The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 3
Izzy barely slept a wink, too agitated by the multiple threats thrown up by Quimby’s murder as well as the potential ramifications of Grayson Child re-entering her life.
She walked into Woburn Mews at five minutes to eight and immediately spotted Gray leaning against the wall by The Crier’s door.
Her stride hitched, then she raised her chin and resumed her steady pace.
As she neared, she couldn’t resist observing, “I was under the impression that you—and indeed, your peers—never rise this early.”
He straightened from the wall and followed as she climbed the shallow steps and unlocked the door. “I got used to doing so during my time abroad.”
Opening the door, she glanced at him, conscious, again, of curiosity stirring, then led the way into the foyer.
Ignoring her inquisitive look, Gray shut his lips on the words For most of the years I was away, I didn’t have anywhere to lay my head that remotely resembled a bed and followed. Along with all the rest of his acquaintance, she didn’t need to know anything about that time in his life.
He ambled in her wake and waited in the office doorway while she hung up her coat and bonnet. When she crossed to take the chair behind the desk, he went to the armchairs they’d used the previous evening, rearranged them before the desk, and sat in the one farther from the door.
She glanced up, saw what he was doing, and nodded. “Thank you.”
She’d barely re-sorted the papers on her desk when the bell above the door jangled and several men Gray vaguely recognized as staff came in.
They were all smiles and morning chatter. Those who noticed him were curious, but were more intent on shrugging off their coats and hats and hanging them on pegs on the other side of the office wall.
Gray heard Izzy sigh, then she rose and walked out.
He got to his feet and went after her. He halted in the doorway and, propping a shoulder against the frame, watched as she was greeted with good humor and smiles, which faded as the five men and one younger lad took in her somber expression.
She surveyed the group, then said, “I’m afraid I have some disturbing and rather bad news, but I’ll wait until Mary arrives.”
The two older men—one stocky and appearing as strong as a bull, the other tall and reedy—exchanged concerned glances, then the thin one volunteered, “She won’t be long. Just stopped for a quick word with our landlady. She should be on my heels.”
Izzy nodded.
The lad stood still as a statue, his face a mask of growing anxiety.
The three younger men shifted on their feet, then one asked, “Is it bad news for The Crier, ma’am? Will we be stopping production?”
“Oh no,” Izzy assured them. “It’s nothing like that. It’s bad news, but not of that sort. In fact, I suspect our circulation will go up once the news gets out.”
That reassured but also puzzled everyone, then the bell rang again, and a fresh-faced young woman came hurrying inside.
She saw them all waiting, and her footsteps slowed. “Oh.” She scanned the faces. “Is something wrong?”
“In a way, yes, and I’m about to explain.” Izzy waved the girl—Mary, Gray surmised—to the counter, and she slipped past and went behind it and started to shrug off her coat.
“Now.” Her fingers twining, Izzy raised her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Quimby was murdered last night.”
“What?”
“Never!”
“Where?”
“Oh, heavens,” Mary breathed. “Don’t say it was here!” Horrified, she looked toward the darkroom. “He was here when we left yesterday.”
“Was he?” Izzy paused, then admitted, “We weren’t sure if he’d arrived before you all left, but sadly, yes. He was stabbed in the darkroom.”
“Cor!” the young lad looked simultaneously horrified and fascinated.
“I know he could be a grumpy old sod, but whyever would anyone want to murder Quimby?” the thin man asked.
The stocky man stepped forward. “Was it you who found him, ma’am?”
Izzy’s fingers gripped tighter. “Unfortunately, yes.” She pulled her hands apart and gestured at Gray. “Luckily, Lord Child had dropped by to discuss a business matter, and he was leaving with me when I noticed the sign was still up on the darkroom door. We knocked and called, and when we got no response, we went in…and found him.”
She paused to draw breath, then went on, “Lord Child arranged for Scotland Yard to be informed and stayed with me and helped deal with the police when they arrived. The surgeon came and took away the body. His lordship and I were in the office and heard and saw nothing, but the back door was unlocked—”
The thin man snorted. “I reminded Quimby it was supposed to be locked before we left, and he said he had. I should’ve checked. Far as I know, he never did lock it when he came in late, not until he left again.” He paused, then in a quieter tone, added, “He always said it wasn’t important.”
