“Jefferson Talbot provides most of the photographs for the Metropolitan Police and their crime sheet in the dailies. He’s a bit of an odd duck. According to Mr. Lowry at the Times, Talbot was the one who took photographs of the women who were murdered over in Whitechapel.
“As I said,” she continued. “He’s very odd. Can you imagine wanting to take such photographs?”
Most interesting, I thought. And according to the newspapers, the murderer had never been caught.
“And the other photographer?” I asked.
“That would be Davey Morris. He’s a young chap, more of a street photographer. However he’s quite good and he happened to take the photograph of that poor woman over at Covent Garden not too long ago who was crushed to death under that toff’s coach.
“The only way the police would have known who did it was because of that photograph. Not that it was any consolation to her family. There wasn’t anyone going to speak up about someone of the upper class running someone over, if you know what I mean— no offense intended, Miss Forsythe.”
“None taken,” I assured her.
However, I understood perfectly well. It was something I was frequently reminded of, that class division that I found to be quite disgusting after all my travels, not to mention something that had been an obstacle more than once in past inquiries— things that aladyshouldn’t be part of, or trouble herself with.
“Do you know where both of them might be found?” I asked.
“Talbot has a studio. I can get the location from the clerk at the Times. As for Davey, he can usually be found on the street, at Piccadilly Circus. He takes a lot of photographs and sells street scenes for the photo viewers that everyone has now— a lot of monuments and the royal palace; fancies himself a crime photographer.”
I appreciated the information and wrote it down in my notebook. Most interesting about Mr. Talbot, I thought. Not that it meant anything, yet. Still it was a place to start.
Lucy promised to send round the address for Talbot’s studio as soon as she received it.
I was familiar with street photographers who might be found on any street corner out and about London. Box cameras were increasingly popular. Along with the modern invention of film, the fascination for stereopticons and public photo viewers at two pence for things people might never see, the fascination had only grown.
My friend, Theodora Templeton, quite famous on the stage, regularly had photographs taken in costume for her latest play. She had heard there was a time in the not-too-distant future when plays might be put on film and then shown to a larger audience.
But for now, a young woman had been murdered and then posed in a most hideous and horrifying way, then had a photograph taken of her. Not the first time in my association with Brodie I wondered what sort of cruel or insane person might do that.
Lucy and I parted with just enough time for me to hire a cab for King’s Cross Station where Munro was to arrive with Lily on the afternoon train from Edinburgh.
The station with those arched entrances filled several blocks of London that all lead into the main station, its enormous dome overhead covered in glass and metal panels.
Shops, restaurants, and the ticket hall dominated one side of the imposing structure while overhead boards announced arrivals and departures of the trains.
King’s Cross Station was once the largest station in London, with more than fourteen tracks and a series of tunnels that connected various parts of England and beyond. They much reminded me of a basket of snakes I had once seen in India slithering all about in a dozen different directions.
This time of the afternoon the station was filled with arriving and departing passengers who crowded the platforms. I found the platform that Munro and I had departed from some weeks earlier in time for the arrival of the train from Edinburgh.
Mr. Munro is easily recognized as he stands a great deal taller than many men, most usually wearing black trousers, with a black coat over, his gaze always watchful in that same way as Brodie, an instinct that came from living on the streets.
He managed my aunt’s estates and occasionally assisted in our inquiry cases, as he had in our previous one.
He had strong if handsome features, a piercing blue gaze, with hair as black as a raven’s wing, and he was particularly skillful with a knife for protection— also acquired on the streets of their youth.
He had taught me the skill that might be useful for a young woman on her own before I departed for my first adventure, and had presented me with a blade that I still carried inside my boot. As he told me then, one could never be certain about other people. I had certainly learned that in my partnership with Brodie. I was most grateful.
“Miss Forsythe!”
I turned and spotted Munro among the sea of passengers that streamed toward me, an unusual expression on his face that was most usually void of any discernible expression at all.
However, it was not Munro who had called out but the person he wrestled and kept a firm hold on beside him.
Lily finally managed to free herself and dashed forward. When she reached me, she flung her arms around me, cheeks flushed, dark eyes sparkling with excitement, her hat was askew, and her hair had come undone.
“Oh, pardon!” she said then, looking up at me. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s quite all right,” I replied as she was obviously very excited about arriving in London.
