by Amanda Quick
He was amused. “Wouldn’t want to develop a phobia about good spirits.”
“Goodness, no.”
“Staff of life on occasion.”
“Absolutely.”
They sat together for a while, contemplating the fire. Gabriel absorbed the silence of the household. It was well after midnight. When he and Venetia arrived home a short time earlier they had discovered that everyone else had gone to bed, including Mrs. Trench. It was just as well. There would be time enough for explanations in the morning.
He tilted his head against the back of the chair and thought about the conversation with the police.
“I got the impression that the detective is leaning heavily toward the theory that Burton committed suicide,” he said.
“It certainly is the simplest explanation. But it does not account for the person I saw leaving the room shortly before I discovered the body.”
“No,” he said. “It does not.”
The detective had questioned Venetia quite closely about the figure she had seen on the staircase but she had not been able to provide him with anything useful by way of a description.
For his own part, Gabriel thought, he could hardly claim that he had picked up emanations of violence off a doorknob. The detective would have considered him quite mad. The sensations were useless as a means of identification, in any event. They were quite strong but they could have belonged to anyone who had gone to that room with murder in mind.
He looked at Venetia. “You said you followed Burton out of the exhibition hall this evening because you wanted to confront him about some disturbing photographs that you believe he sent to you?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea why he would have done such a thing?”
She sighed. “I assumed it was because he was envious of me.”
“He was jealous of your success?”
“That was the only motive I could come up with.” She took another small sip of the brandy. “Mr. Burton was a very bitter man. His talent as a photographer was never properly appreciated or recognized. This is a very competitive business, you see.”
“I did get that impression this evening.”
“The ability to take good pictures is only part of what is required to establish a reputation that attracts fashionable clients. Those who move in polite circles tend to be extremely fickle. A successful photographer must project a certain style and a sense of exclusiveness. One must give the impression that one is not actually in trade, as it were, but rather providing the client with the benefit of one’s artistic talents.”
“Let me hazard a guess here,” Gabriel said. “Burton did not project that sort of image.”
“No.”
“There must be a great many other successful photographers who do a better trade than he did. Why did he fix on you as the object of his envy?”
“I think it was because I am a woman,” she said quietly. “In his mind it was bad enough that he was outdone by other men. To have a lady arrive on the scene and meet with immediate success enraged him. He confronted me on one or two occasions and informed me quite bluntly that this was no profession for a female.”
“When did the unpleasant pictures arrive?”
“The first photograph was left on my doorstep earlier this week. The second one came two days later. I suspected Burton straight off. I knew he would be at the exhibition tonight. I was determined to demand an explanation from him.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Now, I do not know what to think. He was obviously involved in some sinister dealings with the man who murdered him.”
Gabriel stretched his legs out toward the fire. “Do you have any notion of who might want to kill him?”
She opened her eyes and made a face. “Aside from myself, do you mean? No. I can only tell you that Burton was not the most likable man. He was a conniving, unethical schemer who moved in the lower ranks of the photographic community. He had a small gallery in an unfashionable part of town but I don’t know how he managed to make a living, to tell you the truth.”
Gabriel cradled his glass in both hands. “I would like to see the photographs that he sent to you.”
“They’re in my bottom desk drawer. I’ll get them.”
She set the brandy glass aside, rose and crossed the carpet to the desk.
Gabriel watched her remove a small key from the dainty chatelaine bag that dangled from the waist of her gown. She used the key to open the drawer and removed two photographs.
Without a word, she walked back across the room, sat down and handed him one of the pictures.
He held the photograph facedown for a few seconds, feeling with the part of him that could perceive things that his other senses did not. There were faint whispers of anger and outrage but he was almost certain they had been left by Venetia. There was a sensation of self-control about them.
Beneath those emanations were even fainter traces of another fierce emotion, one that could only be described as obsessive rage. He was almost certain that sensation had been left by the person who had arranged for the photograph to be left on Venetia’s doorstep.
He turned the picture over and examined it in the firelight.
“Is this the one that arrived first?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The photograph was innocuous enough at first glance, if decidedly morbid. It showed the somber scene of a funeral cortege headed by a black funeral coach equipped with a team of black horses. The vehicle stood in front of the iron gates of a cemetery. A gloomy array of monuments, crypts and headstones was visible through the bars of the high fence that surrounded the graveyard.
It was only when one examined the picture closely that one noticed the woman dressed in a fashionable black gown and a wide-brimmed black hat standing to one side of the scene.
A cold sensation settled in Gabriel’s gut.
“You?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. The cemetery in that picture is located a short distance from this street. I pass it every day when I go to the gallery.” She held out the second photograph.
