The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 7
Gray knocked on the door of Number 6 Norfolk Crescent at seven o’clock the following morning and almost blinked when the door was opened by a beaming Cottesloe, who bowed and welcomed him inside.
When Gray entered the breakfast parlor, Izzy didn’t turn a hair.
He pulled out the chair opposite her. “I assume you warned Cottesloe to expect me.”
“I told him to admit you if you should call.” She fixed him with a direct look. “So why are you here so bright and early?”
Gray paused as Cottesloe came in with the coffeepot and made a production of pouring Gray a cup, then the butler asked, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Cottesloe.” Gray lifted the cup, sipped, then smiled genially at the butler. “This will suffice.”
Cottesloe bowed and departed.
Gray lowered the cup and returned his gaze to Izzy. “Yesterday, you speculated that the killer might be pursuing a vendetta against The Crier. Given it’s a gossip rag, it’s not difficult to imagine that a motive for such an action might exist in some man’s mind. While we’ve fixed on Quimby’s photographs as providing a more likely motive, it occurred to me that, regardless of whether the killer’s motive lies in Quimby’s photographs or in something The Crier has previously printed, the killer might, from the first, have had you in his sights as well.”
His eyes locked with hers, he went on, “You were in the office and should have been alone that evening. He might have intended to attack you as well, but hadn’t counted on me being with you. If so, whatever his reasoning, he might still view killing you as a part of his campaign. More, if the photographs are, indeed, the source of his motive, once he learns of the special edition and that you mean to publish the photographs he thought he’d destroyed, he might well try again to stop their publication, and in that respect, you are as much of a target as The Crier itself.”
From her arrested expression, she hadn’t thought of that.
Ruthlessly, he pressed the point home. “With you dead, The Crier would simply stop—cease publication—at least for a while.”
She frowned.
He glanced at her crumb-strewn plate, then waved his cup. “Finish your tea. We can work out what to do for the best once we reach the printing works.”
Izzy met his gaze, then raised her teacup and drained it. He was right; her being a potential target for the killer was a subject better discussed far from household ears.
She rose, and he set down the coffee cup and joined her. Within minutes, they were bowling along the streets toward Woburn Square.
She spent the journey deep in thought, weighing what he’d said and trying to marshal arguments with which to refute his prognostication, but in the end, she let it lie unchallenged. Who could say with any certainty what their killer presently thought?
They transited through the Woburn Square house and walked briskly on to the mews. Although they were the first through the door, the staff arrived on their heels, all eager to get working on the special edition.
Far from having any time to think, much less discuss the prospect Gray had raised, Izzy found her hours claimed by a succession of issues that required her immediate attention. Because of the edition’s unusual nature, several situations demanded different solutions from those she and the staff routinely employed.
In between answering various questions, she worked on the lead article and Quimby’s obituary. Regardless of her occupation, she was incessantly aware of Gray, either by her elbow or seated in front of her. In the end, she took to consulting him on this and that and discovered that having another pair of intelligent eyes attached to a brain with a similar grounding in life as hers was a boon.
Especially given that mind was one she trusted…
She pulled herself up at the thought, surprised and somewhat taken aback, but there was no denying that assessment was accurate. Mentally shrugging the realization aside, she buckled down to complete her article; she wanted it done by the end of the day.
At ten o’clock, the bell above the main door jangled, heralding the return of Lipson, who had been out meeting their advertising clients, explaining about the hue and cry special edition and soliciting advertisements to run in it at the special, higher rate.
Izzy raised her head, wondering… She’d recognized Lipson’s heavy tread, and as she’d expected, other footsteps followed him into the foyer.
From behind her desk, she couldn’t see who had entered, but Gray, sitting at his elegant ease before it in the chair with its back to the bookshelves, had an unimpeded view. Quietly, he informed her, “It’s Lipson, followed by four gentlemen, who I suspect are your major advertisers.”
She sighed and put down her pencil. “I was expecting them.”
Having left the four men waiting in the foyer, Lipson rapped on the open door, then came in and shut it. He looked at Izzy and wryly smiled. “As we could have predicted, Belkin, Kennedy, Simms, and Morrison wouldn’t come on board, at least not for me. But all four are insisting we ‘honor our contract’ with them regarding running their ads. Silly beggars, but they won’t take any argument from me.”
Izzy nodded and rose. “As you say, that’s no more than we might have expected.” She went to the filing cabinet against the wall, pulled open a drawer, rummaged through the contents, then straightened with four slim folders in her hand. She shut the drawer and looked at Lipson. “I’ll see them one by one—best start with Belkin.”