Gravely, Izzy shook her head. “The killer must have come in that way. I wanted to warn you that the police have said they’ll be around later this morning to speak with you all, to learn if Quimby arrived before you left, and if you know of anyone who might have wished him harm.”
From the looks on the staff’s faces and their murmured comments, it was plain they hadn’t known of the murder before this, nor could they imagine why the photographer had been killed.
“One thing,” Izzy said, reclaiming everyone’s attention. “From now on, I would like you all to make sure the back door is kept locked at all times, and during those moments it needs to be open—when you take out the rubbish or get in coal—that there are at least two of you there throughout the period the door is unlocked.” She sighed. “It might be shutting the door after the horse has bolted, but better safe than sorry.”
There were nods of agreement all around.
The stocky man asked, “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but are we planning on running an edition this week?”
Izzy nodded. “I want to run an obituary at the very least, and perhaps a special section on Quimby’s work and what a loss to us he and his talents will be.”
Everyone seemed to think that was appropriate.
“In that case”—the stocky man turned to the others—“we’d best get on with our usual chores.” He cocked a questioning brow at Izzy.
She nodded. “Yes. I think we should keep on as best we can.”
The staff moved off, deeper into the workshop. The thin man paused to pat the young woman, Mary, who looked pale and stunned, awkwardly on the back. He said a few words, to which she nodded, then she went to the counter, and the man moved along the far side of the printing press to where narrow tables set end to end ran down that side of the room.
Izzy watched her staff settle to their tasks, while Gray watched her.
Eventually, she turned and walked toward him. She waved him into the office. “They don’t need us watching over them like mother hens.”
His lips twitched, and he remained lounging in the doorway. “Who are they? Start with the stocky man. If I’m to be hovering for a while, it’ll help to have some names.”
She halted and frowned at him. “Obviously, the exposé will not now go ahead, so there’s no reason for you to linger.”
“Much as it pains me to contradict a lady…” When she huffed, he hid a grin. “I was here when the body was found and during the time of the murder. While the police have thus far focused on you, who’s to say they won’t, at some point, fasten their beady eyes on me?” He arched his brows, daring her to argue. When she merely grimaced, he half smiled and added, “Aside from all else, I’m curious to see in which direction Baines takes his investigation. Telling me who your staff are won’t hurt.”
She stared at him as if debating what was in her and her staff’s best interests, then crossed her arms and swung to face the workshop. “Mary Maguire is my assistant copywriter and also acts as receptionist. The tall, thin man is William Maguire. He’s our senior typesetter and also Mary’s father. The stocky man is the printing works manager, Henry Lipson. It’s he who oversees the running of the press.”
He was tracking each individual as she named them. “Lipson looks strong enough to turn the press by hand.”
“He is and, on occasion, does. Of the younger men, the stockier one with reddish-brown hair is Tom Lipson, Henry’s second son. The other young man working on the boiler is Gerry Horner. He’s specifically responsible for keeping the boiler in perfect condition. The man wearing spectacles and working alongside William at the typesetting tables is Jim Matthews.”
“And the lad?”
“Our printer’s devil, Digby Crew.”
Gray eyed the towheaded youngster, about fifteen years old, skinny and scrawny and all big eyes. Lipson Senior was watching over the lad and keeping them both busy, poking about the huge printing press. “He—your young devil—is the one who’s been working as Quimby’s assistant?”
Izzy nodded. “Quimby was here often enough during work hours, and Digby was always hanging around, asking questions. I think, at first, Quimby took him into the darkroom simply to keep him quiet. Then Quimby realized how useful Digby could be.”
She drew in a breath and, lowering her arms, faced him. “And now, like everyone else, I need to get back to work.”
With an equable smile, he moved out of the doorway.
She shot him a narrow-eyed look and sailed past.
Hiding a smile, he returned to the armchair and relaxed into it.
His real motive in remaining within her orbit was to ensure Baines didn’t opt for the easy course of making her a scapegoat, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say so.
Baines and Littlejohn came through the front door not long after.
Izzy glanced at the clock. “It’s barely nine—hardly the generally accepted idea of midmorning.”
Gray could have told her the early arrival was a ploy to catch Izzy and her staff off guard. Instead, he rose as she did and followed her into the foyer. She intercepted the Scotland Yard pair, then at their request, called the staff to gather again in the space at the end of the long counter.
Once everyone was there, she named the staff, mentioning their roles, then introduced Baines and Littlejohn and stepped back to stand by the office wall beside Gray as, with Littlejohn taking notes, Baines commenced his questioning.
