by C. J. Archer
The subjects were completely naked in all the photographs. If one of Mr. Warrington’s political rivals got hold of them, it would be disastrous for his career.
I felt they contained a certain beauty, however. Mrs. Warrington looked amused, with a spark of mischief in her eyes as she stared at the camera. To think, these photographs could exist forever, a reminder of the spirited woman who’d agreed to be photographed naked. One day, when she was long forgotten and her murder was a distant memory, I hoped these photographs would be considered beautiful, not disgusting.
“That was a low act.” Harry strode into the office and snatched up the photographs.
“I thought it rather clever. You fell for it easily enough.”
“Luigi is a convincing actor. When I saw the flames, I thought the building would go up.”
I gasped. “He truly set fire to the café?”
“Just an old rag which he placed in a copper pot.” He beckoned me to get out of his chair. “You should be ashamed of yourself using your feminine wiles to get him to do your bidding.”
“Unfortunately it doesn’t work on all men. Pass me my bag, please. I left it beside your chair.”
He reached down to retrieve it. I took the opportunity to snatch the photographs back.
He tried to grab them off me, but I danced out of his reach. He growled in frustration as he got to his feet. But he did not try to take them again. I held them to my chest and no gentleman would dare touch a woman there.
He stood with his arms folded and gave me his sternest glare. I found it very hard to keep a straight face. “You’re not playing fair, Cleo.”
“I am not playing at all, Harry. Anyway, it’s too late. I’ve seen almost everything there is to see.”
“Almost?”
“There’s something on the man’s hand. I need to take a closer look. If I place these on the desk, do you promise not to stop me looking at them?” I smiled sweetly. “Otherwise I’ll take them back to the hotel and Harmony can view them with me.”
He groaned.
“And Flossy too.”
“You are playing a game, and it’s one you’re very good at. Very well. You win. Put them down.”
I returned the photographs to the desk and spread them out. “You see far more of Mrs. Warrington’s body than you do of his in this one where they’re lying down.”
“So?”
“So you shouldn’t look. What about your innocence?”
He rolled his eyes. “You think you’re amusing, but you’re not.”
“I beg to differ. I’m having a lot of fun.” I bent closer to the photographs, and Harry leaned in too. Every little part of me was aware of him, from the hairs on my arms to the blood throbbing in my veins. Being so close to him as we studied such risqué images was a sensation like no other. Although it was discomforting, I didn’t feel embarrassed. Indeed, I felt emboldened. Almost emboldened enough to—
“There’s definitely a mark on his hand.” His voice cut through my thoughts like a sharp blade. “Perhaps a wound or birthmark.” He opened a drawer and retrieved a magnifying glass. He peered at the photograph of the couple lying down. “I think it’s a mole.” He gave the glass to me and I inspected the image. “Does Henderson have a mark on his hand?”
“I haven’t noticed.” I handed back the glass. “We need to find out.”
“We’ll go back to Kensington now.” He checked his watch. “After lunch. Hungry?”
“Lunch is an excellent idea. I think you should lock those away somewhere safe while you’re not here.”
He retrieved a set of keys from his pocket and opened a small wall safe behind the print of the Tower Bridge building plans. He placed the envelope containing the photographs inside and relocked it.
I retrieved my coat from the stand by the door and handed him his.
We didn’t go far. According to Harry, Luigi charged a mere threepence for the most delicious bowl of pesto alla genovese pasta. He was right; I’d never tasted anything quite like it, and devoured it all.
With full stomachs, we returned to Kensington but stopped two houses away from the Warringtons’. Mr. Warrington stood on the doorstep with his friend, Mr. Drummond. They were having a heated discussion, but I couldn’t hear what it was about.
I was considering whether to edge closer when Mr. Drummond stormed off down the steps and strode away in the opposite direction to Harry and me.
Mr. Warrington watched him for a few moments then, with a shake his head, returned inside and closed the door.
“You speak to Mr. Henderson,” I said to Harry. “I’ll follow Drummond.”
“I should be the one to follow him.”
“You’re too tall and conspicuous. Besides, a man won’t expect a woman to follow him.”
“That logic is flawed.”
I waved him off and walked away, quickening my pace to catch up to Mr. Drummond. I soon realized he was taking the same route as Mrs. Warrington the day I followed her to the photographic studio. Mr. Drummond didn’t travel quite as far, however. He entered Paddington Station instead of passing it by. I almost lost him in the crowd, but then spotted him entering the call office where the public could pay to make telephone calls.
A few moments later, he re-emerged. He did not leave the station, but purchased a newspaper and joined the throng of passengers waiting for the next train on platform one. He stood under the sign for the cloak room and opened the newspaper.
Ten minutes later, he was approached by the photographer’s assistant, Jeffrey Deacon, clutching a large package in both hands. I couldn’t hear their exchange, but the youth looked nervous as he spoke to Mr. Drummond. Mr. Drummond answered with a nod then accepted the package and passed over something smaller.