He took it from her, pausing briefly once again to see if he could detect any strong sensations. The remnants of Venetia’s anger and outrage ruffled his senses but this time there was something else. Fear.
Beneath that layer of emotion was the same unwholesome obsession that had clung to the first picture.
He turned the picture over. This time he was looking at a photograph of an ornate funeral monument. For a few seconds he could not make any sense of the scene. Then he saw the name inscribed on the stone. The chill in his insides turned to ice.
“‘In memory of Venetia Jones,’” he read aloud.
Venetia grimaced. “An excellent example of what can be accomplished by a person who is skilled in the art of retouching photographs. After the picture arrived, Amelia and I went to the cemetery to see if that particular monument was located there.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.” She clasped her fingers tightly together. “The name engraved on the stone, however, is Robert Adamson.”
“Whatever else he was, Harold Burton was a nasty son of a bitch.”
She drank some more brandy. “That was certainly my opinion.”
He looked at the first photograph again. “Was this one retouched also?”
“No. I was there in front of the cemetery that day, returning from my customary walk in the park. I happened to pass the gates just as the funeral cortege arrived.” She hesitated. “I know this will sound as though I am quite paranoid but I have had the feeling that Burton has been following me about lately.”
Gabriel put the photographs on the table next to the chair. “You’re quite certain these were taken by him?”
She glanced at the pictures. “As certain as I can be without absolute proof. There is something about the style and composition. Burton was actually a very skilled photographer. I have seen some of his work. He had a particular talent for architectural themes. The firs
t picture, the one of the cortege, was obviously taken on the spur of the moment. I could not have identified him as the photographer given just that single shot. But the second photograph was taken with great care.”
Gabriel studied the picture of the headstone. “I see what you mean. The angle he used is quite dramatic.”
“The lighting is also striking and very much in his style. As for the inscription, well, Burton is quite a skilled retoucher.” Venetia shook her head. “I think that he was trying to impress me as well as frighten me with that second photograph. He wanted to show me that he was more expert with a camera than I am.”
“You said you felt Burton was following you?”
“I didn’t see him that day when the picture of the funeral cortege was taken but I did notice him a number of times over the course of several days. He appeared to be lurking in my vicinity.”
“Describe the occasions when you saw him.”
“I noticed him at least twice in the park not far from here. He always kept his distance and pretended not to see me. Then, the other morning Amelia and I went shopping in Oxford Street. I am certain that I spotted Burton there, too. He was lounging in the doorway of a shop. When I tried to approach him to ask what he was doing, he disappeared into the crowd. At first I assumed the various incidents were accidental. But in the past few days I vow I started to feel like a deer that is being stalked by the hunter.” Her mouth tightened. “It was becoming quite unsettling, to tell you the truth.”
And perhaps another motive for murder in the eyes of Scotland Yard, Gabriel thought.
“If the police question us again about Burton’s death, we will not mention that he may have been following you,” he said aloud. “Is that quite clear?”
She contemplated him with a steady gaze. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Jones?”
“It depends upon the question, of course.”
“There does appear to be some evidence”—she paused to hold up one finger—“not a great deal, mind you, but a few bits and pieces that would seem to point toward me as a possible suspect in this situation.”
“I noticed that.”
“You are aware that I disappeared several minutes before you found me with Burton’s body tonight, ample time in which to pour a glass of brandy and lace it with cyanide. What makes you so certain that I did not kill him?”
He thought about how much to tell her. A murky mix of intense psychical spoors had marked the door of the darkroom and the space inside. He had sensed obsession, unwholesome excitement and fear, all swirled together in a seething brew that had been impossible to sort out. He knew that what he had sensed were several layers of recent emotions. Burton had no doubt touched the doorknob at least once. The killer had also touched it. So had Venetia. Between the three of them, they had left a chaotic soup of emotions.
But he was certain of one thing: Venetia was not the killer. He had been too close to her during their time together at Arcane House, too intimate. He would have known if she were capable of such vicious, cold-blooded violence.
“You told me that someone else left the room before you arrived,” he said. “I believe you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your trust. But may I ask why you are so certain that I told you the truth?”
“Let’s just say that after our time together at Arcane House, I think I know you well enough to place great faith in your integrity.” That was the truth as far as it went.
“I’m delighted to know that I left you with such a good impression of my character,” she said dryly.
She did not believe him, he realized. Fair enough; he knew that she was keeping secrets, too.
“Indeed, madam,” he said. “And while I will have absolutely no difficulty whatsoever in sticking to the version of events that we gave to the police and which will no doubt appear in the morning papers—”
“The papers. I have not even considered that aspect of the situation. Mr. Otford of the Flying Intelligencer was at the exhibition this evening. There is no telling how this business will look in the press.”
