I turned as the curator, Mr. Whitby according to his name tag, smiled at me, his audience having moved on to another part of the museum.
“The photographer has captured just the right expression and tone,” he said.
I agreed. It was obvious that it was late of the afternoon in the photograph, the light slanting across her features and that sweet sad smile.
The curator was average height, dark hair that had gone to gray at the temples and his side-whiskers, and a studious, intelligent gaze in his hazel eyes.
“You seem to know a great deal about techniques of photography,” I complimented him. He actually blushed.
“I’m a bit of an enthusiast myself.” He leaned in close as if sharing a secret. “After seeing some of these pieces and speaking with the photographers, I invested in a camera. Not one of the box cameras, but a glass plate one with three lenses. When I’m not here, I’m out and about taking photographs.
“My next step is to set up my own dark room in the extra bedroom of my mother’s house.” He looked past me to the little girl.
“This is a favorite of mine. Posed portraits or the landscape photos are quite nice and all that. However, one such as this evokes so much emotion. It is quite honest, don’t you think? A moment captured for all to see and share.”
I had never thought of paintings or photographs in that way, but thinking of the photographs in my bag I understood his meaning. It was something my sister once said about capturing a moment on canvas.
Of course, she was speaking of Old Lodge, our aunt’s home in the Highlands, a rustic stone and timber lodging with that ancient tower that was supposedly a watchtower for raiders intent on thieving cattle or sheep a couple of centuries past. My sister thought it quite picturesque and romantic with all the legends attached.
I had reminded her that according to local history some of those legends were quite bloody. She had not appreciated my input and declared me to be an artistic novice.
We did have much different interests. While she was dabbling away with her canvas and paints, I was off exploring the surrounding forest. Possibly early training for my sleuthing about. Diverse in the least.
“The photographer’s work is easily recognizable, as you can see in this other photo as well. I always thought that was nonsense until a friend pointed out that she would know my photographs anywhere for a distinctive approach that I seem to have developed.
“You can see it here as well with the photograph of women gathered outside vendors’ stalls. The photographer seems to have a talent for catching just the moment when one of the women looked up and he took the shot.”
I did see what he was talking about. Photographers as artists, indeed. Were we dealing with someone who considered himself an artist?
“Then it could be possible to determine who the photographer might have been from a photograph?” I suggested.
“Perhaps. Each has their own style.”
I pulled the second photograph of Amelia Mainwaring from my bag, the one taken of her on the park bench at Hyde Park.
“What can you tell me about this photograph?”
Mr. Whitby studied the photograph. “Minimal light, the subject thoughtful, caught at just the right moment…”
Thoughtful was not a word I would have used to describe the photograph of Amelia Mainwaring— unless she was contemplating her own demise.
“Oh, my…” Mr. Whitby exclaimed.
Precisely. But what did that tell him about the person who had taken the photograph?
“Do you recognize who might have taken this photograph?” I asked.
I had a name, or rather a possible name. But it made no sense.
Paul Laughton— the photographer who had been at my aunt’s All Hallows party?
“It does look familiar…” he replied. “I’ve seen something very like this— the angle of the subject… It could be, Paul Laughton, although he’s not known for this sort of photograph.”
Admittedly, Mr. Whitby at the British Museum wasn’t certain.
There were similarities, but there were also differences and with the absence of appropriate lighting...?
If indeed, Paul Laughton had taken those photographs, what was the motive?
