by Amanda Quick
“I don’t see any camera.”
“Photographers don’t always walk around with a camera in hand.”
“That is true enough. I have discovered that sometimes they walk around with cameras disguised as hats.” Gabriel eyed Brown Coat’s low-crowned head gear. He reached up and removed it. There was no camera inside.
“Now, see here,” Brown Coat squawked. “You can’t just—”
A figure moved at the entrance to the walk.
Gabriel and Brown Coat both turned their heads. Gabriel felt a rush of annoyance at the interruption. Brown Coat looked pathetically hopeful of rescue.
“Mr. Jones?” Venetia walked briskly forward. The skirts of her black gown were hooked up so they would not sweep the paving stones. “What on earth is going on here? Mrs. Trench said that you had some business to see to but I had a strong suspicion that you were up to something secretive.”
“You know me so well, my sweet.”
Somewhat belatedly she noticed the gun. “Mr. Jones.” Gabriel sighed. “You really are going to have to start calling me by my given name one of these days, my sweet.” He nodded at Brown Coat. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes, of course.” She inclined her head graciously. “Good day to you, Mr. Swinden.”
Swinden touched his hat nervously. “Mrs. Jones. You’re looking lovely, as always. You positively glow in black.”
“Thank you.” She turned to Gabriel, steely-eyed. “What is this about?”
“I was just asking Swinden the same question,” Gabriel said. “He followed Edward and me to the park, hung around while we did some kite flying and then he followed us home. I found myself somewhat curious.”
“It’s all a terrible misunderstanding, Mrs. Jones.” Swinden appealed to Venetia. “I happened to be in the vicinity, you see, getting a bit of fresh air, and Mr. Jones, here, evidently leaped to the conclusion that I was spying on him.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Swinden,” Venetia said, “but I find myself making the same assumption. You do not live in this part of town.”
Swinden cleared his throat. “Client in the neighborhood.”
“What address?” Gabriel asked.
Swinden’s face went blank. “Uh—”
“There is no client,” Gabriel said.
“Got lost trying to find the address,” Swinden muttered.
He appeared decidedly braver now. Venetia’s presence had given him confidence, Gabriel thought. Swinden was no doubt convinced that he was safe as long as she was around.
“In that case,” Gabriel said, taking his arm, “allow me to escort you back to a more familiar part of town. I know a shortcut. It takes one through a rather dangerous neighborhood and involves some rather remote alleys and a tour of the docks, but never fear, I have my gun.”
“No.” Swinden was horrified. “I’m not going anywhere alone with you. Don’t let him take me away, Mrs. Jones. I beg you.”
“Perhaps you should just answer his questions,” Venetia said gently. “If you do, I promise I will not let Mr. Jones hurt you.”
Gabriel raised his brows but refrained from comment.
Swinden seemed to collapse in on himself. “I just wanted to see if you had discovered the name of Burton’s new client. You cannot blame me.”
Anticipation flashed through Gabriel. “What client?”
Swinden heaved a resigned sigh. “Some time back Burton decided to expand his business. He never did have much luck with the art world or portraits, you know. But a fortnight or so back he started sporting a very nice detective camera. I asked him how he’d managed that feat. Said he’d got a very wealthy client who had hired him to follow someone around and take some pictures.”
“He told you about his new line of work?” Gabriel asked.
Swinden nodded. “Burton was quite proud of his new success. Bragged about it.”
“Were you a friend of his?”
Swinden was briefly baffled by that question.
“Burton didn’t have what you’d call friends,” he said judiciously. “But I reckon I was the next best thing as far as he was concerned. Known each other for as long as we’ve both been in the photography business. We were partners together back at the start. Made a fair living doing spirit photography for a time.”
“I understand that end of the business was once quite profitable,” Venetia said.
“It was, indeed.” Swinden turned wistful. “For a number of years it seemed that everyone wanted a picture of himself that showed a spirit hovering in the background. Burton and I were very good at our work, if I do say so. Never once got caught. Unfortunately there were too many inexperienced practitioners in the field of spirit photography. They were always getting themselves exposed as frauds. Gave the whole business a bad reputation and eventually the public lost faith.”
“I would be interested to know some of the techniques you used to produce spirit photographs,” Venetia said, turning conversational. “I have done some experimenting on my own and produced some interesting results but I have never been entirely satisfied.”
It dawned on Gabriel that this was sounding less like an interrogation and more like a pair of photographers exchanging observations about the profession. He gave Venetia a warning look. She did not appear to notice.
“There are a variety of ways to put a spirit into a picture,” Swinden said, metamorphosing into a Learned Expert. “The trick is to make certain that the client does not discover that the final result is an illusion, of course. Burton and I were good enough to impress even the most skeptical of psychical researchers. Had ’em lined up at the door some days.”
Gabriel slid one booted foot slightly forward, putting himself between Swinden and Venetia. Both jumped back a little as though surprised to find him still present.
“Now, see here,” Swinden muttered indignantly. “I was just answering the lady’s questions.”
“I prefer that you answer my questions instead,” Gabriel said.
Burton blinked several times and tried to press his back into the bricks. “Certainly, sir.”