Lipson glanced at Gray. “Do you want me in here as well?”
She reclaimed her chair. “Yes. They need to accept that what you tell them comes from me—that you speak with my authority.” She looked at Gray and said to Lipson, “You can show Belkin in.”
She set the folders on the desk and, the instant Lipson stepped out of the office, said to Gray, “I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a wander around the workshop.”
He held her gaze. “No. I’d rather remain here.”
She sighed. “Just try not to distract them.”
He arched a laconic brow. Both she and he knew him not distracting the men wasn’t possible.
She sorted the folders, then Lipson ushered in a florid-faced gentleman who looked ready to breathe fire.
Assuming a relaxed and pleasant demeanor, Izzy rose and waved the man to the vacant armchair before the desk. “Mr. Belkin. How kind of you to call. Do sit down.”
Belkin had intended to storm inside and bluster, but the sight of Gray, watching with undisguised interest, had taken him aback. As Izzy resumed her seat, he came forward cautiously and, on walking into the chair, caught himself and slipped into it.
Izzy hid a sigh; she’d known this was going to happen. Briskly, she said, “Mr. Belkin, I understand Mr. Lipson has explained the situation regarding the advertising charges for our special hue and cry edition.”
The words succeeded in bringing Belkin’s attention back to her, and he only just restrained himself from leaping to his feet. “Indeed, he did, Mrs. Molyneaux, and I must protest—most strongly! Belkin Emporium has a contract with The Crier, ma’am, and it stipulates quite clearly the rate for each advertisement run. I must and will insist that contract be honored. To the letter!”
“Indeed, sir. I am entirely of similar mind.” She smiled calmly at the temperamental man. “That, in large part, was the reason behind Mr. Lipson’s visit this morning. We felt honor-bound to offer longstanding regular advertisers such as the Belkin Emporium first chance to secure slots in our special edition. I have a copy of your contract here.”
She opened the topmost folder, extracted the bound sheets of legalese, and turned back the first two pages. “As you will be aware, at clause six, the contract states that the agreed rates stated within the contract apply only to advertising in regular editions of The London Crier, and that inclusion in any special edition at such rates is specifically excluded, and further, that should inclusion in any special edition be offered, such inclusion will be subject to whatever advertising rates The London Crier deems appropriate at that time.”
She raised her gaze to Belkin’s now-much-paler face. “Given that, sir, I had thought that a business such as the Belkin Emporium, keen to gain sales from ladies everywhere, would have leapt at the chance to secure prominent placement in an edition all but guaranteed to have a significantly larger and wider distribution. As everyone knows, a murder gains interest, but a hue and cry, with a reward offered, will be a sensation.”
Belkin’s expression had grown first calculating, then alarmed. He cleared his throat and ventured, “So our contract doesn’t cover advertisements in special editions?”
Izzy replaced the contract in the folder and clasped her hands on the cover. “No.”
“Ah. I see.” Although he hadn’t again looked at Gray, Belkin all but twitched with the impulse to glance at the elegant personage seated only a yard away. Doing his best to appear unaware, Belkin glanced the other way—at the foyer, where others who might snaffle the prime advertising spots waited.
Belkin snapped his gaze back to Izzy. “As to the rates for this special edition…what are you asking?”
Izzy smiled and got down to negotiating.
After the application of a few judicious strokes to his ego, when Belkin left the office ten minutes later, after having agreed to a hefty increase in fees for three placements in the special edition, he was almost preening.
The other three merchants waiting in the foyer, seeing Belkin’s overweening satisfaction, almost came to blows over who would be next to offer to enrich The Crier’s coffers.
When the last, Simms, departed, shown out by Lipson, who was eager to return to setting up the press, Izzy gave a contented sigh and rose to replace the folders in the filing cabinet.
Gray observed, “Whoever drew up those contracts had a good head on their shoulders.”
Izzy shut the cabinet, turned, and met his eyes. “I drew them up.”
He dipped his head. “As I said.” To his mind, her performance managing the four businessmen had been masterful.
She resumed her seat behind the desk and rapidly tallied the figures she’d jotted down during the negotiations.
He noticed she added the figures once, paused, then repeated the exercise.
Finally, she laid down her pencil and fixed her emerald eyes on him. “Despite not saying a word throughout, by virtue of the unsettling effect you had on our local gentlemen of commerce, you greatly assisted in more than tripling the printing works’ income from an average edition of The Crier.”
Smiling, he arched his brows. “I’m delighted to have been of service.”
She huffed, then glanced at the clock, pushed back her chair, and rose. “I need to see to the layouts. Now we have the major advertising settled, we can finalize those.”