Jeffrey inspected it before Mr. Drummond snapped at him. I didn’t need to hear the words to know what he said. I could read his lips. He’d told the youth to “Put it away.” Jeffrey quickly tucked what I suspected were folded bank notes into his pocket. He touched the brim of his hat but didn’t receive the same courtesy from Mr. Drummond in return. Instead, Mr. Drummond pointed his finger at Jeffrey, and spoke sternly to him.
Jeffrey went a little pale. He nodded quickly then, ducking his head, hurried away.
Mr. Drummond studied the package in his hands. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, it was too thick to be photographs. The only other explanation I could think of was that it contained plate glass negatives encased in padding.
But why was Mr. Drummond buying them? Why didn’t Mr. Warrington collect them himself? Or why not ask Harry to do it on his behalf? At least tell us he knew the negatives were there, instead of pretending not to know. And how had Mr. Drummond or Mr. Warrington known what name to ask for? They must have been under an assumed name or Harry would have found them last night. Did Mr. Warrington know the name of his wife’s lover, after all, and it wasn’t Mr. Henderson?
I gasped as a thought struck me. If Mr. Drummond was her lover it would explain how he’d known what name the negatives were filed under. How diabolical to have a liaison with his friend’s wife. Perhaps that was what they’d argued about on the doorstep. Mr. Warrington must have discovered evidence of their relationship while going through his wife’s things and confronted Mr. Drummond about it.
There was only one way to know for certain, but it was not only risky, it was morally dubious. I really shouldn’t do it.
On the other hand, this was a murder investigation. Sometimes, the end justified the means. Or so I told my conscience.
When Mr. Drummond walked off, I knew I had to act now or miss the opportunity altogether.
I followed him outside and ducked into the first shop I passed where I asked for some brown wrapping paper and string. I thought I’d lost Mr. Drummond when I re-emerged from the shop but spotted him some distance ahead.
I raced after him, weaving my way around pedestrians, but stopped when I spotted a broken crate in a dead-end lane. It must have been discarded by a
shopkeeper. I broke it further with a firm kick, and picked up the piece that splintered off. It would do nicely. I checked around the corner to make sure I hadn’t lost Mr. Drummond, and wrapped the piece of wood in the brown paper, tying it with the string.
I left the lane and hurried to catch up to Mr. Drummond. But what I needed to do next was the hardest part of my plan, and I feared I didn’t have the skills to do it properly.
Fortunately, being so close to the shops and a major railway station meant pickpockets were easy to come by. I spotted a dirty-faced boy dressed in rags wandering idly up to a cart full of fruit positioned at the front of a grocer’s. I intercepted him before the shopkeeper did.
“I’ll give you sixpence if you bump into that man and make him drop the parcel tucked under his arm,” I said quickly, pointing out Mr. Drummond. “Then while he’s recovering his balance, swap his parcel for this one. I’ll pay you half now, half later. Meet me in that lane.”
I deposited the coins into his outstretched palm and handed him the parcel, then retreated back to the lane.
I waited for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Worried the lad had been caught, I gave up. Just as I rounded the corner, he barreled into me, almost knocking me off my feet.
He handed over the parcel and thrust out his palm. I gave him the other half of his payment. He grinned a gap-toothed smile and went on his way.
I ought to return to Harry’s office and look at these with him, but the temptation was too great and I was not known for my patience. I unwrapped the paper, being careful not to drop the contents of the parcel.
Positioned between slim pieces of card and fabric for protection, were two glass plate negatives, not three. They did not show Mrs. Warrington with her lover.
They were of a naked Mr. Drummond. And he was with another man.
Chapter 10
The identity of the man standing behind Mr. Drummond wasn’t clear in the negatives. His face was partially obscured and the inverse light and dark of the negative made it more difficult. But it wasn’t a great leap to assume it was Mr. Warrington. The two men were clearly as close as two friends could be. Mr. Drummond had been at his friend’s side the day after Mrs. Warrington’s murder. He had also gone directly from Mr. Warrington’s house to collect the negatives. It was likely their argument on the doorstep had been about collecting them. Perhaps Mr. Warrington hadn’t wanted to make a song and dance about it, but Mr. Drummond was keen to get them back.
It would have been a benefit to discuss what this discovery meant for our investigation, but I wasn’t even sure where Harry would be. It was almost time for the hotel staff to have their afternoon break. Perhaps I could make it back to the Mayfair in time and meet them in the parlor.
I stared down at the negatives. I felt no shame in viewing them. It was difficult to determine individual parts of Mr. Drummond’s body anyway. Harry wouldn’t see it that way, however. I couldn’t help smiling at that.
If Mr. Drummond could see me now, smiling over the negatives of his naked image, he’d probably never be able to face me again. Mr. Warrington would probably dismiss me from the investigation.
So many things became clearer now that I knew about Mr. Warrington’s inclination for men. It explained why his marriage was one of convenience, and why his wife had taken a lover. It also raised questions. If Mrs. Warrington knew her husband preferred men and agreed to let him live his life as he wished if she could take lovers, why did he want to divorce her? Wouldn’t it protect his reputation if they stayed together?
