Brodie and I stood as well. It seemed quite obvious that our meeting was at an end.
Talbot placed the ivory holder in the pocket of his coat, then turned to me and seized my hand. He bent low over it and brushed a kiss across the back of my fingers.
“Most… enlightening, Miss Forsythe. You must come to my studio and allow me to take your portrait, to remember you by.”
I wasn’t at all certain that was how I wanted to be remembered, if at all; propped up in a stand like an umbrella, or sitting quite stiff as rigor mortis set in. I did wonder how they laid out a body for burial that was quite stiff in that position. Another point in favor of my choice for a Viking send off.
He bid us both good day then, and left through the rain that had set in. I couldn’t prevent the impression, dressed as he was in most unusual attire for day wear. The formal evening attire with tails reminded me of an undertaker or the characters in Gothic novels that had become quite popular recently.
I looked over at Brodie after Talbot had departed. His experience, on the street with past cases and with the MP, had made him an excellent judge of character.
He often observed details that others missed. And while I had also become a student of human nature on my travels, my abilities were nowhere near his.
“What do you think of Mr. Talbot?” I asked.
“The man seems quite taken with ye.”
A bit of Scottish humor there by the expression on his face. I ignored that as I went to the water closet to wash my hands.
“The man is quite… different,” Brodie commented after I returned.
Different— now there was a word. I might have used a different one to describe Talbot.
“Do you believe he could have been the photographer who took the photos of Amelia Mainwaring and Catherine Thorpe?” I asked.
“He did seem to have a great deal of knowledge how the photographs might have been taken.”
“And what would be the motive?” Brodie asked.
He did have a habit of pointing out a very critical point in the matter.
“Perhaps some sort of animosity toward those of the upper classes?” I suggested.
“He does consider himself to be an artist, one who has been forced to take crime photos,” I added. “Something that he perhaps considers beneath him. Much like the speculation about the Whitechapel murderer— that the man who has killed those women has a resentment of women of the lower class.”
I came away from the chalkboard where I had made notes from our conversation with Jefferson Talbot.
“I suppose there is always the possibility that he is quite insane.” And not someone I would want to meet on a dark and stormy night.
I had visions again of scenes from one of those gothic novels about vampires and creatures of the night lurking about.
That described Jefferson Talbot quite perfectly, someone who appeared to prefer to go out at night and with a penchant for photographing dead bodies...
Nine
The bell rangat the landing, followed by the appearance of Mr. Dooley of the Metropolitan Police.
He was in full uniform and doffed his hat in greeting as he saw me. As opposed to when he worked privately for Brodie, he looked quite official all polished and buttoned up in his uniform.
“Mornin’, miss. Mister Brodie. In answer to yer request the chief inspector said as how the records are available in the police docket file at Whitehall Station.”
He stretched the collar of his uniform as if uncomfortable.
“I’m to escort ye there and oversee any request ye might have.” There was a look that passed between the two men.
The fact that we were to be given access was obviously at Sir Avery Stanton’s orders in spite of Abberline’s previous obstruction in our inquiry cases.
“Any difficulty with Abberline?” Brodie asked.