Gray rose and ambled after her. He was increasingly fascinated by all the various aspects of the business and what each aspect revealed of her and her unexpected talents.
The discussion with Lipson and Maguire over the layout table displayed her grasp of her readers’ preconceptions and vanities and how those influenced the way said readers interacted with the pages in their gossip rag of choice.
Gray found the various arguments enlightening; he doubted he would look at a newspaper in the same way again.
Finally, all was settled, and leaving Lipson to start setting up the frames—known as formes—that Maguire would eventually fill with type, Izzy returned to her desk and the article and obituary she was still polishing.
Gray trailed after her and sat in the armchair he was coming to regard as his.
Not long after, reminded by the emptiness of his own stomach, he walked out, chatted to Lipson, then stuck his head into the office and informed Izzy that he was going out to fetch sandwiches and cider for everyone.
She was deep in writing and glanced up, gaze unfocused, then waved him off and went back to her work.
He grinned, left, and following Lipson’s directions, found the nearby bakery nestled beside a shop selling bottled drinks of all sorts.
Twenty minutes later, he returned to the printing works, set his offerings on the counter, and invited everyone to partake, which they all did. Izzy came out and nibbled on a sandwich, poured cider into a mug, and carried it with her back to her desk.
After helping Mary clear away the detritus remaining after the staff had finished, Gray returned to the armchair and settled.
“Stop watching me,” Izzy ordered.
He laughed and closed his eyes.
Several minutes later, Mary knocked on the door frame and, when Izzy looked up, came in, carrying several sheets of paper.
“My article.” Mary brandished the sheets. “It’s as polished as I can make it.”
Izzy set down her pencil and held out her hand for the sheets, and Mary handed them over. Izzy glanced at Mary’s effort, then looked at her own work—the lead article for the hue and cry edition. She hesitated, then looked at Gray. “While I read over Mary’s work, perhaps you could read over mine?”
Genuinely delighted, he smiled and held out his hand. “I’d be happy to.”
Izzy’s lips pressed tight as she fought to hold back an answering smile. She gathered her writing and handed the pages across, then picked up another two sheets and offered them to Mary. “Sit”—Izzy waved toward the other armchair—“and look over these. They’re my notes on the obituary. We’ll need to finalize it by tomorrow morning at the very latest. You’ll see I’ve noted several pieces of information we should find and add in.”
Mary took the sheets and sat, and in the next second, all three of them had their heads down, reading.
After a time, Gray reached out, snagged one of the many pencils rolling about on the desk, and made a note in the margin of her article. She glanced up, gaze sharp, but after a moment, went back to her perusal of Mary’s work, on which she was making corrections.
By the time Izzy had reached the end of Mary’s article, Gray was on the last paragraph of the lead article, and Mary was finished with the obituary.
The instant he looked up, Izzy held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Let me see.”
He smiled and handed over the sheets. When she queried what his cryptic note meant, he explained, and after some discussion, she amended the ambiguous phrasing that she hadn’t, until then, realized could be read in two diametrically opposing ways.
“Here.” She thrust Mary’s article at him. “I think this is as perfect as it gets, but see what you think.” She then handed Mary the main article. “And you can take a look at that while I work on the obituary.”
They settled in comfortable silence, broken only by the soft scrape of Izzy’s pencil and the rustling of paper.
Eventually, she was satisfied with what she had thus far for the obituary. She set down her pencil and stretched out her hands. “We’re still missing information I think should be there—for instance, where he was born—but we can squeeze that in if we manage to learn it in time.”
She caught Gray’s gaze and nodded at Mary’s article. “How’s that?”
“Excellent.” Gray glanced at Mary. “You have a flair for describing places in a way that brings them to life.”
Mary all but glowed at the praise.
Izzy smiled at Mary and, taking the pages from him, offered them to the younger woman. “Done! You can take those to your father for typesetting for the proofs.”
“Thank you.” Mary beamed. “Both of you.” She rose and took the pages and, with a spring in her step, left the office.
Izzy watched her go, an almost-maternal smile on her face. “She’s coming along nicely. And yes, I agree. She does have a gift for depicting places.”
Which, Gray thought, was one of the reasons you suggested the Foundling Hospital for Mary’s piece. Sitting back, he waved at the pages beneath Izzy’s hands. “Let me take a look at the obituary.”
She handed the pages across. She watched him as he started to read, then said, “I’m still not sure I have the tone right. I don’t want to sound too distant. I want it to be clear that there’s a connection to the paper, that Quimby was one of the team that put together what the readers have been enjoying over the past years.”