And why would Mrs. Warrington’s lover grow jealous of her husband and kill him? If Mr. Henderson was her lover then he must know she could never marry him, a butler. It was best for him, and her, if the Warringtons stayed married. A man in Mr. Henderson’s situation couldn’t afford jealousy.
Unless her lover wasn’t Mr. Henderson, but another fellow. Someone who didn’t know about Mr. Warrington’s preference for men. Someone who flew into a jealous rage and killed Mr. Warrington—or thought he had.
Or perhaps jealousy had nothing to do with it, and the lover wanted to get his hands on Mrs. Warrington’s fortune by marrying her. He would need to remove the obstacle in his way—her husband. If he wasn’t aware Mr. Warrington was about to sue for divorce, he might have taken matters into his own hands.
And if he was aware of the divorce, then he might have wanted to save his lover’s reputation. Divorce proceedings would ruin her reputation, making it difficult for them to remarry after the dust settled if he was someone important.
The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that the butler was the lover. And the more I realized I needed to learn the man’s name.
Since I was already in Paddington, my next course of action was an easy decision to make.
I wrapped the paper around the negatives and tied it up with string. With the parcel tucked under my arm, I headed towards the studio of D.B. Sharp. Jeffrey looked like he wanted to scurry into a hole when he saw me enter. The poor lad was having a trying day after being confronted by an angry Mr. Drummond at the station, and now having me show up.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Sharp,” I demanded.
“He’s busy with customers.” The youth’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “He won’t be long.”
“Unless he comes out here to talk to me now, I will go in there. I don’t think his customers will like that, do you?”
Jeffrey swallowed heavily. “Wait here.”
He rounded the desk then disappeared into the adjoining room. A few moments later, he emerged behind Mr. Sharp. The photographer glowered at me.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I want to know the name of Mrs. Warrington’s lover.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You do. She came here on the day she was murdered to collect her photographs. You would have seen her likeness in the newspapers after her death. Now, unless you tell me the name of the man in the photographs with her, I will have to tell the police that she called here mere hours before she died.”
Mr. Sharp attempted to straighten, but his spine remained bent. “I had nothing to do with her death, so your threat doesn’t concern me.”
“No? Then perhaps it will concern you if I tell the police about your little operation.”
“It’s not illegal to photograph couples in any manner they choose. Nobody is forcing them to do it.”
“But it is illegal to make copies of their images without their knowledge and on-sell them. If word got out, you would be ruined. No one would trust you with their photographic needs ever again.”
Jeffrey emitted a hiss of breath and sat heavily on the desk chair, as if he were a balloon I’d just burst.
Mr. Sharp’s tongue darted out and licked his lips. “Well. You can threaten all you like, but I don’t know the man’s name. That’s the truth. But I can describe him.”
It would have to do. I nodded.
“He was tall with reddish-blond hair and thick sideburns. That’s all I remember.”
“I remember his name!” Jeffrey blurted out. “She called him Xavier.”
Mr. Sharp pursed his lips and glared at his assistant.
“His surname?” I asked.
Jeffrey shrugged. “That’s what she called him. Xavier. She ordered the photographs under the name Smith, if that helps.”
That was likely a false name, but a given name of Xavier was unusual enough to be real. It was a promising start.
Mr. Sharp opened the door. “Good day, Miss.”
“One more thing.” I turned to Jeffrey. If I wanted answers, I was more likely to get them from him. “The negatives you just delivered to the man at Paddington Station—do you know who is in the photographs with him?”
Jeffrey smiled.
“We don’t,” Mr. Sharp growled. “Good day, Miss.”
I left. It didn’t matter anyway. Jeffrey’s smile had been enough for me to know they’d known it was Mr. Warringto
n in those photographs. As a politician, his name and face would be in the newspapers from time to time.
I started to pass all of this information along to Harry when I found him at his office, but didn’t get very far. He sat in stunned silence after I told him who Mr. Drummond had met at Paddington station and what I’d done afterwards. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the desk then opened his mouth to speak. I expected a lecture. What I got was a long exhalation and a shake of his head. He settled back into the chair with another shake of his head.
“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “Not only did you pay a boy to thieve for you, which could have been very dangerous for him.”
“He looked nimble, and I paid him well.”
“But then you studied the negatives and saw—” He indicated the glass plate negatives which lay side by side on the paper wrapping. “Couldn’t you have waited for me?”
“Why?”
He threw his hands in the air. “For decorum!”
“You’re being a prude, Harry. Just accept that I have seen things now that have broadened my horizons and we’ll speak of it no more. Unless we have to, that is.”
He dragged his hand through his hair. “Your uncle would gut me like a fish if he found out.”
“Now you’re just being melodramatic. My uncle is smart enough to know that you couldn’t stop me. It’s hardly your fault I’m too nosy for my own good.” I went to pick up the negatives to wrap them up again, but he snatched them away.
“I’ll do it.”
