by C. J. Archer
“I’ve worked for Mr. Warrington since before they married, and met her on their wedding day. I was a footman in those days.”
I opened my notebook. “When was that?”
“June 1883.”
I penciled the date into my notebook. “And have you personally seen her alone with other men, either here or away from the house?”
“What a waste of a question.”
My grip tightened on the pencil. “Has Mr. Warrington given a limit as to how many I may ask?” I kept my tone light, feminine, in the hope he’d respond to that tactic.
Mr. Henderson shifted in the chair. “Of course not.”
I smiled. “Excellent. Then I have a few more.”
“Your kind always do.”
I bristled. “You mean women?”
“Private detectives.”
Good lord, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. I couldn’t win with people like Mr. Henderson, so there was no point wasting breath to try. “Has Mrs. Warrington’s behavior changed in recent times?”
“In what way?”
“Does she take greater care in her appearance, for example? Does she go out more frequently? Does she seem…happier?”
“I cannot comment on her state of mind, or her appearance.” Going by his tone, he considered me a fool to ask such a thing. “She does not go out more frequently than she used to, but she has always had a busy social calendar, no matter the season.”
I closed my notepad and held up the list he’d given me. “How did you obtain this information?”
“Those are the places she told me she was going, or where the coachman took her.”
“But if she met with a man, she would hardly inform you where she was meeting him, would she?”
He merely met my gaze.
I folded up the paper and placed it with the notepad and pencil in my bag. “I can see you don’t like what I’m doing, Mr. Henderson, but if you have a problem with me investigating your mistress, you should take it up with Mr. Warrington.”
“Their business is none of my affair. He is entitled to hire you, if he wishes. It is neither here nor there what I think of your investigation.”
Yet he had no qualms throwing me disdainful looks. Perhaps it wasn’t the investigation he found undignified, but my profession. Or perhaps it was both, and he couldn’t make his disgust known to his employer so he made it known to me instead.
I rose and opened the door, catching a woman listening in. She gasped, then picked up her skirts and hurried away up a narrow flight of stairs.
“Mrs. Warrington’s lady’s maid,” Mr. Henderson said from behind the desk.
“You’re not worried she’ll tell your mistress about our meeting?”
He opened the ledger again and dipped the pen into the inkwell. I was dismissed.
“Is Mrs. Warrington at home?”
“She is,” he intoned without looking up.
I left the house, but instead of heading to the address on the top of the list, I positioned myself near a lamp post a few doors down and waited for Mrs. Warrington to leave. As I expected, I was rewarded only a short time later.
Chapter 4
Having Mrs. Warrington’s maid overhear my interview with the butler wasn’t the complete disaster I thought it would be when I first saw her scurrying away from his office door. She had immediately alerted her mistress, and Mrs. Warrington was most likely now on her way to warn her lover, or to send him a letter from the post office.
The light rain, while annoying, worked in my favor. I was able to use the umbrella to partially shield my face while hurrying after my target. Being dressed in black was an equally helpful disguise—I blended in with the dozens of other women on the street. If the maid had given Mrs. Warrington my description, she wouldn’t be able to pick me out of the crowd.
My fears were further allayed as we turned onto Kensington High Street where the numerous shoppers strolling along the pavement provided some cover. I almost lost her, however, when two men carrying a large buffet out of a furniture shop blocked the pavement. I couldn’t peer over it and had to wait for them to pass before dashing after Mrs. Warrington. Thank goodness she wore a hat covered in distinctive speckled brown feathers or I wouldn’t have spotted her.
I followed her past the western edge of Kensington Palace gardens then headed north into Bayswater. She didn’t stop there, however, and continued on to Paddington. Mrs. Warrington’s brisk pace left me quite breathless, so I was pleased when we turned the corner and the imposing structure of the Great Western Hotel came into view. Mrs. Warrington must be meeting her lover there, just as she’d met him last Friday at another great railway hotel, the Midland Grand.
