I then showed him the second, additional photograph of Catherine Thorpe.
“Is it possible to make copies of photographs?” I asked.
He picked up that photograph.
“It can be done with a glass plate,” he replied. “One simply washes the plate with the solution for the additional copies, blocking out the other subjects.” He looked at me then.
“What reason would they want additional copies— that is the question.”
Indeed, I thought. I then handed him the second photograph of Amelia Mainwaring received by her parents, posed in that dreadful death pose.
“Ah, a commemorative photograph,” he replied.
That was putting a gloss on the situation. But to each his own, I supposed.
“It appears to have been taken at night, the features quite clear with very little light. And no shadows, possibly with a flash lamp. Quite well done. Almost as if…” He smiled as he studied the photograph.
“You were saying?” I prompted him. I could have sworn that he saw something that caught his interest.
“The angle, the tones have been captured in spite of the nature of the photograph,” he explained.
I was most curious. “Such as?”
“It was obviously taken straight on the subject, rather than at a downward angle that would have created shadows even with a flash lamp.
“The person taking the photograph would either have to lower the camera and hold it— quite an accomplishment given the weight of a glass plate camera —or to have taken the time to shorten the frame it sits on.
“She’s actually quite lovely— the subject,” he continued. “Almost as if she was posing.”
That was an unsettling observation, since it was obvious the sort of photograph it was.
“Someone you know, perhaps?” he then asked.
“A client.”
“Ah, yes, an unexpected death perhaps? A last photograph for the family. And you have been asked to inquire about the circumstances. Nasty business, murder.”
That was straight to the point.
“You’ve taken photographs of victims in the past,” I commented, while Brodie continued to sit behind the desk with that quiet demeanor that I knew quite well was anything but quiet, his thoughts churning.
“Three of the victims of the Whitechapel murders.”
“Hmmm, yes. An opportunity presented itself. As I said, nasty business, murder. But the subjects were most intriguing.” He smiled again, that gaze watching me.
“And it appears the police are no closer to finding the one responsible now as they were then.”
Did I detect a hint of amusement at that comment? A glance over at Brodie revealed no reaction whatsoever to that.
I thought of something my sister had once said as we toured the Louvre in Paris several years earlier.
“I’ve been told that a photographer’s work is often recognizable, much like an artist’s paintings, very much like a signature,” I added. “Do you recognize who might have taken that photograph?”
That smile again. “You are an inquisitive creature, Miss Forsythe. Just so, most of those of my profession have a certain style to their work.”
“And yourself, as well,” I presumed.
He stood quite suddenly, reached across the desk and snubbed out what was left of his cigarette in the ashtray.