Dipping his head, Gray murmured, softly enough that only she would hear, “It’s notable that they’re interviewing the staff as a group.”
She glanced at him. “It is?”
“It suggests they don’t suspect the staff of having anything to do with the murder.”
She frowned slightly. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Not if it means they’ve reverted to suspecting you.”
He had a nasty feeling that supposition would prove true.
Baines confirmed that none of the staff knew Quimby socially, that, indeed, none had ever met him anywhere other than at the printing works. Likewise, none of the staff had any idea who might have killed the photographer or why.
Watching closely, Gray concluded that none of the staff were hiding anything; they were an honest and open bunch. He was pleased to hear them confirm everything Izzy had said of Quimby.
The one new piece of solid information was that on the previous evening, at a few minutes before five o’clock, Quimby had entered the printing works via the rear door—his usual means of access—grunted at everyone as was his wont, and gone straight into the darkroom, as he usually did.
The printer’s devil, Digby, who had been told to scarper off home by Lipson a few minutes early and had left via the still-unlocked rear door, had passed Quimby in the lane. “He was coming down from Great Coram Street—his lodgings are somewhere up that way. I passed him a little way down from the corner and nodded, polite-like, and he nodded back, and we went on our ways.”
That seemed clear enough, as was Lipson’s tale of locking the back door after he’d shooed Digby off, and Maguire’s report of knocking on the darkroom door and warning Quimby the others were leaving and asking if he’d relocked the rear door. Quimby’s response, heard by several others, had been clear, namely that he’d taken care of it.
“Shouldn’ta listened,” Maguire said. “I shoulda gone down to the door and checked. We knew he wasn’t the sort to bother, but he was usually off again in a half hour or so, so it didn’t seem worth the argument.”
Littlejohn looked up. “Who has keys to the back door?”
“I do.” Henry Lipson nodded at Izzy. “Mrs. Molyneaux has a key, and Quimby, of course.”
“Only the three?” Littlejohn asked, busily scribbling.
“Yes,” Lipson said. “And I was already at the front door when we remembered Quimby, and William here went back to ask.”
“So he told you it was locked, and you had no reason to believe he was lying, even though you suspected he might be.” Baines nodded. “Perfectly understandable. So you all left then, at the same time?”
The staff looked at each other as if confirming who was there, then nodded.
“We left in a group,” Lipson stated. “All except Digby, who’d left earlier, and Quimby, who was in the darkroom.”
“And Mrs. Molyneaux,” Baines pointed out. “She was in the office, I believe?”
The staff looked at Izzy and nodded.
“At her desk,” Lipson confirmed. “It being Friday, she was doing the invoices and accounts, like always. We all called goodbye.”
“Right, then.” Baines glanced at Littlejohn. “I think that establishes all we need as to movements leading up to the incident.” He focused on Lipson. “Can you or anyone here tell us whether the plates left on the table in the darkroom are all the plates Quimby had? Or are there others stored somewhere else?”
All the staff looked at Digby, who colored but, encouraged by nods from Lipson and Izzy, cleared his throat and said, “None of us have gone into the darkroom. We don’t usually go in there, not unless Mr. Quimby tells us to. It’s—was—his place.” Digby blinked, then went on, “So I don’t rightly know what plates you’re talking about, but if they’re about this size”—he held up his hands about nine inches apart, moving them to indicate a square—“and have a black-and-silver film on them, then I reckon they’d be Mr. Q’s daguerreotype plates, and he kept all of those in the cabinets inside the darkroom. Safest there, you see.”
Baines and Littlejohn digested that, then Baines asked, “If we took you to look in the darkroom, would you be able to tell if all those plates have been taken out and left on the table?”
Eyes rounding, Digby nodded.
Baines looked at Littlejohn and tipped his head toward the darkroom. “Take him in and let him check.”
Littlejohn pocketed his notebook and, with a kindly expression, waved Digby ahead of him. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”
Everyone watched the pair go down the workshop and into the darkroom. Digby insisted they put up the Occupied sign and closed the door.
The others looked at each other and shifted, but otherwise waited in silence.
After quite a few minutes, the door opened again, and Digby, paler than before, emerged, escorted by Littlejohn, who shut the door behind him.
Digby returned to Lipson’s side.