“We shall deal with that later. At the moment, I am far more interested in finding out why you lied to me and to the police tonight when you said that you did not recognize the man you saw on the stairs.”
15
THE QUESTION CAUGHT her completely by surprise, as he had intended. She turned her head very quickly to look at him, the expression in her eyes one of astonishment and alarm. It was as though he had startled her out of some secret hiding place.
“But I did not recognize him,” she said a little too swiftly. “I told you, I did not even get a close look at him. I most certainly did not know him.”
Gabriel got to his feet, picked up an iron poker and prodded the fire.
“You saw something,” he said mildly.
“A man wearing a long overcoat and a tall hat. I told you that much.” She paused and then added reflectively, “At least I think it was a man.”
That observation got his attention. “You are not certain?”
“All I can say with any great assurance is that the person I saw was dressed in the manner of a gentleman. As I told the detective, I could tell that the individual was slender and of above-medium height. But the light was too poor for me to notice any other details.”
“I find it interesting that you would even allow for the possibility that the killer might have been female,” he said, setting the poker aside. “Given his masculine attire, few would question the assumption that the person you saw was a man.”
“When you consider the matter closely it is obvious that one of the easiest ways to disguise oneself is to adopt the clothing of the opposite gender.”
He contemplated that. “And there is an old theory which holds that poison is a woman’s choice of murder weapon.”
“Under the circumstances, I do not think that we can place much credence in that notion. In this instance, the victim was a photographer and, quite frankly, the cyanide was an obvious choice on the part of the killer.”
“I take your point.” He rested one arm on the mantel. “You are certain that the fleeing figure did not notice you?”
“Positive,” she said. “He did not glance back while I was watching him. Even if he had done so he could not have seen me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was in the darkest part of the corridor, peering around a corner. There was almost no light behind me. The killer was the one who was illuminated and then only minimally.”
“You sound very certain.”
Her mouth curved wryly. “I would remind you that I am a photographer, sir. I assure you, I have made a close study of the effects of light and shadow.”
“I do not doubt your professional expertise, madam.” He met her eyes. “But I must ask you again, what was it you saw tonight that you did not tell the police?”
She laced her fingers tightly together. “You are very insistent. What makes you think that I saw more than I told you or the detective?”
“Call it masculine intuition. During our all too brief interlude at Arcane House I learned a few things about you, Mrs. Jones. One is that when it comes to taking pictures, you often perceive what others do not. And I am still wondering how you spotted those two men in the woods that night.”
“I noticed them when they went through a patch of moonlight.”
“No moonlight penetrated those trees, but we’ll let that go for now. Given the seriousness of our situation, however, I cannot let this other matter drop so easily. I would very much appreciate the truth, so I ask again, what did you see tonight?”
Her reply was so long in coming that he began to think she was going to refuse to tell him. He could not blame her, he thought. She owed him nothing. But it disturbed him for some reason that she did not consider him a worthy confidant. He realized that he wanted her to trust him again, the way she had seemed to trust him at Arcane House.
“Nothing I perceived about the fleeing man wou
ld be of any use to the police,” she said quietly.
He stilled. “But you did notice something about the killer?”
“Yes.” She met his eyes. “You will no doubt think me either excessively imaginative or delusional if I tell you the truth. At best, you will conclude that I am a great fraud.”
He took two steps toward her, closed his hands around her shoulders and raised her to her feet. “I assure you that nothing you could say would lead me to either of those conclusions.”
“Indeed?” Wry skepticism flashed across her face. “What makes you so certain of that?”
He tightened his grip on her arms. “You seem to forget that we spent several days in each other’s company some three months back.”
“No, Mr. Jones, I have not forgotten. Not for one moment.”
“Neither have I. I have already told you that I have no doubts about your character. The same is true when it comes to the matter of your sanity.”
“Thank you.”
“But there is another reason why I would very likely believe anything you chose to tell me,” he said.
“And what reason would that be, sir?”
“I want you far too much to permit myself to have any doubts where you are concerned.”
Her lips parted. “Mr. Jones.”
The questioning would have to be continued later. It had been too long. He could no longer resist temptation.
He lowered his head and took her mouth captive.
16
THE SHOCK OF THE EMBRACE set her senses ablaze. After all the weeks and months of uncertainty over his fate and despair at the knowledge that if Gabriel was alive he had not come for her, he was kissing her again.
The effect of his embrace was even more stimulating than she had remembered. The heat of his body, the sensual taste of his mouth, the exhilarating strength of his arms, incited a thrilling excitement deep within her.
“Do you have any notion,” Gabriel whispered, “how many nights I have lain awake, imagining what it would be like to kiss you again?”