He nodded. “You want the emotional connection to show.”
“Yes, and of course, we usually write in quite the opposite way—as impartial commentators.”
He read through to the end of the piece, then made several suggestions. Izzy took the sheets, made various changes, then handed them back. “Does that work better?”
After reading the piece through again, he said, “I think it’s better, but it’s really in the way it sounds, so…” He started to read the piece aloud.
Nodding, she sat back and listened.
He’d reached the final paragraph when the bell over the door tinkled. He looked across and saw Baines and Littlejohn come in.
The pair nodded at Mary, back at her station behind the counter, then headed for the office.
Gray stopped reading and lowered the sheets. “It’s our friends from Scotland Yard.”
Izzy sighed.
Baines tapped on the door frame and came in. He halted before the desk and nodded to Gray and to Izzy. “Your lordship. Mrs. Molyneaux.”
“Inspector.” Izzy conjured a bright smile and aimed it at Baines and Littlejohn, who had slipped into the room in his superior’s wake. “Is there anything we can help you with?”
Baines sighed somewhat wearily, then said, “I don’t suppose you’ve had a change of heart and would like to confess to killing Quimby?”
Izzy’s features hardened, and her gaze turned stony. “No.”
Baines’s lips tightened, then as if forced to say the words, he stated, “I’m here to warn you, ma’am, that as of this moment, you remain the sole suspect in the murder of Mr. Horace Quimby.”
Gray inwardly sighed. “Inspector, what evidence do the police have that implicates Mrs. Molyneaux in Quimby’s death?”
Baines looked pained. “At this moment, none. But as others have been quick to tell me, such evidence will surely be found if I look hard enough.”
His tone made it clear that he was being pressured by others and didn’t like it one bit.
“I see.” Gray’s lips curved, but the gesture held more warning than humor. “I continue to hope that you and your superiors at the Yard will not be so unwise as to attempt to inconvenience, much less detain Mrs. Molyneaux, nor spread any rumors that might damage her reputation and that of her business, unless and until you have incontrovertible evidence of her supposed misdeeds sufficient to lay formal charges before a magistrate.”
“Not if I can help it,” Baines muttered. He shot a plainly apologetic glance at Izzy, then straightened and said, “We’ve just come from Quimby’s rooms. We searched, trying to find some hint of his next of kin, but as far as we can tell, he didn’t have any.” Baines focused on Izzy. “We came to ask if anyone here had ever heard him mention anyone.”
“No,” Izzy said. “I’ve already asked—I would normally mention that in an obituary.” She glanced at Gray, then pointed at the pages he held. “Perhaps, Inspector, you would read through what we’re intending to print, to ensure our facts are correct.”
Gray handed Baines the pages. He took them, sat in the other armchair, and carefully read through the piece.
When he reached the end and paused, Izzy calmly inquired, “Is there anything you would like us to add to the obituary, Inspector?”
Baines glanced at her. “Actually, yes.” He handed the sheets over the desk and, as Izzy took them, said, “Everything you have in there is accurate as far as I know, but it would be helpful if you could end with a note along the lines of ‘there being no next of kin known to the authorities, anyone wishing to inquire regarding the deceased’s estate should contact Inspector Baines at Scotland Yard.’”
Izzy picked up a pencil, swiftly wrote, paused to read what she’d written, then looked up. “Done.”
“Is there much of an estate?” Gray asked.
“Not much,” Baines replied. “A small amount in savings, the equipment he kept here, and some old camera bits he’d left in a wardrobe.”
“So it’s unlikely Quimby was murdered for his wealth.” Pointedly, Gray caught Izzy’s gaze. They needed to tell Baines about the hue and cry edition, and now seemed an opportune time.
Izzy set aside the obituary and leaned her elbows on the desk. “Do the police have any further leads, Inspector?”
Baines grumped, “No. That’s what’s brought us back to The Crier.”
Izzy met Gray’s eyes, then ventured, “Well, from our point of view, since we last saw you on Saturday, there have been some developments.”
The change in both Baines and Littlejohn was marked. “Developments?” Littlejohn parroted.
“What developments?” Baines leaned forward, hope ringing in his tone.
Gray sat back and listened as Izzy explained about the new style of negatives Quimby had been using and how, courtesy of Quimby’s assistant, they’d found the negatives Quimby had exposed on Friday and had printed the photographs from them.
Izzy unlocked and opened the desk drawer, drew out the third set of prints, and handed them across the desk.
Baines fell on them like a starving hound, and Littlejohn peered over Baines’s shoulder as the inspector studied the seven scenes.
