Night's Child (9 page)

He rapped sharply and went inside. Another young woman, about the same age as the shy bride he had just encountered, was sitting behind a desk facing the door. This one, however, gave him a smile brimming with confidence.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Emporium.”

She was dressed in a demure gown of tartan taffeta and her hair was tightly pinned in a knot on top of her head. Murdoch removed his hat and returned her smile.

“Newly wed?”

She looked at him, startled.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. “The couple that just left. I’ll wager they’ve just got hitched.”

“Oh, yes, you are quite correct. Early this morning, I believe. They wanted to get photographed before they went to their wedding breakfast.”

“Lucky man,” said Murdoch.

She lowered her eyes to the piece of paper in front of her.

“Quite so. Now as for you Mr….?”

“Murdoch. William Murdoch.”

“Are you interested in a wedding portrait?”

Murdoch felt a twinge of warning in his gut. It wasn’t that the young woman wasn’t professional in her appearance and manner, she was in a rather self-conscious way, but her reaction to his question had been too wary. There had been a momentary flash of cold suspicion in her eyes.

He gave a phony chuckle. “Oh no, ma’am, not me. I haven’t had that kind of luck yet to find me a bride. I’d just like to inquire about a photo picture to give to my dear old mother.”

She smiled at him. “How very thoughtful of you. A cabinet then.” She consulted a notepad in front of her. “We actually have time now. It isn’t usually the case, normally we are full up, but there was an unexpected cancellation.” She smiled at his good fortune and handed him a card. “Here is a list of our prices. I do recommend you order the package of five. It is more economical.”

Murdoch had not really expected this and he wasn’t sure how he was going to pay. Or if he could pay. So far this investigation was unauthorized.

“Can you send me the bill?”

“Of course, that is our usual procedure.” She allowed the smallest note of reproach to creep into her voice as if he were impugning the integrity of the Emporium by implying that they were money grabbing.

She stood up. “I’ll fetch Mr. Gregory, our photographer. And will you be so kind as to fill out this form with your name and address.”

“Thank you, Miss…?”

“I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. I’m Miss Hill.”

She smiled again, a smile quite as false as Murdoch’s overdone grinning. Then she handed him a piece of paper and disappeared through another door. Ignoring the form for the moment, Murdoch took a look around him. The room wasn’t large, but a tall window allowed good light and created a pleasant airy feeling to the place. Several chairs, nicely covered in burgundy plush velvet, were around the edge of the room, a mahogany coat stand stood by the door, the carpet was a richly patterned Axminster. Perhaps the savings accrued from the sparse furnishing of the entry had been used here where it counted. The walls were lined with row on row of photographs, and Murdoch went to examine them. Gregory’s seemed to specialize in wedding photographs, given the number of portraits of happy couples, sombre for the moment, all dressed in their best. Interspersed here and there were what he assumed were the cabinets, head-and-shoulders photographs of serious-looking men and a few women. He was more interested in the backdrops but at a quick inspection, he didn’t see the artificial wood panelling or the leopard-skin rug and the birdcage that were in the stereoscopic picture of Agnes.

He had just returned to his seat and picked up the form when Miss Hill returned, followed by a stocky fellow whose hand was outstretched even as he came in the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. My name is Gregory. Bartholomew Gregory. At your service, sir.”

He had a strong cockney accent.

Murdoch shook hands. Gregory’s grip was vigorous. Despite the formality of his black worsted suit, there was no hiding the fact he had performed manual labour at some point in his youth. His shoulders were wide and sloping and his upper arms filled the sleeves of his jacket. Murdoch could feel the hard calluses on his palm.

“I was actually looking for a Mr. Loft. I understood he had a studio here. He did some good work for a cousin of mine a while back.”

Gregory grinned, revealing the glint of a gold filling in his front tooth.

“Dead and gone. Or I should say, Mr. Loft is enjoying a well-earned retirement. I purchased the business a few months ago. Decided to change the name to avoid confusion.”

“From over the pond are you, Mr. Gregory?” Murdoch asked, gaping a little.