“What broke up your partnership with Burton?” Gabriel asked.
“Money, naturally.” Swinden gave a sad little shake of his head. “Couldn’t agree on how to make it or spend it. Argued day and night. Worse than being married, it was. Then Burton developed a little gambling problem. That was the end, as far as I was concerned. I went my way and he went his.”
“But you kept in touch.”
“Like I said, we had been acquainted a long time.”
“Do you know the name of the person Burton was paid to follow?” Gabriel said.
“No,” Swinden said quickly. Too quickly. His eyes darted to Venetia and then slid away.
“The subject was Mrs. Jones, wasn’t it?” Gabriel asked.
Venetia stiffened. She rounded on Swinden.
“You knew that Mr. Burton was taking clandestine photographs of me?” she demanded.
Swinden started to look nervous again. “Burton dropped a few hints in that direction. Never came right out and said your name, you understand. But I took his meaning. I’m afraid the commission gave him a certain amount of satisfaction. I regret to say that he did not hold you in high esteem, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes,” Venetia said through her teeth. “I was aware of that.”
“Not your fault,” Swinden said hastily. “Burton was very contemptuous of the fair sex, in general. Developed a particular dislike of you after you appeared on the scene and took first prize in that exhibition that he had entered.”
Gabriel studied Swinden. “It did not occur to you to warn Mrs. Jones that Burton was following her around, taking pictures of her with his detective camera?”
“Didn’t want to get involved,” Swinden said. “None of my affair.”
“Did you know that in addition to taking pictures for this mysterious client, Burton took some for his own personal use?” Gabriel continued softly. “Pictures that he used to try to frighten
Mrs. Jones?”
“Uh, well, now that you mention it,” Swinden mumbled, “I believe Burton did tell me that the commission had given him an idea of how to put a bit of a scare into Mrs. Jones. Said he’d taken a couple of photographs involving a cemetery theme and retouched one in particular in a way that would rattle your nerves, Mrs. Jones. But I’m sure it was just a joke as far as he was concerned.”
Venetia narrowed her eyes. “Some joke.”
Swinden sighed. “Like I said, he was most annoyed with you, ma’am.”
Gabriel watched him for a moment. “Those two pictures had nothing to do with his work for the client?”
Swinden shook his head. “Don’t think so. I gathered it was a little something he was doing to amuse himself on the side while he was following the lady around.”
“Continue with your tale, Swinden,” Gabriel said.
“Not much more to tell.” Swinden scrunched up his face. “When I read about Burton’s death in the morning papers, I realized straightaway what had happened, of course. Knew he hadn’t taken his own life.”
Venetia frowned. “You believed that he had been murdered?”
“Perfectly understandable,” Swinden assured her.
Outraged comprehension lit Venetia’s face. “You think I killed Mr. Burton, don’t you?”
“No, no, Mrs. Jones, I swear—”
“For heaven’s sake, I did not murder the poor man,” she snapped.
“Of course not, Mrs. Jones,” Swinden said quickly. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of spreading that kind of gossip.”
“A wise decision,” Gabriel said. “That sort of gossip can get a man deposited into the river some dark night.”
Swinden jerked back in alarm. “I say, you’ve no call to threaten me.”
“Perhaps not, but I find it vastly entertaining,” Gabriel said. “As it happens, I’m inclined to believe you when you say that you don’t think that Mrs. Jones poisoned Burton, however.”
“Thank you, sir.” Swinden was clearly relieved.
“You think that I am the one who gave Burton the cyanide in the brandy,” Gabriel concluded softly.
Swinden reddened. “It was only the merest conjecture on my part, I assure you. Wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to anyone.”
Venetia’s lips parted in shock. “What on earth?” She glowered at Swinden. “I was the one Mr. Burton had followed around with his detective camera. Why would you think that Mr. Jones murdered him?”
“I can answer that for you, my sweet.” Gabriel did not take his eyes off Swinden. “It was hardly a secret that I had only just returned to London and the arms of my loving bride. Swinden, here, naturally supposed that, upon discovering me on your doorstep, you collapsed, distraught, and confided to me that a man named Burton was causing you a great deal of distress. I, of course, immediately set out to protect you and myself from potential scandal by getting rid of Burton at the earliest opportunity. That happened to be that very night of Farley’s exhibition.”
“As I said,” Swinden muttered, “it was just a theory.”
“You then concluded,” Gabriel continued, “that, after giving Burton a stiff dose of cyanide, I somehow discovered the name of Burton’s mysterious wealthy client.”
Swinden coughed slightly. “Perfectly reasonable thing to do.”
Venetia looked at him, baffled. “Why would Mr. Jones want the name of Mr. Burton’s anonymous client?”
“Because, having no way of knowing that it was the client who was the one who had hired Burton to follow you around, I would, of course, be quite eager to make contact with him and offer him your services in place of Burton’s,” Gabriel explained patiently. “You are, after all, in the photography business, my sweet. Why shouldn’t we take advantage of Burton’s sudden demise to sell your professional skills to his generous new client?”
“We?” Venetia repeated in an ominous tone.
