Page 16 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
“So,” Baines summed up, “Quimby coming in around five wasn’t unusual, but him still being here at six was strange?”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“So you went to the darkroom, knocked, but received no answer, and went in together.” Baines looked at Gray for confirmation.
“Yes, together,” Gray evenly supplied. “I entered first, and Mrs. Molyneaux followed. She went along the left side of the table, stopped to exclaim over the ruined daguerreotype plates, then saw Quimby and rushed to help him. I was on the table’s other side, so I was a split second behind her. Quimby was already slumped on the ground before we came in, or I would have seen him straightaway.” Gray shrugged. “The rest you know.”
Littlejohn glanced up. “That pile of photographic plates—daguerreotype plates, you called them? All piled up and scratched and—you said—ruined. Was that normal?”
“Not at all.” Izzy sat straighter. “I’d forgotten about them. And no—Quimby would never have destroyed his work like that.”
Puzzled, Baines studied her. “Are you saying that the killer stabbed Quimby, then hung around and scratched up those plates? Or might they already have been like that when Quimby arrived?”
Izzy felt a phantom chill slide over her nape. “It must be the former.” She glanced at Gray. “If Quimby had walked in and found his plates in a pile like that, scratched and wrecked, he would have erupted out of the darkroom, roaring like a lion. But he didn’t.” She looked at Baines. “The plates couldn’t have been like that when Quimby arrived, ergo, the killer must have taken the time to damage them after he killed Quimby.”
Baines frowned. “Are those all the…whatever-they’re-called plates Quimby had? Or were there others he kept somewhere else?”
She frowned. “I can’t say for certain, but all the plates he had here, he kept in those cabinets in the darkroom.”
“Inthe darkroom,” Littlejohn confirmed.
She nodded.
“And he didn’t take any away?” Baines asked.
“Not that I know of. He told me he preferred to store them in the darkroom, and I know for a fact that ours was the only darkroom to which he had access.”
Gray stirred; plainly, it was time to do a little more directing. “That the killer took time to destroy Quimby’s photographs surely suggests that the motive for his murder might well lie in something Quimby saw and photographed, presumably something the killer didn’t want anyone else to see.”
“If so,” Izzy pointed out, “the killer certainly wouldn’t have wanted the photograph printed and distributed inThe Crieror any of the other papers Quimby supplied.”
From his position by the door, Perkins spoke, not quite aggressively yet certainly pointedly. “You’d be the person most likely to know what Quimby photographed. Perhaps you didn’t want him to print one, and you and he argued—”
“Constable!” Baines flung Perkins an aggravated look.
Perkins glowered. “Well, it’s true.”
Izzy regarded Perkins with a contemptuous air. “Actually, your premise is false. I had no idea what Quimby would photograph—that wasn’t how he operated. He knew what sorts of scenes we atThe Crierwanted, and every week, he would take at least three photographs of those sort of scenes—in Hyde Park, along the avenue or the lawns or Rotten Row, along Regent Street or Oxford Street, or St. James’s Park, that sort of society picture. I never gave him specific instructions about who or what to photograph, and I seriously doubt any of his other clients did, either.”
Baines frowned. “I see.”
In the distance, the city’s bells tolled for eight o’clock.
Baines glanced at Littlejohn, then looked at Gray and Izzy. “I suggest we leave any further questions for tomorrow. We’ll be back in the morning to speak with the staff. We need to find out if they saw Quimby arrive and if they know anything more about him and any enemies he might have had.”
Izzy inclined her head, and Gray followed suit. Littlejohn closed his notebook and tucked it and his pencil away.
With half bows to Gray and Izzy, the Scotland Yard duo turned toward the doorway, only to have Perkins bar their way.
“But, sir!” Perkins exclaimed.
“What?” Baines grumpily demanded.
Perkins darted a look at Izzy. “Aren’t we going to take the widow in, sir? She’s the only suspect we have, and she might have done it!”
Baines heaved a weary sigh. “How?”
Perkins blinked. “How, sir?”