Littlejohn resumed his position beside Baines and drew out his notebook. “The lad and I looked through all the cabinets, and there weren’t any other plates like those on the table left stored away. The lad did a quick count, and he thinks all the plates Quimby ever had are on the table, and the lad is quite certain they’re all useless now.”
Digby nodded. “Wrecked, they are! Poor Mr. Q would be roaring…” He broke off and looked down, then mournfully shook his head. “To have all his work ruined like that. Senseless, it is.”
Gray suspected that, far from being senseless, wrecking the photographic plates had been the murderer’s principal aim.
Baines thanked Digby for his help, then thanked the staff as a whole, ending with, “I doubt we’ll need to question you again, but we might be back to check on this or that.”
Lipson looked at Izzy. “Best we get back to work, then.”
At Izzy’s nod, the staff drifted away, returning to what they’d been doing before.
After a murmured comment to Littlejohn, Baines turned to Izzy. “If we might have a word, ma’am?”
“Of course.” Izzy briefly met Gray’s eyes as she led the way into her office. He wasn’t surprised to see flaring concern in her emerald gaze.
He followed on her heels, not about to be shut out of the coming exchange. While Izzy returned to her chair behind the desk, he reclaimed the armchair he’d previously occupied and waited to hear what Baines had to say.
Littlejohn shut the office door. Along with Baines, Littlejohn remained standing.
Baines hadn’t expected Gray to be there; he shot him a wary glance, then, rather uncertainly, faced Izzy. “Mrs. Molyneaux, this morning, the superintendent was asked to review the evidence in this case. Littlejohn and I were called on to report our findings from yesterday and, once we return, will add what we’ve learned this morning from your staff.” Baines glanced briefly at Gray, then returned his gaze to Izzy. “I have to warn you that there’s pressure mounting from the local force for the Yard to make a quick arrest. The locals feel there’s evidence enough regarding who might have done the deed, and despite what I admit is very tight timing, you, ma’am, remain the principal suspect.”
Apparently unmoved, Izzy stared at Baines, patently waiting for his next pronouncement.
Gray nearly laughed. “She isn’t going to run.”
“Heh?” Baines looked at him, then faintly colored.
Gray smiled a sharklike smile, then turned to Izzy. “It’s an old trick. If you have a person you decide is guilty but have insufficient evidence to prove it, you suggest that they are about to be arrested and wait for them to try to flee. If they do, you have all the proof you need—they’ve made the case for you.”
Izzy’s emerald eyes hardened. Her expression severe, she trained an adamantine gaze on Baines and, enunciating excruciatingly precisely, inquired, “You didn’t just try to make me incriminate myself, did you, Inspector?”
Baines turned several shades of ugly red, but to his credit, didn’t deny the accusation. He shifted his weight and when, brows arching haughtily, Izzy waited, conceded, “There’s a lot of pressure to close this case, ma’am.”
Before Izzy could respond, Gray coldly stated, “If we’re to speak of pressure regarding this case, Inspector, you might wish to ponder the fact that Mrs. Molyneaux has friends in what are generally termed high places, and they, like myself, will take a very dim view of Scotland Yard attempting to prosecute a case against Mrs. Molyneaux without any sound evidence beyond the circumstantial linking her to the crime. Miscarriages of justice tend to turn very messy for the policemen involved.”
From the look on Baines’s face, he knew that was true. Nevertheless, he asked, “Are you threatening me, your lordship?”
Gray smiled. “Good heavens, no, Inspector. I’m merely drawing your attention to an irrefutable truth.”
He was increasingly certain that Baines—much less his superiors—had no idea they were proposing to arrest an earl’s daughter. She might be Mrs. I. Molyneaux, yet she was still Lady Isadora, daughter of the late Earl of Exton and sister of the current earl. Arresting her on the flimsiest of evidence would create a furor few would forget. Yet from Izzy’s refusal thus far to own to her title and the warning looks she was casting him now, it seemed clear she didn’t wish that side of her identity to be revealed.
Given she was now the proprietor of a gossip rag, perhaps that was understandable.
On top of that, having been absent for the past decade, he didn’t know how the land lay between her and her family. For all he knew, they might be estranged. He couldn’t quite imagine that, yet regardless, making unnecessary assumptions at this point wouldn’t be wise.
Baines and Littlejohn were trading unhappy looks while Izzy was still staring warningly at Gray.