But she continued past the entrance to the hotel and Paddington Station, and left Praed Street altogether. After a few more turns, she suddenly stopped at the front door to a photographic studio. I held the umbrella low as I continued past. When I glanced back, the door was closing on Mrs. Warrington and her feathered hat.
I waited in the rain and was rewarded when a mere fifteen minutes later she exited the studio and hurried on her way. I decided not to follow. The photographic studio must be important to her or why make it her first stop after learning from her maid that I was making inquiries about her whereabouts?
According to the sign painted on the bay window, the photographer was D.B. Sharp. I entered and a youth sitting at the desk looked up from a photograph he’d been studying. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He smiled toothily as he rose. “May I help you, madam?”
I took a moment to admire the photographs on the desk, and the larger ones displayed on easels around the shopfront. The space was very small, with a door positioned at the back that must lead to the studio.
“I hope you can, Mr. Sharp.”
“Oh, I’m not he. Jeffrey Deacon, at your service.” He thrust out his hand and I shook it. “I’m assistant operator and photograph retoucher.”
“How fascinating.” He looked much too young to be having a liaison with a middle-aged woman, but I needed to be absolutely certain. “I just saw my friend, Mrs. Warrington, leave. Is she a friend of yours too?”
His smile froze and his gaze slid to the door through which she’d just left. “She’s a customer.” If she were merely a customer, why did he suddenly look worried?
A bout of feminine giggles came from the room beyond the door. Mr. Deacon’s face flushed and he looked down at the floor. How very odd.
“Perhaps I made a mistake,” I said. “Mrs. Warrington told me she has a particular friend at this photographic studio who will take good care of me. I thought she meant you.”
“No!” The youth’s voice cracked. I hadn’t thought it possible, but his face went even redder.
“So she’s referring to Mr. Sharp then?”
“No! Yes. Perhaps.” He glanced at the door again as the woman’s giggle continued. This time a man joined in with a loud guffaw.
“Which is it, Mr. Deacon? Is Mr. Sharp her particular friend?” I gave up trying to be subtle and dug into my bag for some money.
He backed away, hands in the air, as I tried to offer it to him. He knocked over an easel, sending the large photograph to the floor. The frame broke in two places.
The studio door opened and a wizened man with a bent back and stooped shoulders appeared. “What the—?" He stopped upon seeing me, and apologized, but reserved a fierce glare for his assistant. “Mr. Deacon, kindly tidy up then see to the customer while I finish in here. And try do it without breaking anything,” he added in a mutter.
He smiled at me and shuffled back into the studio. The door closed on him, but not before I’d seen something that made me blush. I’d caught a glimpse of the couple having their photograph taken. They were about my age and kissing passionately in front of a tropical beach scene painted on a large cloth backdrop.
They were completely naked.
I turned away and studied another photograph on an easel while Mr. Deacon picked up
the broken frame. The awkward silence stretched, but I was now convinced that neither Mr. Deacon nor Mr. Sharp were Mrs. Warrington’s lover. The former was too young, the latter too old. Mr. Warrington would have noticed if his wife’s lover had the gangly limbs of a youth or a stoop the day he spotted them entering the Midland Grand.
That left one reasonable explanation for her coming here in such a hurry after she learned her husband had sent a private detective to look into her adulterous affairs. She’d had a photograph taken with her lover in this studio. Not only would it identify him, it would also be absolute proof that she was committing adultery, particularly if the photographs were taken of them both naked.
I cursed myself for not following her when she left the studio. She could have easily thrown the photographs away or destroyed them by now. All that evidence, gone.
Or was it?
I turned to Mr. Deacon. “What do you do with the glass plate negatives after a customer picks up their photographs? Are they destroyed?”
He swallowed and glanced at the door to the studio. “If you could wait for Mr. Sharp. He will answer your questions.”
No doubt Mr. Sharp would lie to suit his own ends if he thought I was a detective rather than a customer. If I wanted answers, I had to press on the weakest point.
