Let the Dead Keep Their Secrets

by Rosemary Simpson

  “By the time I arrived, most of the company had been dismissed. They were leaving the building as I got out of the hansom cab, so I found out what had happened before I went inside. It was all any of them wanted to talk about.”

  “Go on.”

  “A sandbag fell out of the flies while most of the company were standing on the stage during a rehearsal break. It landed on one of the cover singers and crushed her. I was taking photographs of the body and the area around it when your dead woman walked out of the wings and told Detective Phelan she’d come up from her dressing room to say good-bye. The victim was a friend of hers who saw the sandbag falling and pushed this Miss Buchanan out of the way. She couldn’t save herself, there wasn’t enough time.” Riis took another scrap of paper from one of his jacket pockets. “Lucinda Pallazzo. The back of her skull was split open. I took close-up shots of the damage.”

  “Was Miss Buchanan hurt?”

  “Not as far as I know. She got some bruises from being shoved onto the floor, and she apparently managed to push the sandbag aside. But it was too late. One of the company said she sat holding her friend’s bloody body until someone forced her to go back to her dressing room.”

  “Where is she now?” Prudence asked.

  “That’s all I know. The medical examiner came while I was finishing up, and I was sent on my way. Detective Phelan wants prints as soon as I can process them. I’ve got to get back to my darkroom.”

  Geoffrey Hunter took a roll of cash out of his desk drawer. “One complete set,” he said, counting out bills until Riis signaled that was enough.

  “Send somebody to pick them up in a couple of hours.”

  “Josiah?” Geoffrey asked. “Mr. Riis’s office is across from police headquarters on Mulberry Street.”

  “Detective Phelan knows me by sight,” the secretary replied. “I’ll get word to Danny Dennis. He can send one of the other hansom cab drivers after them. That way there won’t be anything to connect us to Mr. Riis.” It probably wasn’t a crime to buy a set of police photographs, but Chief of Detectives Byrnes had a fierce temper when information leaked to the press or anyone else.

  “Now I think you’d better explain how a dead woman can come back to life,” Riis said.

  “The mother with the painted eyes was Claire Buchanan’s twin sister,” Prudence said. “She told us that even their parents couldn’t always tell them apart.”

  “I’ve heard of twins like that.” Riis took his watch from his vest pocket, looked at it, and shook his head. “I’m already late. A few more minutes won’t make any difference.”

  “Miss Buchanan is a client.”

  “I guessed that.”

  “I want to put you on retainer, Mr. Riis.” Geoffrey laid out more bills on his desk. “If you accept, you’ll be bound by the same code of confidentiality we are.”

  Riis didn’t hesitate. He needed every extra dollar he could earn to buy the supplies that would allow him to continue photographing the city’s tenement dwellers, and Geoffrey Hunter’s cash wages were generous. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, reaching across the desk to seal it with a handshake.

  “Good.”

  “Mr. Riis, how many crime scenes have you photographed for the police?” Prudence asked.

  “More than I can count or remember,” he answered.

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  “I don’t understand.” He wasn’t sure what she was getting at, and it was more than a little disconcerting to be interrogated by a woman. Detecting was a man’s job.

  “What I mean is that you’ve been to so many crime scenes that by now you have to have developed a feel for them. You’d know right away, as soon as you set up your camera, whether what happened was a deliberate killing or an accident.”

  “I photographed the end of the line that tied the sandbag to one of the steel pipe battens. Detective Phelan thought it looked like part of it had been cut or maybe a splice had come apart.”

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “My flash makes it hard to hear sometimes, so I couldn’t swear to the exact words, but it was something like that. And Phelan had me take several shots of the end of the rope. So he’s looking for something.”

  “What else, Mr. Riis? Anything that struck you as odd?”

  “With all the dozens of cast members on that stage, why did the sandbag nearly fall on the only one among them who’s had a reason to hire investigative detectives?”

  “That’s not something you knew until a few minutes ago.”