When, frowning, the pair looked up, Gray outlined the theory that, given the murderer had taken the time to wreck all Quimby’s daguerreotype plates, presumably assuming that in doing so, he was wiping out the evidence he had killed to prevent Quimby making public, then the motive for Quimby’s murder lay somewhere in the seven photographs.
“Seems reasonable,” Baines allowed, and Littlejohn nodded.
“We’ve asked around among others of the ton,” Gray went on, “and can identify more than half the people in the seven scenes, but as to the names of the others and what in the photographs might be a reason for murder, that, we’ve yet to unearth.”
Baines stared at the photographs. “But that’s the sticking point, isn’t it? How are we to tell what it is about one of these pictures that set the killer after Quimby?”
“As to that”—Izzy exchanged a glance with Gray, then refocused on Baines—“we’ve decided that the best way forward is to run a hue and cry edition.”
“A what?” Baines looked stunned and prepared to be appalled.
Izzy launched into a description of the special edition, detailing what would be included and what they would ask and mentioning the reward, while throughout, using her descriptive talents to paint the undertaking in an exciting light. “It will be a new and novel way of doing exactly the same thing as an old-fashioned hue and cry, but in this case, we’ll be using the new medium of newspapers to reach a much wider audience.”
Judging by Baines’s and Littlejohn’s expressions, they could see the possibilities and were sorely tempted, yet…
Baines grimaced, and his shoulders fell. “I can’t see my superiors approving such a thing—not at all. You’ll be laying evidence in a murder case before the public. They’re likely to have conniptions over that.”
“They don’t have to like it,” Gray said, “to allow it to go ahead, and I’m sure your superiors will appreciate that attempting to block an action that was initially suggested by the Marchioness of Winchelsea and, subsequently, gained the marquess’s active support won’t reflect well on them.”
From their stunned expressions, Baines and Littlejohn recognized the significance of Drake’s involvement.
Gray smiled his most sharklike smile. “I suggest that, if your superiors raise an issue with The Crier’s upcoming special edition, you would do well to suggest that they take it up with Winchelsea.”
Baines and Littlejohn both blinked, as if imagining such a scene.
Then Baines started to smile, and the rather lugubrious set of Littlejohn’s features eased.
Izzy noted the changes and calmly stated, “So, gentlemen, as of this moment, our special edition is going ahead under the imprimatur of the marquess and is on track to be distributed on Friday.”
Baines’s entire disposition had brightened. “Friday, heh?”
She nodded firmly. “As usual—we can’t easily alter our distribution arrangements, so Friday it has to be.”
Baines looked at Littlejohn, and the pair exchanged a long glance.
Izzy suspected that they were eager to embrace all the possibilities that had fired her enthusiasm. Artfully, she asked, “Is there any information the police can share that will help capture and encourage the public’s interest and involvement? For instance, what did the surgeon who examined the body report?”
Baines hesitated, then agreed to share that report and anything else suitable that the police came across. “On the proviso that Littlejohn and I get to see the—proofs, is it?—before your press starts to roll.”
Izzy studied them, then inclined her head. “Very well—on that basis. But if you have any information it would help to include, I’ll need to see it by the end of the afternoon.” She paused, then went on, “We can’t make any changes once the formes are set, which happens late tomorrow. However, you’re more than welcome to drop by earlier and view the proofs of every page—all the articles and photographs. If you come by tomorrow, any time after ten o’clock in the morning but at the latest by one in the afternoon, you’ll be able to look over the entire edition.”
She omitted any mention of them making any changes; why invite something she would resist?
Baines and Littlejohn agreed; both looked eager and quietly excited, a significant transformation from when they’d arrived.
“We’ll leave you to it, then.” Baines rose and nodded to her and Gray. “I’ll send over the surgeon’s report as soon as I get back to the Yard.”
Baines headed for the door, and with a dip of his head, Littlejohn followed.
But on reaching the doorway, Baines paused, then turned back. “I’ve been thinking about that reward you’re offering.” He glanced at her. “I’d suggest you print all the names you’ve already got for the people in the photographs and make it crystal clear what the reward is for—additional names or other information that leads to the killer. You also need to detail everything we know about Quimby’s movements on that Friday and say if anyone knows more, then get in touch, because that might lead us to the killer, too.”
He met her gaze. “Trust me, if you don’t do all that, you’ll have half of London lining up to tell you things you already know.”
Littlejohn grunted. “Let alone the other half who’ll be lining up to tell you things they think you want to know, but which never actually happened.”
“Thank you,” she returned in heartfelt tones. She rose. “I’ll make sure all that gets incorporated in our notice about the reward.”