Acknowledging the wisdom of winning the Scotland Yard officers—neither of whom seemed all that keen to prosecute the case against Izzy—to her side, Gray ventured, “Perhaps the best way forward for all concerned would be to search for further clues as to who entered the workshop via the back door Quimby left unlocked. That person—the killer—must have left via the same route, so at two separate times between the hours of five and six o’clock yesterday evening, he was walking along the rear lane.”
Baines and Littlejohn recognized an olive branch when it was waved in their faces. Baines looked at Littlejohn. “We should ask the businesses in the lane if they saw anyone walking past around the time of the murder.”
Littlejohn nodded. “We can do that now, and later, I’ll ask around my snouts in case any of them have heard a whisper about someone wanting a photographer killed.”
Gray suppressed a satisfied smile. “Meanwhile, Mrs. Molyneaux and I will see if there are any other clues to be found in the darkroom or elsewhere in the workshop.”
Baines might be suspicious of Gray being so helpful, but he was also relieved. He half bowed to Izzy and to Gray. “We’ll leave you to that while we get on with our inquiries.”
Baines made for the door, and with a nod to Gray and Izzy, Littlejohn followed.
Gray waited until the pair disappeared down the workshop, presumably making for the lane, then looked at Izzy. “I assume you would very much rather the police don’t realize you’re an earl’s daughter?”
She met his eyes. “You assume correctly.” She paused, then admitted, “No one here knows.”
“You do realize that if they learn of it, they’ll assume Quimby had as well and was blackmailing you—or had threatened to blackmail you—over that?”
“Regardless, for reasons that I’m sure are obvious to you, I do not intend to reveal my connection to the Earl of Exton.”
He inclined his head in acceptance. “That being the case, I suggest we take a more active hand in the investigation.”
Izzy appreciated how adroitly he’d steered the police into pursuing other avenues. “While I’m grateful for your help and agree that the easiest way to avoid being taken up for Quimby’s murder is to find the real killer, I confess I have no idea how to do that.”
The prospect of the situation ruining everything she’d spent the past eight years building, let alone dragging her family through the mire as well, threatened to overwhelm her, but something inside her rose and faced down the specter. She hadn’t got to where she now was without dogged and sometimes ruthless determination, and she was not about to allow some nameless, faceless killer to rip away all she’d worked so hard to achieve—not without a fight, without doing her damnedest to avoid that disaster.
Her last comment had set Gray frowning. He grimaced. “Despite what I told Baines, I can’t see any obvious way forward other than hunting for some sighting of the killer, as he and Littlejohn are doing.” He met her eyes. “However, that the killer took time to ruin Quimby’s photographic plates suggests the motive for the murder lay in those plates—”
“But they’re ruined, so we can’t use them to identify the motive or the killer.”
“True.” He tapped a finger on the chair’s arm, then his features firmed. “While the police focus on the killer, let’s focus on Quimby. There must be some reason he was killed.” He glanced at her. “Baines asked your staff about Quimby’s movements, but he didn’t ask about the man himself. Why don’t we see what your staff know of him? There might be some clue there.”
She arched her brows. “Why not?” She couldn’t think of anything else they might do. She rose, and he followed her out to the workshop.
She halted just beyond the end of the counter and clapped her hands. “If you can all leave what you’re doing for a moment, his lordship and I would like your help. We need to learn as much as we can about Quimby himself, enough to get a better picture of the man in the hope that something about him will lead us to his killer.”
The staff readily downed tools and, once again, gathered in a loose circle.
Leaning against the office wall, Gray got the impression the staff often met for meetings with Izzy like this; there was a comfortableness in the way they crowded around, eager to listen.
Izzy slanted him a glance, but with a dip of his head, he indicated she should lead the discussion.
She turned to the staff. “Let’s pool everything we know about Quimby and see what sort of picture we can paint of him as a person.”
Gray settled against the wall. It was apparent the staff at The Crier thought highly of Izzy; their respect was evident in their eagerness to help, to alleviate the burden of Quimby’s death. Initially led by Lipson and Maguire, but with the younger members soon chiming in, the group pooled their knowledge of the dead photographer, creating an image of a gruff, often irascible and outright grumpy yet relatively harmless, solidly professional man, not wealthy but sufficiently well-to-do to be able to afford the necessary equipment and supplies to pursue his chosen career.
Importantly, despite having worked alongside Quimby for nearly three years, no one had caught even the slightest hint of any of the customary vices.
