when she noticed the carton of dry plates standing on a nearby table. The manufacturer’s name was familiar. She ordered her plates from the same firm.
“Now, that is interesting,” she said, half under her breath.
One hand on the doorknob, he watched her from across the room. “What is it?”
“From all accounts, Burton was barely eking out a living with his photography, yet the equipment in the darkroom is quite new and expensive. What’s more, that carton of plates is the largest size available from the manufacturer. It costs a considerable sum.”
“Burton obviously took his work seriously. He no doubt invested what little money he did make in his supplies and equipment.”
“From the rumors I heard, he did not command an income that would have allowed such extravagance.” She tapped one toe on the floor and took another look aroun
d the room. “I wonder if he also bought a new camera?”
“There is a camera on a tripod in the other room,” Gabriel said. “I did not take a close look at it.”
She went into the front room of the shop. Burton had arranged a chair and a simple backdrop positioned to take advantage of what little light came through the grimy windows. One glance at the bulky camera on the tripod was sufficient.
“It is definitely an old model,” she said, going back around behind the counter. “Apparently he was not making enough money to purchase a new one.”
She stopped short at the sight of a hat sitting on a shelf beneath the counter.
“Venetia, do not delay any longer,” Gabriel said. “It is past time we both left this place.”
“One more minute, sir, that is all I need.” She picked up the hat. It was much heavier than any hat had a right to be.
“What the devil are you doing with that?” Gabriel asked, sounding reluctantly intrigued.
“On the occasions that I caught Mr. Burton watching me, he had this hat with him. But he always carried it under his arm. I never saw him put it on his head.” She turned the hat upside down and smiled with satisfaction. “And this is the reason why.”
“What have you got there?”
“A concealed camera.” She held the hat so that he could see the device inside. “Quite new. Made by Crowder. He uses excellent lenses. This must have been very expensive.”
“Damnation.” Gabriel set down the wooden chest and took the hat camera from her. He examined it closely. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“We in the profession refer to them as detective cameras. They are constructed in various secretive ways. I have seen cameras hidden inside vases and briefcases and other objects.”
“So this was how he took those photographs of you without you knowing what he was about.”
“Yes.”
Gabriel set the hat camera down on the shelf, picked up the chest and started once more toward the rear door. “There is money to be made taking pictures in secret?”
“Yes,” she said, following him. “Mind you, the detective camera work is still a limited sideline but I expect that, in time, it will grow into a major portion of the business.”
“Who would pay to have clandestine pictures taken?”
“Only consider the possibilities, Mr. Jones. Imagine how many wives would pay to obtain pictures of their philandering husbands when the gentlemen in question are in the company of their mistresses. Then ponder, if you will, all of the suspicious husbands who fear that their wives might be meeting with other men. The financial potential is virtually unlimited.”
“Has anyone ever remarked to you, Mrs. Jones, that you have a decidedly cynical view of marriage?”
“I prefer to think that I have a realistic view.” She paused. “But at least I have answered the one question that was bothering me about Mr. Burton.”
“You now know how he managed to purchase the new equipment and supplies.”
“Yes. He went into the detective camera business.”
BACK IN THE little house on Sutton Lane, Venetia put the last of the negatives back into the wooden chest. She sat back in the chair behind the desk and looked at Gabriel.
“You were right, sir,” she said. “With the exception of the one retouched negative, there is nothing remarkable about any of those photographs.”
“Aside from the fact that they create a very precise record of your comings and goings and the people you have met with during the past several days,” Gabriel said quietly. “Either Burton did, indeed, develop a very odd sort of obsession with your person or else someone employed him to watch you.”
21
AMELIA SAT WITH Maud Hawkins, the young woman who managed the gallery, in a small room just off the main showroom. Together they studied the young man in the Roman-style toga who stood in front of them.
Maud was only a year older than Amelia. The daughter of a housekeeper and a butler, she was determined not to follow her parents into service. She had applied for the position in the Jones Gallery soon after it opened and had been hired immediately. Maud was intelligent and enthusiastic, and she had a way with customers.
The man in the toga was named Jeremy Kingsley. He was the last of the three candidates who had responded to the advertisement in the newspaper. The first two had proved unsuitable but Jeremy had promise, Amelia decided. She could see that Maud felt the same.
Jeremy was tall and blond with riveting blue eyes and a strong, square jaw. He looked very handsome in the toga, if a trifle awkward. The garment revealed his muscular arms and a broad expanse of one powerful shoulder. Jeremy made his living in a livery stable. The years of pitching hay, handling large horses and maneuvering carriages had done wonders, Amelia thought.