“
Horn and head
, born and bred to you,” said Gregory. “Now I understand from Miss Hill that you would like our cabinet package of five.”

“That’s right. For my mother.” He waved vaguely at the photographs on the wall. “But I’d like a nice serious backdrop. Gives a better impression, don’t you think?”

“It most certainly does, sir. And you’re a man of commerce I’d wager.”

“How’d you ever guess that? Let’s just say I’m interested in the typewriting business.”

“Good going, sir. Efficient typewriters are in great demand. I don’t know what I’d do without Miss Hill.”

The young woman had returned to the desk but she nodded an acknowledgement.

Gregory gestured. “Why don’t we step right out and get started?”

They were interrupted by the door to the hall banging open. A young man came in with such a flurry, he might have been propelled by the wind. He was carrying an umbrella that he immediately started to shake, scattering raindrops like a wet dog.

“Frigging weather…”

He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw the room was occupied. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

Gregory barely acknowledged his presence and made no attempt to introduce him.

“You can put your bat and moat on the stand, Mr. Murdoch,” he said. “Come this way.”

The newcomer stood where he was. Not a customer obviously. A handsome young man by any standards, with his dark hair and trim moustache. Murdoch thought he might be Miss Hill’s suitor, but she didn’t acknowledge him either. He glanced curiously at Murdoch, then plopped down in one of the chairs.

CHAPTER
TEN

T
he studio was not much larger than the reception room and had the same impoverished decor of the entrance hallway and stairs. The plank floor was uncarpeted, there was no furniture at all, and the walls were whitewashed. In spite of the three deep windows, the dull light of the rain-soaked day was not sufficient for photographic purposes and two gas chandeliers overhead had been lit. A camera on a wheeled tripod was aimed between two platforms, each curtained off by a curved rod, rather like miniature stages.

“Well, which do you fancy, Mr. Murdoch? You can have your penny dip. This setting here is what we call the Park. An exact depiction of the Allan Horticultural Gardens, which I’m sure you are familiar with.”

He drew back the heavy curtains of the nearest stage, revealing a painted backdrop of depressing ineptitude. The pavilion leaned slightly and looked as if a good gust of wind would blow it away; the few shrubs in the foreground were an odd muddy green and the sky and the dirty clouds looked as if the painter hadn’t bothered to clean his brush. In the centre of the platform was a flimsy wooden plinth, painted to look like a marble sundial.

“Stand here, Mr. Murdoch, if you please. Turn to the right just a titch. Good. Excellent. Don’t move for a tick and a tock.” Gregory went over to the camera and wheeled it to the front of the Park. He disappeared underneath the focusing cloth, moved a little closer, then reappeared. “Now that is a fine portrait as ever hit my peepers. You are most definitely an outdoor man. I must say I would never take you for a man of commerce.”

Murdoch grinned, showing lots of teeth. “But that is what I am, Mr. Gregory, and I think I’d be better off with the indoor setting. What’s that other one like?”

Gregory sighed, just enough to let customers know how foolish they were to question his choice. He pulled back the second curtain to reveal a stage that was bare except for a plain wooden chair in the centre and a small rolltop desk at the back. However, Murdoch could see that the painted backdrop depicted a panelled wall. Something must have shown in his expression because Gregory became hearty again.

“I know it don’t look like much as is, but in a photograph, it is very realistic. You’d think you were in the Prince of Wales’s study.”

Murdoch pointed to the adjacent set of double doors.

“Got anything else back there I can look at?”

“I’m afraid not. That leads to my private birch and broom and the dark room. A dark room is where the plates are developed,” he added.

Murdoch chortled. “Well, I didn’t think it was a place you sat with the lights out.” He walked around the little stage. “It’d be better with carpet on the floor. Have you got any more props or is that it?”

“Course, I do. I’m just setting you up first. Why don’t you sit on the lion’s lair and take the weight off your beaters.”

Murdoch mounted the platform and sat in the chair while Gregory brought the camera over and focused it.

“Yes, yes, that’s better. You were the Isle of Wight. I’d ask you for a loan if I thought I’d get it.” His voice was muffled by the black cloth. “Shall I take the photograph now then?”