  “No, it’s not, Miss MacKenzie, but you asked me if I thought anything was odd.”

  “I meant while you were there. Before Miss Buchanan appeared and broke your concentration.”

  “Scared me out of a year’s growth, you mean. No, I know what you’re asking. Let me think for a moment.” Riis closed his eyes, lowered his head, and danced a forefinger back and forth across his mustache. He was conjuring up the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House, his photographer’s visual memory nearly as accurate as his camera.

  “Miss Buchanan looked frightened,” he said. “Saddened and shocked by what had happened, but also very frightened. If her friend had not pushed her out of the way, she would have been the one lying broken and dead in a pool of blood on the stage. I saw apprehension, sorrow, even anger on other faces, but not the kind of bone-deep terror emanating from Miss Buchanan.”

  “Do you think anyone else would describe her as being afraid?”

  “Probably not. The body held everyone’s attention, and Miss Buchanan was only onstage for a minute or two. I saw her touch her fingertips to her lips and then to Miss Pallazzo’s forehead. She whispered something, but I couldn’t hear what it was. Then she went back down to her dressing room again. That’s when the medical examiner arrived, and Detective Phelan asked if I’d gotten all the angles. When I said I had, he told me to get him the prints as soon as I could. I left.”

  “Frightened. Are you sure that’s how you’d describe Miss Buchanan?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Panicked maybe. The way people get when they’re afraid of something, but they don’t know what to do to protect themselves.”

  “Claire Buchanan hired us because she believes her sister and her child were murdered.” Geoffrey paused. “Her sister’s name was Catherine, the baby was Ingrid.”

  “The dead mother in the cabinet photograph. The one with the painted eyes.”

  “Now you’re telling us that our client was inches away from what would have seemed her own accidental death. We don’t trust coincidences.”

  Riis nodded his head and looked at his watch again. “If you can get me the negative to that cabinet photograph, we might be able to tell why the whites of the eyes were painted over.”

  “There’s no other way?” Prudence asked.

  “I know people think photographers are magicians, but we’re not. We’re faithful recorders of reality, nothing more. I can’t undo retouching that’s been made on the print itself without damaging it. It’s just not possible if the ink has penetrated the fibers of the paper. But I’m reasonably sure this print was pulled from a retouched glass plate negative, and I think I know how it was done.” Riis gulped down the dregs of his coffee and got to his feet. “Just get me that negative,” he repeated.

  * * *

  “What he really meant was steal the negative,” Prudence said. “I don’t suppose there’s any other way to get it.”

  “Let’s think this through. We don’t want Bartholomew Monroe to realize that someone is interested in the photographs he took of Catherine Sorensen.”

  “And then retouched.”

  “Exactly. If he’s hiding something, he’ll destroy the glass plate negatives.”

  “Maybe he’s already gotten rid of them.”

  “I don’t think so,” Geoffrey said. “Photographers keep the originals of every image that passes through their cameras. Riis told me he spends hours in his darkroom printing and
reprinting from the same negative until he gets the balance of light and dark just right. He says that’s where the artistry comes in. I’d venture to guess that Monroe has hundreds of negatives in his files. He can’t bear to part with any of them, just in case he wants to pull a print.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask to go through all of the negatives of my dear cousin Catherine so that I can decide which photographs I want printed in addition to the one I already have,” Prudence decided. “Surely, that’s not an unusual request. I can’t imagine a postmortem photographer not acceding to a grieving relative’s wishes.”

  “We don’t want to do anything that will warn Monroe.”

  “I’ll wait until he’s left his studio on an assignment. He must have a clerk to see to the gallery, someone to do the mundane chores of keeping up with files and orders and payments.”

  “I don’t think you should go alone,” Geoffrey said.

  “For what I have in mind, Josiah would be the perfect companion.”

  * * *

  Danny Dennis parked his hansom cab on Broadway, a block south of Bartholomew Monroe’s studio. “It might be a long wait,” he said into the open hatch below him.

