CHAPTER NINE
The first studio was on the second floor above a dry goods store, currently closed down. On each side were boarded-up vacant houses. In an attempt to combat the surrounding air of decay, the entrance to the right of the dry goods store was newly painted and a sign, GREGORY’S EMPORIUM: WELCOME AND COME IN, hung from the doorknob. There was an ink drawing of a camera on a tripod in the corner of the notice. Following instructions, Murdoch went inside. Almost directly in front of the door was a steep flight of stairs, carpeted in rush matting and, in case the customers happened to get lost between entrance and stairs, a second sign was tacked on the wall. A hand pointed upward, underneath it the words EMPORIUM, THIS WAY. Before Murdoch had even reached the first stair, however, a door on the landing above opened and a young man and woman came out. They were laughing and, not seeing Murdoch, turned toward each other. The man grabbed both of the woman’s buttocks in his hands, lifting her up to press against him. Murdoch heard a cry of protest that was smothered by the man’s hard kiss. Embarrassed at being an involuntary witness to this private embrace, Murdoch called out.
“Good morning, I’m looking for the photograph studio.”
He might as well have shot off a gun. They leapt apart and stood staring down at him. He proceeded up the stairs.
“Good morning,” he repeated and tipped his hat to the young woman. Her wide-brimmed hat had been knocked backwards by the force of the man’s embrace and she straightened it quickly. She was dressed in a fawn-coloured walking suit with a corsage of fresh flowers at the breast. He had on a brown tweed overcoat and a snappy bowler hat. Everything about them said they were newly married.
“The studio is this way, I presume?” he said, indicating the door behind them.
“It is,” the man replied. Recovered from his surprise and made a touch belligerent because of it, he pulled his bride toward him and they went down the stairs, his arm around her waist. Their progress was awkward because of the narrowness of the stairwell, but he wouldn’t let go of her. She now belonged to him.
On the door was hung yet another sign, GREGORY’S EMPORIUM: KNOCK FIRST. THEN ENTER. In smaller print, Leave umbrellas in the hall. A little drawing of a furled umbrella and an arrow aiming in the direction of a stand beside the door. Currently it was devoid of coats or umbrellas. Murdoch glanced around. So far he couldn’t say he was impressed with the Emporium. The stairs and hall were dull, no paintings, no wall covering, just a dingy pale green coat of paint. Either it needed redoing or the gaslight was leeching out the colour, which everybody complained it did.
He rapped sharply and went inside. Another young woman, about the same age as the shy bride he had just encountered, was sitting behind a desk facing the door. This one, however, gave him a smile brimming with confidence.
“Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Emporium.”
She was dressed in a demure gown of tartan taffeta and her hair was tightly pinned in a knot on top of her head. Murdoch removed his hat and returned her smile.
“Newly wed?”
She looked at him, startled.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. “The couple that just left. I’ll wager they’ve just got hitched.”
“Oh, yes, you are quite correct. Early this morning, I believe. They wanted to get photographed before they went to their wedding breakfast.”
“Lucky man,” said Murdoch.
She lowered her eyes to the piece of paper in front of her.
“Quite so. Now as for you Mr….?”
“Murdoch. William Murdoch.”
“Are you interested in a wedding portrait?”
Murdoch felt a twinge of warning in his gut. It wasn’t that the young woman wasn’t professional in her appearance and manner, she was in a rather self-conscious way, but her reaction to his question had been too wary. There had been a momentary flash of cold suspicion in her eyes.
He gave a phony chuckle. “Oh no, ma’am, not me. I haven’t had that kind of luck yet to find me a bride. I’d just like to inquire about a photo picture to give to my dear old mother.”
She smiled at him. “How very thoughtful of you. A cabinet then.” She consulted a notepad in front of her. “We actually have time now. It isn’t usually the case, normally we are full up, but there was an unexpected cancellation.” She smiled at his good fortune and handed him a card. “Here is a list of our prices. I do recommend you order the package of five. It is more economical.”