She dragged her eyes away from Jeremy and made a note on a piece of paper. Manly shoulders.
Venetia liked that sort of detail.
When she looked up she noticed that Maud was still staring at Jeremy as though he were a large and very tasty cream cake.
“Thank you, Mr. Kingsley,” Amelia said. “That will be all for now. You may return to the dressing room and change into your regular clothes.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.” Jeremy’s noble brow creased with anxiety. “But will I do, miss?”
Amelia glanced at Maud.
“I think he’ll do nicely,” Maud said. “Looks very good in a toga, doesn’t he?”
Jeremy gave her a grateful smile. Maud smiled back.
“I agree.” Amelia put down her pencil and looked at Jeremy. “I do not see any reason why Mrs. Jones will not find you acceptable as Caesar, Mr. Kingsley. But you do understand that she will make the final decision herself, when she meets with you.”
“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” Jeremy was clearly thrilled. “I’ll do my best to give satisfaction, I will.”
“Very well,” Amelia said, “Mrs. Jones will see you at three o’clock on the twenty-third. If she approves of you, she will photograph you at that time. The process will take at least two hours, quite possibly longer. Mrs. Jones is very particular about her photographs.”
“I understand, miss.”
“You must be prompt,” Maud added. “Mrs. Jones is an extremely busy lady. She does not care to wait on her models.”
“No need to fret on that account, miss,” Jeremy said, heading toward the dressing room. “I’ll be here on time.”
He disappeared behind the heavy red-and-gold drapery that veiled the gentlemen’s dressing room. When he reappeared a few minutes later, he was back in his ill-fitting, store-bought clothes. Amelia privately thought that the toga looked much better on him. She could see Maud felt the same.
Jeremy stammered a few more words of gratitude and rushed exuberantly outside into the street.
Amelia and Maud walked back into the showroom.
“I do believe that Mr. Kingsley will make a very fine Caesar,” Amelia said.
“Yes, miss, he certainly will and that’s a fact.” Maud rubbed her hands together. “I expect sales will be even brisker than they were for Hamlet a few weeks ago. Something about a man in a toga, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, but I must say, it will be difficult to surpass our Hamlet.
Amelia stopped in front of one of the framed prints displayed on the wall. The moody, exotically shadowed photograph was an intimate portrait of a very handsome man who looked out at the viewer with the seductive eyes of a romantic poet. His dark curly hair was tousled in a most interesting manner.
Hamlet wore a white shirt that was open partway down his chest; dark, close-fitting trousers; and gleaming, high leather boots. He looked more like a dashing explorer than a doomed prince. He was shown lounging on a gilded chair, one booted leg stretched full-length in a pose that female customers seemed to find enormously affecting. One long-fingered hand was draped elegantly over the arm of the chair. In the other hand he held a Yorick skull. It had not been easy turning
up a human skull, Amelia reflected. Maud had finally managed to purchase a spare one from a small theater.
“Your notion of putting Hamlet in a shirt that was partly unfastened was nothing short of brilliant,” Amelia said.
Maud smiled modestly, admiring the picture. “It just came to me out of the blue.”
Amelia looked at the next portrait in line. It showed another extremely handsome young man dressed in the ancient Italian style. Locating a skull had been difficult, Amelia reflected, but finding a codpiece had been considerably more of a challenge. The effort had been worthwhile, however. Who could have imagined that female customers would find a man in a codpiece so fascinating?
“We can only hope that our Caesar does as well as our Hamlet,” Amelia said. “But I expect that we will never again attain the degree of success that we’ve had with Romeo.”
“He is still far and away our best seller,” Maud agreed, studying the codpiece. “I sold twenty prints just last week alone. We shall have to make more soon.”
“Well, it is Romeo, after all.”
“By the way,” Maud said, going behind the counter. “I got a message from a gentleman inquiring whether Mrs. Jones was available to take a photograph of his lady friend. I sent a message back scheduling the sitting for tomorrow. All of the particulars are in the appointment book.”
“Thank you, Maud. Who is the client?”
“Lord Ackland,” Maud said. “He wants Mrs.Jones to photograph a lady named Mrs. Rosalind Fleming.”
22
IT MUST HAVE COME as a great shock to discover that your husband was still very much alive, Mrs. Jones.” Rosalind Fleming’s smile was cool and knowing. “One can only imagine the effect on the nerves of having a dead man show up on one’s doorstep.”
“Quite startling, certainly.” Venetia pushed a small statue into a slightly different position beside Rosalind’s chair and hurried back to her camera. “But one must adjust to life’s little inconveniences and carry on, mustn’t one?”