  “We’re prepared to remain here until he comes out,” Josiah replied. This wasn’t the first time Miss Prudence had asked for his help on a case. Mr. Hunter had had a few words with him, too, though they were less about the investigation than about keeping the distaff side of the team safe. Miss Prudence would be furious if she knew.

  Danny Dennis listened through the hatch as Miss MacKenzie and her secretary rehearsed what they would say and do once they were in the studio. He thought the plan ought to work. He’d keep an eye out for trouble from across the street, but he’d seen the duo in action before; he had no doubt they were more than a match for the photographer’s clerk they intended to intimidate.

  “Here he comes.”

  A smart brougham pulled up in front of the studio, its driver jumping down to help a young man in a dark apron carry boxes of photographic equipment from the studio and load them onto the rear luggage rack. Bartholomew Monroe and a woman dressed in black secondary mourning appeared in the doorway.

  “Do you know how long they’ll be gone?” Dennis asked.

  “There’s no way to tell,” Prudence answered. “When I called to make an appointment, I was told the photographer wouldn’t be available this morning, but I got no other information. If he knew in advance that he would be taking postmortem photographs, then the deceased must have passed away sometime yesterday afternoon or evening. But I have no idea how long the process takes.”

  “Families schedule time in advance, Miss Prudence,” Josiah said, “as soon as the doctor tells them death is imminent. If you want the very best photographer, you have to put him on notice, so to speak. Everything has to happen very quickly once that last breath is taken.”

  “Wait until Monroe’s carriage is well out of sight,” Danny Dennis warned. He jumped down from his driver’s perch to pick up and pretend to inspect one of Mr. Washington’s enormous hooves. “I can still see it, but it looks as though he’s about to turn off Broadway.” He gave the ugly white horse an affectionate stroke on his bony withers. “I think it’s safe now.”

  “Wish us luck, Mr. Dennis,” Prudence said, lowering a mourning veil over her face. “Ready, Josiah?”

  “‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred!’ ” Josiah quoted.

  “There are only two of you.” Danny Dennis was nothing if not pragmatic.

  “Lord Tennyson preferred large numbers. They make for a more stirring image.”

  “You’d better hurry. Miss MacKenzie is halfway across the street already.” Danny watched the little man scurry after the late judge’s daughter and wondered what that famed jurist would make of his only child’s unladylike occupation and odd companion.

  He put a feedbag on Mr. Washington and settled down to wait.

  CHAPTER 7

  The gallery was empty.

  “I told you no one in society leaves home before noon,” Prudence said. The success of her plan depended on Monroe’s absence from the premises and a dearth of casual visitors to the gallery’s exhibits.

  “You were right, as usual, miss.” Josiah shifted the heavy leather satchel from his left hand to his right. Jacob Riis had brought four exposed glass plates to the office, explaining that every photographer had plates that failed to capture or hold a negative image. To conceal their theft, Prudence had to find a way to substitute the blank plates for the ones she would be taking.

  “I can understand now why Claire changed her mind about coming into the gallery,” Prudence said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of photographs hung from floor to ceiling of the gallery walls. They ranged in size from cabinet pictures no larger than the palm of the hand to photographs blown up to the dimensions of a landscape painting. Men, women, and children with only one thing in common: All had been captured shortly after death in black and white or tones of sepia. Here and there a touch of pastel color enhanced cheekbones or heightened the impact of a bank of flowers, but the overwhelming effect was of a host of shadows, lifeless eyes staring out of an army of solemn faces.

  “I’d rather not be photographed after I’m dead,” Josiah declared. He didn’t like the idea of anything being done to him over which he would have no control. “Someone’s coming. Are you ready, miss?” He glanced anxiously at his employer, uncertain how much she could see behind the heavy veiling hiding her features.

  “Not to worry, Josiah,” she murmured. “If everything goes according to plan, we’ll be out of here long before Monroe gets back.”