Baines nodded, and he and Littlejohn took themselves off.
Izzy followed them out of the office and went to speak with Mary.
As usual, Gray ambled in her wake.
He leaned against the counter while Izzy and Mary worked on the notice announcing the reward. Given some of those they wanted to entice to come forward might well belong to the more gentrified classes, he’d suggested fifty pounds as a reward, and Izzy had agreed.
“Good!” Izzy set the reward notice aside. “Now that’s settled, after talking with Baines and Littlejohn, I’ve had a thought of how to end the lead article—namely, with a sub-article entitled ‘What we know of Mr. Quimby’s Movements on That Fateful Day.’” Her tone made it clear which words should be capitalized. She looked at the younger woman. “We need to set out the time line as we currently know it and ask anyone with further information as to Quimby’s whereabouts to come forward. Why don’t you write up a first draft, and I’ll have a look at it tomorrow morning? We can finalize it then.”
Mary eagerly accepted the commission. Leaving her already setting out fresh paper and picking up her pencil, Izzy turned, scanned the workshop, then walked briskly to where Lipson, Maguire, and Digby were working on blocking out the sections for the photographs, working from the sheets with the pinned prints, each annotated with the relevant accumulated information. After confirming that the trio were, indeed, intending to incorporate the information already collected beside each photograph, Izzy headed for her office, waving at Gray to join her.
He entered the office to find her with the obituary in her hand.
She looked up as he neared. “My lead article is in good shape, and this”—she tapped the obituary—“is as finished as it can be, but I would like to add a few personal touches.”
He could guess what she was thinking and glibly suggested, “Perhaps we should take a look at Quimby’s rooms. The police have finished there, so we won’t be treading on their toes, and with any luck, the landlady or a neighbor might have a few of those personal snippets you’re after.”
She beamed at him as if she hadn’t already thought of searching Quimby’s rooms. “And who knows? We might stumble across something our intrepid duo missed.”
He didn’t think that likely—Baines and Littlejohn struck him as experienced and competent, at least when they weren’t being backed into a corner—but waved her on.
She knew the address and how to reach it. Bundled up in their coats against the blustery day, they walked up the mews to Great Coram Street, where he hailed a hackney.
She directed the jarvey to Winchester Street. “You can drop us at the corner of Collier Street.”
The hackney took off smartly, and soon, they were walking the cobbles of Winchester Street, a narrow street with row houses crammed cheek by jowl on both sides.
Izzy took note of the few numbers displayed, counting along, then halted outside a faded door. “This should be it.”
Gray stepped up and knocked on the door.
It was opened by a pale, faded-looking woman of perhaps forty or so years, wearing a washed-out pinafore over a worn woolen skirt. “Yes?” Noting the wariness in the woman’s eyes, Gray stepped back and allowed Izzy to take the lead.
She did so with a gentle, commiserating smile. “We’re from The London Crier—where Mr. Quimby had his darkroom. He worked for us.”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, he mentioned the place. I’m Ida Cummins, his landlady. I ’spect you’ll be wanting to check that he hasn’t anything of yours in his rooms here, then?”
Izzy’s smile was all gratified understanding. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. We won’t take long.”
The woman tipped her head inside and stepped back from the threshold. “Come on in, then. At least you’re not all heavy-footed like those policemen who came this morning.”
“Inspector Baines and Sergeant Littlejohn.” Izzy followed the woman along a narrow corridor. “They told us they’d come and had finished their work here.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” The woman started up a flight of wooden stairs.
At the top, she halted on a miniscule landing, opened the door to the right, stood back, and waved them inside. “These are Mr. Quimby’s rooms.”
Izzy walked in, and Gray slipped past the landlady and followed.
The term “rooms” was a misnomer. There was only one longish narrow room with a single sash window at the far end. A single bed sat at the nearer end, with a simple washstand and wardrobe tucked into a corner, while closer to the window, a wooden desk stood against the inner wall, with a single straight-backed chair before it. An armchair that had seen better days was positioned in the opposite corner by the window, angled across the room toward the desk. There was, Gray noted, no fireplace.
Izzy walked to the window and looked out; over her head, Gray saw that the view wasn’t of any garden but a bare cobbled yard ending in a paling fence with a rickety gate.
When Izzy turned away and went to look in the desk drawer, he glanced around, confirming that there wasn’t anywhere else bar the wardrobe in which something might be hidden; he crossed to it and opened the narrow double doors. Clothes met his gaze, not that many and all of middling quality. Not the best but not the worst, either. A single pair of worn slippers, neatly lined up together, were the only things on the lowest shelf. He checked the drawers, shifting aside the few clothes and searching for anything else, gradually working his way up to the top shelf, where he found an old knitted hat and scarf and nothing else.