“No chance he would have gambled,” Matthews observed, “not with the way he was always saving for the latest new invention.”
The others all nodded; “saving for the latest new invention” had clearly been a frequent Quimby refrain.
“He didn’t really drink, either,” Horner said. “We asked him to join us often enough, but he never was interested.”
Lipson pulled a face. “I don’t think he even had friends, not close like. When it came down to it, all he ever thought about—all he ever talked about—was photographs and the equipment to take them.”
The others nodded, and Maguire summed up, “You could say his one vice was photography. That was his passion—all he ever wanted to do was take more photographs.”
“You’re right.” Gray straightened from the wall and walked forward to halt by Izzy’s shoulder. He briefly met her gaze, then looked at the others. “In light of all you’ve said, we’ve been asking the wrong questions. What if the reason Quimby was killed had nothing to do with him per se, but was because of something he photographed?” Curiosity leapt in everyone’s eyes, and he went on, “Normally, a killer does the deed and immediately flees the scene, but Quimby’s killer spent ten or more minutes destroying all the daguerreotype negatives he could find.”
Gray paused, imagining the scene. “The killer must have heard us”—he tipped his head toward Izzy—“talking in the office. The door was open, and we were speaking normally. The rest of the place was silent, so the killer must have known we were there.” He met Izzy’s eyes, seeing them widen in understanding. “Yet the killer took the risk of us coming out and seeing him, or coming to the darkroom and cornering him there, in order to wreck those negatives.”
Izzy blew out a breath. “So wrecking the negatives was his true aim, and the question we should be asking is what did Quimby photograph that the killer didn’t want published—in The Crier or anywhere else?”
Lipson was nodding. “That makes more sense than anything else, but would it have been an exposure he took recently or one sometime back?”
“Recently,” Maguire answered. “In fact, most likely something he’d photographed that day.” The typesetter looked at Izzy and Gray. “Quimby worked on a weekly system. Most of the exposures he took in weeks past would already be published, either by us or the other papers he supplied. He only ever did as many as he needed—as he was contracted to supply. Three for us and however many for the others. The process is expensive, after all.”
“And,” Gray said, “he was always saving for the next piece of equipment.”
Maguire nodded. “Exactly. He’d go walking around town during the week, getting ideas for the scenes he needed to produce that week, then on Thursday or Friday, he’d go out and take the shots, usually all in one day. He once told me that way, he could develop them in a batch, all together, and so save on the solutions and such.”
“That’s how he worked,” Digby put in. “He liked to take his photographs and develop them all in one day, so if any had to be retaken, he’d have time before he needed to submit them.”
Izzy glanced at Gray. “So most likely Quimby took the photograph that led to his death sometime yesterday.”
“The killer probably saw Quimby taking the photograph,” Lipson said. “He had to set up his camera and tripod, so he would have stood out.”
“But,” Maguire went on, “the killer wasn’t close enough to stop Quimby taking the photograph, so he followed him and—perhaps—tried to get Quimby to sell him the photograph—”
“Which Mr. Quimby would never do,” Digby averred. When everyone looked at him, he blushed and offered, “It’s one of those things about professional photographers.”
Not unkindly, Tom Lipson ragged him, “And how would you know about that, young devil?”
Digby glanced at Izzy, and when, clearly curious, she looked at him inquiringly, he offered, “Mr. Q took me around to the Society of Photographers—he introduced me as his assistant. He said ’cause I was interested, I should learn about things from people who knew. Seeing as I was only an assistant, the president said I could join for just a shilling a year, and Mr. Q paid that, so I’ve been going every week—the society meets every Sunday afternoon and every second Tuesday—and listening and learning.” He looked at Tom. “And that’s one of those things I learned—that professional photographers always give their clients the photographs taken for them and never give the photographs to anyone else, no matter what’s offered.”
Izzy nodded. “Yes, I see. It’s a matter of honoring the contract.”
“Yes,” Digby said, “that’s how they describe it. Honoring the contract.”
“All right.” Gray was starting to see how the murder might have come to be. “Let’s say we’re right, and Quimby took a photograph the killer, for whatever reason, didn’t want anyone to see. The killer approaches Quimby, offering to buy that exposure from him, but Quimby refuses.”
“He’d be gruff and dismissive about it, too,” Lipson Senior said.