  The young man hurrying across the gallery in their direction was the same one who had helped load Bartholomew Monroe’s photographic equipment into the brougham. He wore black half sleeves to protect his shirt cuffs, a shade over his eyes, and a dark blue canvas apron that covered his clothing from neck to knees.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he apologized. “We’re a bit short staffed at the moment.” Suddenly aware that he should not be wearing his eyeshade and stained apron in the gallery, he hastily removed them. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “My niece’s cousin passed,” Josiah said. He did a near-perfect imitation of the late Senator Roscoe Conkling addressing an uncooperative witness. “They were very close as children, almost like sisters.”

  “My condolences, madam. Sir.”

  Prudence bowed her head under the weight of her sorrow.

  The quality wasn’t usually out and about this early in the day, but there was no doubt in the gallery assistant’s mind that the lady in mourning and the gentleman who accompanied her were members of society. Only the gentry used that condescending tone of voice to address their inferiors.

  Josiah held out the cabinet photograph of Catherine Sorensen and her child. “We require additional copies to be made.”

  “That shouldn’t present a problem.” The young man examined the photograph. “Each of our clients is identified by a number, you see, to protect the privacy of the family. Here it is. All I have to do is match the number to our records and you may order as many copies as you wish.”

  “My niece would also like to see any other negatives you might have.”

  “Other negatives?”

  “We were not able to attend the funeral, but we understand that this cabinet photo was chosen by our late relative’s husband and was the only one made available to mourners. We’ve been informed by a reliable source that there are always other negatives from which to choose. We would like to see those additional negatives.”

  “Mr. Monroe is not available this morning.”

  “We are not asking for Mr. Monroe’s time. I’m sure his services are in great demand.”

  “They are.”

  “But you are his assistant?”

  “Assistant and apprentice. He’s teaching me the business of photography. I already do most
of the developing and printing.” He gestured at the heavy canvas apron spotted with chemical spills, which he had draped awkwardly over one arm. “Samuel Payne, at your service, sir.”

  “And you hope to have a studio of your own someday, Mr. Payne?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I see no difficulty at all. Since Mr. Monroe is not here, it is within the scope of your duties to assist us with our request. So. You will bring out the negatives of my niece’s cousin and we will decide which of them we want printed.”

  “I’m not sure I have the authority to do that. Perhaps if you came back this afternoon or tomorrow, when Mr. Monroe is here.”

  “That will not be possible,” Prudence said, forcing suppressed sobs into her voice. She leaned toward the assistant, the picture of helpless femininity.

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “You can. If you will.” Josiah slipped a packet of folded bills from a vest pocket. The bribe was delivered and accepted so quickly, it might not have happened at all.

  “If you will seat yourself at that table, miss, I’ll find the negatives for you.”

  Prudence settled herself into the chair Josiah held, quickly draping a fold of her full black skirt over the leather satchel he set beside her.

  The box Samuel Payne brought out from the file room contained a dozen glass plates. “What you’ll see is the reverse of what appears in the print,” he explained, lifting the lid as he placed the heavy box in front of Prudence. “Light is dark, and dark is light.”

  He waited for a moment, but the lady seemed to want privacy. She gestured him away, and then the gentleman, who had already paid him so generously, beckoned from across the gallery. Checking over his shoulder to be sure he was no longer needed, Samuel threaded his way through the display boards to Josiah’s side. His client was standing in front of a greatly enlarged photograph of an elderly man holding two small dogs in his lap. All three of them were heavily furred and dead.

  Prudence took the glass negatives out of their box, one at a time. She had to work quickly, but accurately. The first negative she looked at was taken too far away from the bodies to be useful. Claire lay in her coffin with her infant, Ingrid, cradled in her arm. Eyes closed, they slept forever. The second negative was the one from which the cabinet photograph had been printed. Prudence slipped the glass plate into the leather satchel, eased an exposed blank plate into the file box.