I joined Mr. Deacon at the desk where he was attempting to piece together the frame. “It’s just that if I have some photographs taken with my husband, I’d like to know they’ll be in safe hands. I don’t want them lying about here where anyone can see them. Do you understand?”
Mr. Deacon moved so that the desk was between us. Did he think I was going to accost him? He cleared his throat. “Mr. Sharp can tell you all about that side of the business. I’m not allowed.”
“But you know the answer, and it’s just a simple question. I don’t want to wait for Mr. Sharp. I don’t want to see that couple, you see.” I touched my hat brim to demurely hide my face behind my arm.
Mr. Deacon cleared his throat again. “The negatives are kept under lock and key.”
“Not destroyed?”
“No, but the customer is welcome to buy them. It costs extra, but some prefer it.”
“Did Mrs. Warrington purchase her negatives just now?”
“I, um, I cannot say.”
The door burst open and the couple spilled into the shop, laughing. Both were fully clothed. The man wore the well-cut suit of a gentleman, but the woman was more gaudily dressed with her petticoat showing and her cheeks and lips painted pink. At a guess, I would say she was his mistress, but not the discreet sort who sometimes stayed at the Mayfair with their benefactors. She was more like the ones who stole in and out in the middle of the night. She was also quite drunk and could barely walk. The man wrapped his arm around her, propping her up.
Mr. Sharp opened the front door for them, smiling. “The photographs will be ready tomorrow afternoon. If I am unavailable, my assistant can serve you.”
“Lucky boy,” the woman said, winking at Mr. Deacon.
Mr. Deacon made a strangled sound in his throat.
The gentleman glanced at me and blushed. His mistress tapped the end of his nose and laughed as he pushed open the door and steered her out.
Mr. Sharp shuffled towards me and bobbed his head. “I do apologize for that, madam. It was the first time the lady has been photographed and she found the process amusing.”
I wasn’t going to get answers from these two about Mrs. Warrington. They must be very discreet or they wouldn’t remain in business for long. I gave up and left.
The rain had stopped but the dark clouds hung low and expectant. I looked up and down the street then hurried after the couple who’d just had their photograph taken.
“Excuse me!” I called out. “Excuse me, sir, madam!”
The man turned around but the woman appeared not to hear me. She kicked a puddle of water, splashing the apron of a matronly shopkeeper standing in the doorway of the grocer’s. She scowled at the whore who laughingly apologized.
“Yes?” the gentleman prompted me.
“I wondered if I could ask you some questions about the photographic studio.” I pointed back the way we’d come. “I’m considering engaging Mr. Sharp’s services to take some photographs of my husband and me. I saw you leave and I wondered if you could tell me whether he’s good.”
“You can see the quality for yourself. There are some pictures on display that you couldn’t have failed to notice.” The man touched the brim of his hat and headed off with the woman clinging to his arm.
I hurried past and stepped in their way. The gentleman clicked his tongue, but his companion suddenly grasped my hands. She spun me around in an awkward sort of dance. The closed umbrella I’d tucked under my arm almost smacked a pedestrian passing by.
“Clara,” the gentleman growled. He grabbed her by the elbow. There was no sign of his jovial mood anymore. He had remembered himself now that he was in the public eye with a drunken mistress at his side. She was embarrassing him, and there’s one thing an English gentleman loathes, it’s to be humiliated in public.
I would have to tread carefully and not embarrass him further if I wanted his cooperation. I leaned in a little and lowered my voice. “I want to have some…private photographs taken of my husband and me, and I was given Mr. Sharp’s name. But the person who gave me that information hadn’t personally used Mr. Sharp’s services.”
The gentleman gave an irritated huff and eyed the pavement ahead with longing. “I’m sorry, but we must get going.”
The woman kissed the gentleman’s cheek and giggled in his ear. “Aye, got a train to catch.”