“I thought you were going to put down a piece of carpet.”

Gregory’s head emerged. “I was about to get it.”

He headed for a large wardrobe that was in the corner of the room.

“I wouldn’t mind a plant of some kind, pictures, a clock. I’m sure his Majesty don’t sit in a bare room,” Murdoch said.

He could feel the man’s exasperation, but decided it was for show, intended to intimidate him. While Gregory was rooting in the wardrobe, he studied the backdrop. He couldn’t be sure it was the same one that had been used in the picture of Agnes Fisher. There wasn’t much to define either one.

“How’s this mug?”

Gregory was throwing down a fringed rug. It was surprisingly fresh and colourful with a pattern of overblown roses intertwined with lilies.

“Is that the only one you’ve got?”

“Yes, it is. And it’s mint as you can see.” He went over to the desk. “I’ll put these have a looks here like so.”

They weren’t real books, just the outer shells.

“What about some greenery? A fern or one of those leafy plants, asperdasters they’re called.”

“You mean, aspidistras. And no, I don’t have anything like that.”

Murdoch stood up. “Maybe I can look for myself. See what you’ve got.”

Gregory didn’t flinch. “By all means. I want satisfied customers even if it takes all May.”

Murdoch pointed at the windows, which were blurry with rain. “Not likely you’ll get many now.”

While the photographer watched, he walked over to the wardrobe. There was in fact a piece of greenery in there, not the one he was looking for, but a basket of bent and warped ivy. He pulled it out triumphantly.

“See, you did have something. This’ll look real good on the desk.”

“You’re right. Don’t know how I overlooked it.”

He’d told the truth about the rugs. There weren’t any others and Murdoch couldn’t see anything else from the stereoscopic photographs. He picked up a clock with the hands perpetually set at ten to three and a framed print of a watercolour that must have been done by the same artist who had painted the sets. He seemed to specialize in dull colours and vague, lopsided shapes. It was only on second glance that Murdoch recognized Niagara Falls.

“These will do just fine,” he said and brought them back to the stage.

Without a word but making no attempt to hide his impatience, Gregory took them from him. The watercolour he hung on a nail above the desk and the clock at a point just to the right of the chair. Obviously, they had been placed there before and Murdoch wondered why the man wasn’t showing more care. Perhaps it was because he thought Murdoch was unemployed.

“All right then, sir. Sit in the chair and cross your arms. Good. Most impressive.”

He stepped out from the focusing cloth and stood to the side of the camera, the lens cable in his right hand.

“Now I want you to keep as still as you can. Don’t move a muscle. Look straight into the camera.” He pressed the button. “Hold it. Don’t move.”

Murdoch heard a click as the lens closed.

“Good. We got it.” Gregory went to remove the plate from the camera. “Now I could take another for good measure, but that is a cost that has to be born by the customer.”

Murdoch got out of the chair. “I’ll leave it at that. When can I have the pictures?”

Gregory was all hearty again. “They’ll be ready the day after tomorrow at the latest. Now I’d better get on with my work so I’ll leave you to settle your till with Miss Hill.” He held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure to take you, Mr. Murdoch. I’m sure you’ll be quite satisfied.”

He was smiling his broad, gold-illuminated smile, but when Murdoch looked into his eyes but saw nothing there but a cold indifference. Gregory averted his gaze immediately, stepped over to the door, and ushered Murdoch into the other room.

“See to this gentleman, will you, my dear,” he called to the woman behind the desk and he went back into the studio, closing the door behind him.

“Come and have a seat, sir.” It wasn’t Miss Hill any more. This woman was older, thin faced with a sharp nose and chin.

“What happened to Miss Hill?” he asked. “She was the one I was dealing with before.”

“She’s gone to have her dinner,” said the woman, apparently struggling to be pleasant.

“Pity. And who might you be, ma’am, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I’m Mrs. Gregory. Mr. Gregory, my husband, is the one you have just been with.” She had no trace of a cockney accent.

“Very good fellow indeed even if he does talk peculiar. Knows what he’s doing all right.”