He shut the wardrobe doors and turned to see Izzy frowning at the back of a printed card. “Anything?” he asked.
She glanced at him, then looked back at the card. “Not exactly, but reading between these lines…I wonder if Quimby hailed from Dorset.”
She looked at Ida Cummins, who was leaning against the doorjamb. “Did Mr. Quimby ever mention where he hailed from? Or did he go for holidays to some particular place in the country?”
Mrs. Cummins nodded at the card in Izzy’s hand. “Just there. Said it was the place he knew best. He went every year in summer for a week.”
Izzy sighed and put the card back in the drawer.
“So”—Mrs. Cummins straightened—“did you find anything of yours? It’s just the police went through everything—left the place in a right mess. It didn’t seem decent to leave it like that, so I put everything back like he’d have wanted it. Quite particular he was.”
Understanding from that that Mrs. Cummins probably knew every stitch Quimby had owned, Gray asked, “Did you happen to notice—not just in the last days but at any time before—any glass plates or special photographic papers? Did he keep anything like that here?”
“Don’t believe so. He told me he kept all that sort of thing at his work.”
Izzy nodded. “That seems to be so.”
Mrs. Cummins gnawed at her lower lip, then with a jut of her chin, said, “Mind you, if he had brought something here over the last few days, that something—I don’t know what, mind—might have been here when he died.”
Izzy looked at the landlady and tipped her head. “Why do you think that?”
“Well, the day Mr. Quimby died—that Friday—he came back here late in the afternoon. Came straight up to his room here, but he didn’t stay long. He went off after maybe five or ten minutes.”
“Did he often do that?” Izzy asked. “Come home and go out again?”
“Oh, aye. He’d go back to his work, then he’d go and have his supper someplace and come home here about nine or so.”
Puzzled, Gray asked, “So why do you think he left something here that day, when normally—I assume—he didn’t?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that—him coming and going—made me think so. When he didn’t come down for breakfast on Saturday morning, I came up and looked in”—Ida Cummins stepped into the room and pointed at the window—“and that was open. Pushed right up it was, and I can tell you, in this weather, Mr. Quimby would never have left it like that.” She snorted. “He’d never have had it open at all—all the warmth from the stove below would go straight out.”
“This was before the police came?” Izzy asked.
“Aye—seven or so. They didn’t get here ’til gone eight.” Mrs. Cummins folded her arms beneath her ample breasts. “I shut it up tight again, o’course.”
Gray moved to the window, noting there was no lock on the sash. He pushed it up, leaned out, and saw a shed with a flat roof directly below, only about three feet down.
Izzy had come to peer around his shoulder. She turned back to Mrs. Cummins. “Did you notice anything not as it should be—as you would have expected?”
“Well, I’d thought to find Mr. Quimby in his bed, of course, but it was obvious he hadn’t been in all night. Other than that…well, the wardrobe door wasn’t properly shut. That might seem a small thing, but Mr. Quimby was always very neat—everything exactly as it should be.”
Izzy shot Gray a speculative look.
He shut the window, then turned to Mrs. Cummins. “Did you tell the police about the window?”
She snorted inelegantly. “Them! They said they was here to search his rooms and told me—ordered me, in me own house—to stay downstairs.” She shrugged. “So I did. They didn’t see fit to ask me anything. Just stuck their heads around the kitchen door to tell me they was leaving.” She frowned, then looked at them worriedly. “Here—I won’t get into any trouble, will I? For not telling them about the window?”
Izzy smiled reassuringly. “I wouldn’t worry about the police not knowing. I don’t think anything was taken.”
But Mrs. Cummins had finally worked out what had happened. “But…someone broke in here, didn’t they? Oh, my God!” She clapped her hands to her face. “Was it the killer? Is that why you and the police have come, searching for something like the killer already did?”
Her eyes flared wide. “Mercy me! Here, whoever he is, he won’t be coming back, will he? I don’t want to be murdered in me bed. Surely he found what he wanted?”
Gray confidently stated, “You’re right, and it’s highly unlikely you have anything to fear.” His matter-of-fact tone had Mrs. Cummins instantly calming; he went on in the same vein, “As you say, if there was anything here, although we don’t believe there was, but even if there had been, then whoever broke in would have found and taken it, and they’ll have no further interest in this house.”
Mrs. Cummins thought through that, then exhaled gustily. “Well, that’s a bit of excitement I could’ve done without.”