He gently pushed her to put some distance between them, but folded his hand over hers resting on his arm. She pouted.
“Is Mr. Sharp discreet?” I pressed. “It’s just that I would hate for someone to approach him and try to buy the negative plates off him. Can you imagine?”
“He’s discreet. Excuse us.” He pushed past me.
The woman glanced over her shoulder at me. “You must have your photograph taken. It’s a lot of fun. Your husband will be ever so grateful to have a memory of you as you are now, before you get old and fat. Ain’t that right, Felix?”
The gentleman hissed at her to be quiet, but it was no use. She threw her head back and laughed.
I sighed. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to learn from them, but I’d hoped for something more.
“I’d steer clear of Sharp, if I were you,” said the shopkeeper standing in her doorway, arms crossed beneath an ample chest.
My face heated. I hadn’t expected my little ruse to be overheard. My hastily uttered lie about wanting to have a risqué photograph taken had just begun to sink in. Ordinarily I’d be far too conservative to suggest such a thing, even as a joke, but the lie had served a purposed. Now it hung like the ominous clouds above, ready to burst over my head in a storm of regret.
Earlier, I’d touched my hat brim to hide my face as part of my act. Now I did it because I wished to actually hide. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered.
The shopkeeper thrust her broad chin in the direction of the studio. “We’re respectable folk around here with honest businesses. But that man Sharp brings us all into disrepute with his shameful actions. We know what goes on there. He can’t pretend all is clean as a whistle.”
“I see,” I said weakly. “I am sorry. I won’t come back. I’ve changed my mind anyway.”
“Good for you.” She moved her hands to her hips so that she now completely filled the doorway, elbow to elbow. “I didn’t think you were the type to go in for that. I can tell. I’ve got a good nose for bad eggs, but you seem like a respectable girl. Most who go to Sharp’s studio are more like them.” She jerked her head in the direction of the retreating couple. “Some are just bored, looking for a little amusement. I reckon they’d run the other way if they found out where their photographs end up.”
I lowered my hand to look at her. “What do you mea
n? Where do they end up?”
She glanced behind her then beckoned me closer. “According to my husband, Mr. Sharp makes cards of the naughty photographs and sells them. Some men collect them—dock workers and sailors, mostly. So my husband says. The people in the pictures never even know.”
“Do the police know?”
She merely shrugged. “You’re wise not to come back. You don’t want to end up on a card in the pocket of a sailor, do you?”
“Thank you for the warning. I’ve abandoned the idea altogether, now.”
“Good girl.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “That Mr. Sharp is rotten to the core, if you ask me, and he’s taking that boy down into the den of iniquity with him. He should be ashamed of himself for corrupting the lad.”
I caught an omnibus back to the hotel where I handed my umbrella to Frank. He opened the door for me and deposited the umbrella into the stand where it was the sole occupant. Today’s rain had made them a popular item to borrow.
The foyer hummed with activity and conversation. Newly arrived guests waited to be checked in by Peter at the front desk, their luggage piled up on trolleys, ready to be steered away to their rooms by Goliath and the other two porters on duty. Two ladies sat on the comfortable chairs, chatting. A third joined them and they departed, umbrellas and tourist maps in hand. At the end of the corridor, one of the double doors to the main sitting room opened and a gentleman emerged, a book tucked under his arm. He must have come from the hotel’s library, situated at the back of the sitting room. Before the door closed I could see the staff setting the tables for afternoon tea.
The maids should have finished cleaning rooms for the day, and I hoped to find Harmony waiting for me in the staff parlor with a warm pot of tea. I was waylaid by Mr. Hobart, however. He peeled away from the group of guests he’d been talking to beneath the central chandelier and hurried towards me.
“I was hoping to catch you, Miss Fox.” He could barely contain his excitement as he checked to see that no one was in the vicinity. He smiled at a guest passing by then when she was out of earshot, turned to me. “After you told me about your new case, I decided to do some investigation of my own.”
