In the past I might have objected to that. However, there were things I needed to do as well. And by each going about our way we might accomplish a great deal more efficiently in the interest of solving the two murders.
“I’ll return to the office,” I replied. “Not that I’m hesitant about ‘those sorts of places,’” I added to make a point. “I need to add the information to the chalkboard, and there is someone I would like to question as well.”
I thought of Davey Morris, the street photographer Lucy Penworth had mentioned. He might be able to provide some information about those photographs that could be helpful.
“And then I do need to see how Lily is doing at Sussex Square.”
Brodie smiled. “Knowin’ the girl, I would be willing to wager that she has the situation well in hand,” he replied.
That was what I was concerned about, two equally strong-willed people— my aunt and a young girl from the street with a penchant for chain mail armor and swords.
“A bit like yerself?” he suggested.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied.
There were no new messages upon my return to the office on the Strand, nor had there been any telephone calls according to Mr. Cavendish who seemed to have excellent hearing.
I had stopped and purchased luncheon at the Public House, then shared my meal with both the hound and Mr. Cavendish. I then set about adding the latest notes to the chalkboard from our visit to Great Scotland Yard.
When I had entered the last of the new information, I stood back and inspected the board and the bits and pieces of information I’d written there. It was like an enormous puzzle where the pieces were scattered about and made no sense.
Odd as he was, the information Jefferson Talbot had provided was useful in helping me to understand how the two photographs of Amelia Mainwaring and Catherine Thorpe might have been taken— a long and laborious process with a glass plate camera.
I had seen them before, monstrous in size, and couldn’t imagine how one might have been used to make those photographs. That took me back to the notion of a box camera, or at least one that was more easily moved about. There was something we were missing.
Mr. Cavendish signaled for a cab as I returned to the street after tucking those two photographs into my bag. A driver promptly arrived, and I gave him the location of Piccadilly Circus that Lucy had mentioned.
We arrived at the Circus in good time as the late afternoon traffic congestion had not yet set in. I stepped down from the cab and paid the driver.
I was quite familiar with the Circus that wasn’t a circus in the usual sense but a central London thoroughfare in Westminster, that connected Piccadilly leading from the Haymarket and Regent Street, west to Hyde Park that was now sadly part of our investigation.
I had become quite familiar with the “Circus,” as it was referred to by longtime London residents during the inquiry case involving my sister. According to city officials there were plans in the making for a tube rail station underground that would supposedly alleviate surface street congestion. The wonders of the modern world.
It also linked the theater district with overhead signage announcing the latest plays at the Empire and Drury Lane featuring my friend, actress Theodora Templeton, and musicals in the British Music Hall.
At the center of the junction of busy streets is a square encircled by street lamps at night. By day the Circus was filled with placards and street signs with a variety of advertising, industrious hawkers, and both aspiring and amateur photographers who set up kiosks eager to take the photographs of those on the street.
And it was here that an ambitious young photographer on the street might be able to take the photograph of some man or woman that would launch his career past selling stereopticon prints for a few pence each.
I eventually found Davey Morris with his camera in the process of taking a photograph of two women who were taking advantage of the break in the weather. One was holding a small dog that was in the process of nipping at her as Davey patiently waited to take the photograph.
He also had a wheeled cart that displayed photographs he had apparently taken previously of street performers, including a mime. There were also photographs that he’d been able to take of actors from the local theaters out and about that included my friend, Templeton.
Not a classic beauty in the sense of some of the other actresses, she had a magnetic personality, as described in the theater section of the newspapers. An intoxicating sensuality even when in a death scene, that drew the attention and adoration of her fans.
Most particularly the men, except perhaps for Mr. Munro, my aunt’s manager of her estates, who assisted in our inquiries from time to time and had just returned from Scotland in our previous inquiry.
The fact that they were lovers was one of those well-kept secrets that everyone knew. For herself, Templeton was completely besotted with him. As for Munro? Not quite.
In true Scot’s character that I was quite familiar with, it was impossible to know precisely what Munro’s depth of feeling might be other than his frequent declarations regardingthat damned woman who speaks to ghosts!
Of course there was the mural Brodie and I had discovered at Templeton’s country home— most revealing, and the first time I had ever known Brodie to be completely speechless. Even myself, quite accustomed to Templeton’s eccentricities and affairs— or I should say rumored affairs —had been taken aback. However, I had to admit that the mural was quite an impressive piece of artwork.
“That will be a shilling,” Davey told the two women. “And yer photographs will be ready tomorrow, here. Or I can drop off to a delivery service for an additional four pence.”
One of the young ladies handed him the coin for the photograph then wrote down her address for the delivery. As they concluded the transaction Davey tipped his hat, then turned to me.
“Good day, miss,” he greeted me. “A photograph for yer young man, or husband perhaps?”
