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arranged her skirts so that only the tiny, pointed toes of the more dainty
pair peeked out from beneath the hem of the lady's gown. It saved a great deal
of retouching.
On a nearby table lay two framed photographs. The glass had been shattered in
each frame. Curious, she went closer to get a better look.
A single glance underlined the depths of Burton's animosity toward her.
The photographs showed scenes of the Thames. She recognized both. Burton had
entered them in one of Farley's exhibitions. Her own Views of the River at
Dawn had taken the first-place honors in that show. Burton had been furious
when he left the hall that night. She could well imagine him returning to his
gallery, his losing photographs under his arm. Very likely he had stormed in
here and slammed the pictures onto the workbench with such force that the
glass had shattered. He had never bothered to clean up the broken shards.
Perhaps he had taken some perverse pleasure in looking at them every day,
reminding himself just how much he hated a certain Mrs. Jones.
She turned away from the disquieting scene on the workbench. The toe of her
shoe caught on an object that lay on the floor. A length of iron clattered on
the wooden boards at her feet. The sound was unnaturally loud in the even more
unnatural silence.
She froze, her heart pounding. Calm yourself, she thought. There is no way
anyone outside this gallery could have heard that small noise.
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After a few seconds, her pulse slowed. She glanced down and saw a long iron
head clamp and stand. In the days of daguerreotypes and tintypes such devices
had been widely used to secure the sitter so that he or she would not move
while the picture was taken. The advent of newer, faster film mediums and
improved cameras had rendered the clamps unnecessary from a technical point of
view but many photographers still relied on them to keep a sitter perfectly
still. It was always a great temptation to employ a head clamp when one was
faced with taking the portrait of a restless little boy.
She crossed the room and opened a door. The reek of strong chemicals that had
been stored too long
in a badly ventilated space nearly knocked her over.
Trust Burton to ignore all of the sound advice in the photographic journals
regarding the safe storage of his darkroom chemicals, she thought. No wonder
he'd had that perpetual cough. He had probably locked himself in here for
hours at a time, breathing the concentrated fumes in a small, confined space
that had no provision for a healthy circulation of fresh air. She sighed. It
was a common problem in a profession replete with hazards.
She held the door wide for a moment, letting the worst of the fumes dissipate,
and then moved into the darkroom. The dim light angled into the small space,
revealing the fixing tray and the bottles of chemicals.
Burton's equipment was shiny and quite new-looking, she noticed, and of the
very best quality. Several
of the bottles on the shelf were still unsealed.
The room was so dark that she almost failed to notice the wooden chest stored
under the workbench. Crouching down, she opened it. Inside were several dry
plate negatives.
She needed to examine only one to realize what she had found.
She never heard the telltale footfalls behind her. By the time a powerful male
hand closed over her mouth, it was tar too late to scream.
As she was hauled to her feet, she grabbed the only potential weapon that was
available, a set of tongs used to remove prints from the chemical baths.
20
"Do not," Gabriel said into her ear, "make any loud noises." She went limp
with relief, nodded frantically and released her grip on the tongs.
He took his hand off her mouth and spun her around. In the shadows of the
darkroom he looked very large and very annoyed.
"What the devil do you think you're doing here?" he asked in a voice that was
much too soft. "I thought you were spending the day at the gallery."
She collected herself with an effort. "I should be the one asking you that
question. I seem to recall that you were going to interview an elderly member
of the Arcane Society this morning."
"I have already spoken with Montrose. I was on my way back to Suttcn Lane when
I decided to stop by this address instead."
"What did you expect to discover here?" she asked warily.
"I was curious to learn more about Burton."
"For heaven's sake, why? Surely his death is not connected to the missing
formula."
Gabriel said nothing.
Something fluttered wildly in her stomach. "Is it?"
"The answer to that is perhaps not," he allowed.
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