“Thank you for letting us see the room.” Izzy gently steered Mrs. Cummins to the door. “I really don’t think you’ll have any further trouble.”
Reassured, the landlady led the way downstairs, and with thanks, Gray and Izzy left the house.
Izzy paused on the pavement and pulled on her gloves. “Other than a tenuous link between Quimby and Dorset, I suppose the news of a break-in is a crumb we can offer Baines and Littlejohn if and when we need one, but it certainly puts paid to the notion of any clue being left in his rooms.”
They started down the street, and Gray admitted, “While it seems unlikely Quimby had left anything photographic there, if there’d been any other sort of clue linking him to the killer—a letter or something similar—the killer would have taken it.”
He walked on for a few paces, then said, “However, our foray there did confirm that there’s no reason to suppose there are any other photographic negatives of Quimby’s in existence, other than those at the printing works.”
“True. He does seem to have kept everything photographic there.”
“Except,” Gray reminded her, “for the discarded bits of camera equipment that Littlejohn mentioned, which he and Baines must have removed, but clearly, the killer didn’t want those, anyway.”
“Exactly. That means our hypothesis still holds water. If the killer is desperate to keep the public from seeing something Quimby photographed on Friday, then the photographs we’re printing in the hue and cry edition should contain the revealing information—whatever it is.”
Gray nodded. “It’s all about something in those photographs.”
He hailed a passing hackney, and they returned to the printing works to discover Baines had been as good as his word and had sent over the surgeon’s report.
Gray scanned it, then handed it to Izzy. While she retreated to her desk to finish the obituary, working in a reference to Quimby having a connection to the village in Dorset depicted in the printed card, before settling to incorporate the surgeon’s grisly information into the lead article in a way that wouldn’t shock the readers, Gray, too restless to sit, wandered around the workshop, chatting to the staff and filling them in on what he and Izzy had discovered in Quimby’s rooms.
At one point, he stepped into the darkroom and found a teary-eyed Digby scrubbing basins in the sink. Gray pretended not to notice the tears, propped his hip against the central table, and talking to Digby’s back, told him about their findings in Winchester Street, then asked about the use of the various basins, a topic which, as Gray had hoped, drew the lad from his sorrowful thoughts.
When it came to anything photographic, Digby was a font of eager information; it was clear Quimby had recognized a like mind and had gone out of his way to mentor and encourage the lad.
Finally, it was time for the workshop to close for the day. Izzy farewelled the staff, then declared that her own writing was as complete as it could be, and given Gray was dining in Norfolk Crescent that evening, neither of them dared be late.
By then, another issue had occurred to Gray. He halted in the office doorway, waited while Izzy donned her bonnet and coat, then asked, “The seven calotype negatives—where are they?”
She frowned. “Digby showed me where he put them. They’re in the cabinet with the others.”
He paused, then said, “What I said this morning, about you being a possible target? By extension, once the killer learns of the special edition—hopefully only after it goes out—and gets desperate, this place will also become a target. He doesn’t yet know the negatives still exist, so won’t as yet be seeking to destroy them, but one is a critical piece of evidence. We shouldn’t leave them here, unsecured and unguarded.”
Her lips set, and she waved him out of her way. “I’ll fetch them. Can you look under the counter for an envelope big enough to hold them?”
He rummaged and found one. By then, she’d retrieved the seven negatives and carefully slid them inside the paper sleeve, then closed the top and handed it to him. “You can carry it, at least as far as Woburn Square.”
They walked even more briskly than usual to Mrs. Carruthers’s house. After spending a few minutes regaling the old lady with their day’s adventures, they exited via the back door. In the rear lane, Gray helped Izzy into her carriage, then handed her the envelope.
She blinked at him. “Aren’t you coming?”
He shook his head. “It’s faster to head to Jermyn Street from here.” He saluted her. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He shut the carriage door and nodded to the coachman, then stood and watched the carriage rumble away.
Then he started walking down the lane. He would find a hackney in Russell Square and be at his lodgings in good time to wash and change.
As he walked, he pondered the feeling seeping into his gut. It took him a while to identify it, for he hadn’t felt the like in a very long time.
He was nervous. Keen and eager and strangely nervous over making a good impression on Izzy’s mother and sister.
Nonsensical, yet…
He emerged into Russell Square, spotted a hackney, and waved it down, and just for a minute, allowed himself to question where he was heading with what was fast becoming his pursuit of Isadora Descartes.
Then the hackney halted beside him, and he shook the distracting question aside and climbed in.
He was, as usual, operating on instinct—just as he had for the past very many years.
And over all those years, instinct had never steered him wrong.