Gabriel ignored that. He turned back to Swinden. “You decided that if you spied upon me for a while, sooner or later I would lead you to the unknown client. Once you knew his identity, you planned to go to him and let him know, for a small gratuity, that I had very likely murdered Burton and might prove quite dangerous if it got out that a certain person had hired Burton to take photographs of Mrs. Jones.”
“Why, that would be blackmail,” Venetia exclaimed.
Swinden cringed. “Mrs. Jones, I assure you, I never intended to blackmail anyone.”
“Bah, I do not believe that for one moment,” Venetia said. “Your plans to set yourself up in business as an extortionist aside, Mr. Swinden, how dare you assume that now that I have acquired a husband I am no longer capable of managing my own affairs?”
Swinden went from appearing nervous and alarmed to looking quite befuddled. “But Mr. Jones is back. Surely he will be keeping an eye on your business now.”
She took a step toward him, fitting her hands to her hips. “I am the proprietor of the Jones Gallery. I make all the decisions connected with it. I assure you that I do not rely upon Mr. Jones or any other man to get rid of obnoxious competitors.”
“No, no, of course not.” Swinden edged sideways along the wall, trying to put some distance between himself and Venetia.
“I did not kill Burton.” She gave him a charmingly menacing smile. “However, if at some point in the future it should become necessary to take such drastic action against a competitor, you must believe me when I tell you that I am fully prepared to handle matters myself. One does not require a husband for that sort of thing, sir.”
Swinden paled. “I do not see us as competitors, Mrs. Jones. Indeed, we move in entirely different circles in the photographic world.”
“Indeed we do, sir.” Venetia swept out her arm, aiming toward the street. “Go, immediately. I do not want to ever again see you anywhere in the vicinity of either myself or Mr. Jones.”
“Understood, madam. Understood.”
Swinden fled down the walk.
Venetia waited until he vanished around the corner of the building before turning back to confront Gabriel.
“What an absolutely infuriating little man,” she said.
He smiled. “You were very impressive, my sweet. Very impressive, indeed. I do not believe that you will have any more trouble from that quarter.”
“Tell me the truth, sir. Do you think that everyone in Society is currently under the impression that because I have accidentally acquired a husband I am no longer in charge of my own affairs? That I am no longer capable of making important decisions? That I now look to you for guidance in all things?”
“In a word, yes.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Gabriel put the gun back into the pocket of his overcoat. “I regret to say that, in the eyes of Society, you have been transformed from a dashing, mysterious widow into a dutiful, trusting wife who, quite naturally, looks to her husband for direction in all matters of a critical nature.”
She closed her eyes. “You cannot begin to imagine how maddening that is.” Her lashes lifted. “Mrs. Fleming was right. There is a great deal to be said for widowhood.”
“Do try to remember that I am a very modern-thinking sort of husband.”
“That is not amusing, Mr. Jones.”
“Neither is this latest development,” he said. He stopped smiling. “We now know for certain that Burton was not following you around for his own purposes, at least not entirely. Someone hired him to do so.”
“The thief who stole the formula?”
“I suspect that is the case.” He took her arm and started toward the street. “I would remind you that he is not merely a thief. He is also a murderer who has killed at least twice.”
26
WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE Venetia in her evening clothes, sir.” Edward could barely contain himself. “You will be amazed.”
Gabriel contemplated the boy in the dressing table mirror. Edward was fairly bursting with excitement. He and Amelia had been very secretive througho
ut dinner, exchanging furtive grins and once or twice erupting in giggles. Beatrice had attempted to quell them with a few admonishing looks but she had been largely unsuccessful.
Venetia had pretended to ignore the undercurrents at the table. She had excused herself to go upstairs to dress for the meeting with Harrow’s friend as soon as Mrs. Trench had removed the dessert course.
Edward and Amelia had gone into the parlor to play cards, leaving Beatrice alone with Gabriel in the dining room. Beatrice had crumpled her napkin and placed it on the table.
“Perhaps we should take a moment to discuss the rather unusual situation in which we find ourselves, Mr. Jones,” she said.
“You are naturally concerned about Venetia.” He folded his arms on the table. “Rest assured, I will see to it that she does not come to harm because of this affair of the formula.”
“It is not only the business of the missing formula that worries me, sir.”
“I sincerely regret that I have brought trouble to this household, Miss Sawyer.”
Beatrice frowned. “I am well aware that you are not the one who created this unfortunate situation. It was Venetia who chose to use the last name of Jones, after all.”
“She had no way of knowing the risks involved. I assure you that I am doing my best to repair matters.”
“And when you have finished repairing matters, Mr.Jones? What happens then?”
He rose and went down the long length of the table to pull out her chair. “I’m not sure I comprehend your question, madam.”
Beatrice got to her feet. “You seem to forget, sir, that in the eyes of the world, you are my niece’s husband.”
“Trust me, I am well aware of that fact.”
Her brows rose. “Well then, how do you propose to fix that little problem when this business is concluded?”
“I admit that my fate is still somewhat unclear. Fortunately for me, however, there are very few herds of wild horses running around London. There is still, of course, a risk of being gunned down by a gang of Wild West outlaws but I have every expectation of avoiding that outcome as well.”