I had another thought, someone else I wanted to see, someone who had shown a definite response to the photographs. But what did that response mean?
Thirteen
Jefferson Talbot’sstudio was in Stepney, one of the boroughs in the East End, an area of markets with a few scattered shops and an immigrant population that that included Spitalfields near Whitechapel where the murder of five women had taken place.
I found a driver and gave him the location.
“Stepney, miss?” he repeated, perhaps thinking he hadn’t heard correctly. “Are ye sure of the address?”
I heard the unspoken in his voice, that it was not the sort of place someone who had just left the museum might request to be taken. I understood his hesitance, and I could almost hear Brodie’s objections.
However as it was still very near the middle of the day, I was fairly certain that Brodie wouldn’t yet have returned from his own inquiries, and it was important to the case.
“Quite sure,” I replied.
Stepney was part of the Tower Hamlets, with the river in the near distance that included the London and West India docks. It included a varied immigrant population from across Europe and the Far East as the city of London had continued to grow to the east.
My driver turned from Mile End Road onto Stepney Green that lined the marketplace with row upon row of outdoor vendors. They sold everything from food to clothing, to chickens and pigs with the gothic tower of St. Dunstan’s Church in the distance. There was also a brewery, with loading docks for wagons.
The marketplace bordered adjacent streets of brick row houses with second floor casements. The windows looked to be a couple hundred years old. According to the information I had, Jefferson Talbot’s studio was located on the ground floor of one of those houses.
My driver stopped to inquire as to the location from a man who carried a round tin container and appeared to have just left work. He spoke only broken English and my Italian, learned while asking directions when on my travels, was hardly better, however he was familiar with the photographer’s studio.
Between the two of us, he provided directions— always something to be cautious about in an unfamiliar place. However, he seemed most gracious as well as I could make out.
My driver followed his directions down the next street, then stopped before a row house at Number 24 at Stepney High Street. A sign in the window on the ground floor of Number 24 that faced the street, announced that we had found the studio of Jefferson Talbot.
In contrast to the other parts of Stepney we passed near the marketplace, the houses on the High Street were well kept. The front steps were clean of any debris as well as the street in what was obviously a working-class area.
“Do you want me to wait, miss?” my driver asked as I stepped down.
I nodded. If Jefferson Talbot was in, it shouldn’t take long for the questions I had.
He nodded and secured the lines of the rig.
There was a second sign at the door—Customers please enter.Deliveries to be made at the back.
The door was not locked, and a bell overheard announced my arrival as I stepped into Talbot’s studio.
I had been in a photographer’s studio before that included a tent on the beach at Brighton with my sister. Most studios were quite formal, much like a formal parlor where the photographer met with those there for his services.
There were also those who preferred to meet with the photographer in their home, most particularly during a social event such as a wedding or other celebration, or in the event of a death.
Talbot’s studio contained a sitting area with photographs of various sizes and subjects on the wall, apparently his own private gallery.
The subjects were varied and fascinating I thought as I waited for Talbot to appear. The photographs were of common street scenes of some of the poorer parts of London in juxtaposition to photographs of Kensington, St. James Street, and Hyde Park.
There were also photographs of people on the street caught in some unsuspecting moment— a gentleman in top hat and tails at the Exchange, sellers at Covent Garden, women selling a different sort of accommodation on a street corner, and then there were other stark images.
There was a train wreck in another part of London, rail cars scattered like a child’s toys with victims on the platform. There was another of a victim lying in the street outside a tavern in what appeared to be a pool of blood. And then there were those startling photographs of three of the Whitechapel victims that had appeared in the crime pages of the dailies.
“Forgive me, I was in my dark room,” Talbot said as he finally appeared and removed a long apron much the same as I had seen Mr. Brimley wear when he was mixing chemicals and powders in his shop.
“Miss Forsythe…” he then greeted me with surprise and something else? “It is a pleasure to see you again. What brings you to my studio? A photograph perhaps? Or murder?”
That was putting it quite bluntly, and then the faint smile that reminded me of my first impression of him when he had met with us at the office on the Strand. It did seem as if there was a great deal going on behind those gaunt features and pale eyes. Secrets? Or playing at some game, perhaps?
I wasn’t here to play games, but I was curious if there were secrets. Most particularly about the photographs in my bag.