Gray nodded, feeling increasingly sure of their hypothesis. “And let’s say that in rejecting the killer’s offer, Quimby mentions that the photographs are destined to be published in various papers.”
“Ooh, the killer wouldn’t have liked that.” Mary’s eyes were round.
“Exactly,” Gray agreed. “In fact, the killer might have had reason to fear that, and so felt he had no alternative but to follow Quimby, kill him, and then ruin all the exposures he could find, just to make sure he ruined the one he didn’t want anyone to see.”
Gray glanced at Digby. “I imagine that to people who know nothing about photography, all daguerreotype plates look alike?”
Digby nodded. “Can’t tell one from the other until they’re developed and the image stabilized.”
“Put together,” Izzy said, “that makes more sense than anything else as to why Quimby was murdered, but with all Quimby’s plates destroyed, how are we to tell which photographs he took yesterday, much less which was the critical one that set the killer after him?”
She wasn’t surprised to see most of the others, including Gray, grimace, but Digby looked confused.
When he saw her observing him, he shifted nervously and looked even more unsure.
“Digby? What is it?” she asked.
Still looking uncertain, he replied, “I haven’t searched the darkroom, ma’am—I only looked at the plates and to see they’d all been pulled out and wrecked, like the policeman said. But I didn’t see any of the calotype negatives, and I didn’t look in the drawer.” He glanced at the others. “I only looked around quick-like, but it seemed that Mr. Q had come in, put the day’s negatives safely in the drawer like he always did, then set about making up the solutions.”
Digby returned his gaze to Izzy’s face. “So did the man who wrecked the plates ruin the calotype negatives as well?”
For a moment, Izzy stared—along with everyone else—then asked, “Digby, what are these ‘calotype negatives’?”
“They’re the ones Mr. Q uses—” He broke off and amended, “Used these days. They’re the latest thing, see? Well, they have been for a few years, ’parently, but in England, you have to pay a license fee to some man to use them, so not many photographers do. But Mr. Q sprung for the license the beginning of last year, and he’s been using the new calotype process ever since. The negatives aren’t glass plates—like with daguerreotypes. They’re more like thick paper.” He glanced toward the darkroom. “And I didn’t see any of them in the mess.”
“Are you saying,” Gray asked, “that Quimby was using a different system—that the photographs he took yesterday would have been on some sort of paper and not on glass plates?”
Digby nodded. “Those plates were all his old work. They were best stored in the darkroom, so he kept them all there. The calotype negatives, once they’re developed and the image fixed, are stable in light.” Digby tipped his head toward the cabinets that lined the wall between the back of the office and the front of the darkroom. “All his calotype negatives are in those cabinets, but if you want to look at the photographs he took yesterday, like as not the negatives are in the drawer, waiting to be developed. It didn’t look like he’d finished making the solutions when…when the killer came in. And Mr. Q wouldn’t have roared if the door opened then, because he’d have known his day’s work was safe in the drawer—it’s light-tight, you see.”
“So,” Gray said, “he wouldn’t have been instantly furious, but he would have been surprised.” He caught Izzy’s eyes. “That explains why he didn’t call out—the killer surprised him at his work and gave him no chance.”
Izzy was still struggling to make sense of Digby’s revelations—and even more importantly, the implications. She focused on her young printer’s devil. “So you think Quimby’s photographs from yesterday—the negative calotype papers—are still in the darkroom, waiting to be developed. Will they still be useable?”
“Oh yes.” Digby answered with complete assurance. “Long as they’re in that drawer, they could wait for days, possibly even weeks.”
Izzy held her breath. “Digby, do you know how to develop the images and treat them? Print them so we can see the pictures Quimby took?”
Digby nodded, again with certainty. “Mr. Q’s been having me make up all the solutions, and he’s had me developing and printing some of our photographs all on me own, so I’d know how to do it.”
God bless Quimby’s well-hidden heart of gold.
“Perhaps before we get our hopes up”—Lipson placed a massive hand on Digby’s shoulder—“we should check that drawer you mentioned.” Lipson glanced at Izzy and Gray. “Just in case the killer took those calotype negatives away with him.”
“Excellent idea.” Gray nodded to Lipson. “Why don’t you go into the darkroom with Digby and take a look in this drawer.”
“We’ll need to close the door and put the red light on,” Digby warned as he turned and readily led the way.
Everyone else remained where they were, waiting on tenterhooks to learn what Lipson and Digby discovered in the drawer.