Murdoch had not really expected this and he wasn’t sure how he was going to pay. Or if he could pay. So far this investigation was unauthorized.
“Can you send me the bill?”
“Of course, that is our usual procedure.” She allowed the smallest note of reproach to creep into her voice as if he were impugning the integrity of the Emporium by implying that they were money grabbing.
She stood up. “I’ll fetch Mr. Gregory, our photographer. And will you be so kind as to fill out this form with your name and address.”
“Thank you, Miss…?”
“I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. I’m Miss Hill.”
She smiled again, a smile quite as false as Murdoch’s overdone grinning. Then she handed him a piece of paper and disappeared through another door. Ignoring the form for the moment, Murdoch took a look around him. The room wasn’t large, but a tall window allowed good light and created a pleasant airy feeling to the place. Several chairs, nicely covered in burgundy plush velvet, were around the edge of the room, a mahogany coat stand stood by the door, the carpet was a richly patterned Axminster. Perhaps the savings accrued from the sparse furnishing of the entry had been used here where it counted. The walls were lined with row on row of photographs, and Murdoch went to examine them. Gregory’s seemed to specialize in wedding photographs, given the number of portraits of happy couples, sombre for the moment, all dressed in their best. Interspersed here and there were what he assumed were the cabinets, head-and-shoulders photographs of serious-looking men and a few women. He was more interested in the backdrops but at a quick inspection, he didn’t see the artificial wood panelling or the leopard-skin rug and the birdcage that were in the stereoscopic picture of Agnes.
He had just returned to his seat and picked up the form when Miss Hill returned, followed by a stocky fellow whose hand was outstretched even as he came in the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. My name is Gregory. Bartholomew Gregory. At your service, sir.”
He had a strong cockney accent.
Murdoch shook hands. Gregory’s grip was vigorous. Despite the formality of his black worsted suit, there was no hiding the fact he had performed manual labour at some point in his youth. His shoulders were wide and sloping and his upper arms filled the sleeves of his jacket. Murdoch could feel the hard calluses on his palm.
“I was actually looking for a Mr. Loft. I understood he had a studio here. He did some good work for a cousin of mine a while back.”
Gregory grinned, revealing the glint of a gold filling in his front tooth.
“Dead and gone. Or I should say, Mr. Loft is enjoying a well-earned retirement. I purchased the business a few months ago. Decided to change the name to avoid confusion.”
“From over the pond are you, Mr. Gregory?” Murdoch asked, gaping a little.
“Horn and head, born and bred to you,” said Gregory. “Now I understand from Miss Hill that you would like our cabinet package of five.”
“That’s right. For my mother.” He waved vaguely at the photographs on the wall. “But I’d like a nice serious backdrop. Gives a better impression, don’t you think?”
“It most certainly does, sir. And you’re a man of commerce I’d wager.”
“How’d you ever guess that? Let’s just say I’m interested in the typewriting business.”
“Good going, sir. Efficient typewriters are in great demand. I don’t know what I’d do without Miss Hill.”
The young woman had returned to the desk but she nodded an acknowledgement.
Gregory gestured. “Why don’t we step right out and get started?”
They were interrupted by the door to the hall banging open. A young man came in with such a flurry, he might have been propelled by the wind. He was carrying an umbrella that he immediately started to shake, scattering raindrops like a wet dog.
“Frigging weather…”
He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw the room was occupied. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
Gregory barely acknowledged his presence and made no attempt to introduce him.
“You can put your bat and moat on the stand, Mr. Murdoch,” he said. “Come this way.”
The newcomer stood where he was. Not a customer obviously. A handsome young man by any standards, with his dark hair and trim moustache. Murdoch thought he might be Miss Hill’s suitor, but she didn’t acknowledge him either. He glanced curiously at Murdoch, then plopped down in one of the chairs.