When the pair re-emerged from the darkroom—Digby zealously turning the Occupied sign over—Izzy couldn’t wait any longer. “What did you find?”
Lipson’s wide smile gave her the answer. “There are seven papers in the drawer, and”—he glanced at Digby—“our young man here says they’re all in good nick, and he can print the photographs off all of them.”
Digby looked hopefully at Izzy. “If you’d like me to, ma’am?”
Izzy could have kissed him. “I think that would be another excellent idea.” Then she glanced at the clock. “But it’s already past eleven.” She returned her gaze to Digby. “How long will it take you to develop the negatives, then print a set of photographs? Can it be done in a day?”
Digby screwed up his face in thought, then nodded. “It’ll take ’til about five o’clock, but if I use the stove to help dry the prints, I could easily do it all today.”
Gray glanced at Izzy. “We should probably get three sets of prints made—the police will want one.”
She nodded. “And it would be wise to have an extra set in case anything goes wrong.” She refocused on Digby. “How much longer will it take to do three sets of prints?”
“Oh, only minutes, ma’am. Not much more time to do three prints as one. The time’s all in the setting up, see?”
Tentatively, she asked, “Are you free to work longer today, Digby? I know your mama counts on you at home, so if you have anything you need to do, we can wait until Monday.”
To her relief, her young devil was already shaking his head. “No trouble, ma’am. I can stay and get it done today.” He sobered, and for an instant, sorrow shadowed his natural exuberance. “’Sides, I want to do whatever I can to help catch the beggar what killed Mr. Q.”
“We’ll do your usual chores,” Mary volunteered, and Gerry and Tom nodded. “So you can start straightaway.”
Digby looked to Lipson for approval, and the manager nodded. “Off you go, lad. We all want to see the blighter who did for Quimby strung up, and it sounds like the clues the police’ll need are in those photographs.”
That, Izzy thought, summed up the situation perfectly. They all stood and watched Digby set the darkroom sign to Occupied again, then disappear into the darkroom and shut the door.
The rest of the staff looked around, then returned to the usual Saturday morning chores, most of which revolved around cleaning the press and its plates, and cleaning and re-sorting the type into the appropriate boxes Maguire and Jim used when they set the type for a page.
Izzy remained at the end of the counter, looking over the workshop and thinking. Gray hovered beside her, his gaze on her face. After reviewing what awaited her in the office, she said, “As I’ll be staying until Digby emerges with the photographs, I’ll have all afternoon to take care of everything on my desk. Given the staff lost so much time with the police and then with our deliberations, I’m going to help them with their tasks so they can get away at twelve as usual.”
Pushing up her sleeves, she walked to where Lipson was poking at something under the big cylinder of the press. When he glanced up at her, she asked, “What can I do to help?”
He grinned. “Why don’t you help Maguire and send Matthews to me. I could do with another pair of hands here, but yours are too small.”
She laughed and went to do his bidding.
Seconds after she settled with a pile of type-filled blocks from the previous edition to pick apart into their component letters, Gray appeared on her left. He pulled up a stool, sat and watched her for several minutes, then reached for a spare bodkin tool and pulled one of the boxes to be disassembled toward him.
Without looking up, she murmured, “You don’t have to help—you don’t have to stay.”
He made a dismissive sound. “If you imagine I’ll leave before we see those photographs, you’re dreaming.”
She grinned; she hadn’t imagined any such thing. In his place, she’d be curious, too.
They settled companionably side by side to complete the finicky task.
By the time twelve o’clock came around, all the usual chores had been completed.
“We only got done thanks to you lending a hand.” Lipson shrugged on his coat. “Or hands, as the case was.”
Izzy noticed he included Gray in his grateful nod.
The others got ready to leave, somewhat reluctantly; it was plain all were keen to see what Digby produced. As usual, they left in a group, calling their farewells—in which they all included Gray.
Hmm.
Izzy knew very well that, at that point, trying to get rid of him would be wasted effort. Instead, after checking that the rear door was locked, she walked back to her office, sat behind her desk, and immersed herself in the neglected accounts.
Gray watched her with a far-too-understanding smile curving his lips, but said nothing. He sat in the chair opposite, stretched out his long legs, folded his hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.
Glancing up from beneath her lashes, she confirmed his eyes were truly shut, swallowed a humph, and got on with her work.