Page 63 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
At Izzy’s decree, everyone took a break to consume the pies, pasties, sandwiches, and cider Gray had fetched, but immediately after, everyone knuckled down again. The only sounds from the typesetting table were the soft clicks as type was set into compositing sticks, while elsewhere in the workshop, the Lipsons, father and son, muttered constantly as, assisted by Digby, they got the press ready to run the printer’s proofs.
It was familiar Wednesday work, getting the week’s edition typeset, running the completed formes through the press for a few sheets each, then everyone poring over the proofs to spot any errors, but the excitement of creating such a different edition as the hue and cry had everyone more tense than usual, determined to be extra careful and attentive with respect to every detail.
Finally, late in the afternoon, all was set, and the Lipsons, between them, rolled the press by brute force, generating four copies of each of the six double-page sheets that, eventually, would be printed on three double-sided sheets and folded to create the latest edition ofThe Crier.
As soon as the sheets were dry enough to handle, Izzy took one set and headed for her office. The staff divided up the other sheets, and everyone settled to stare at the pages, looking for typesetting errors or misprints.
Izzy sat at her desk, spread the sheets over the top, and started scanning.
After a moment, Gray ambled in, sat in the armchair, and claimed one of the sheets.
They were immersed in their search for errors when a tap on the door had them looking up to find Digby hovering in the doorway.
Izzy arched her brows. “Yes, Digby? What is it?”
Tentatively, he said, “I was just wondering, ma’am, if you was thinking of hiring another photographer yet, and whether you’d like to hear about this bloke I came across at the Society of Photographers meeting last night.”
She beckoned him in. “You met this photographer at the meeting?”
Digby nodded. “He gave an exhibition and a talk about his methods, and I reckon he’s as good as anyone. He—the new bloke, Mr. Donaldson—isn’t near as old as Mr. Quimby was, but he’s been in Paris for two years at some place called an atty…” Digby’s tongue tripped, and he frowned.
“An atelier?” Gray suggested.
Digby’s face lit. “Aye, that’s it. At some at-tel-ier of some famous photographer, learning all the tricks of the trade. Not that he’s French—he’s as English as I am. But he’s come home now, and he’s looking for work.” Digby sobered and looked at Izzy. “All of the other photographers were surprised Mr. Quimby wasn’t there, and they asked me where he was. I didn’t know what to say—far as I know, the hue and cry’ll be the first time his death’ll be spoken of outside—so I just said he’d gorn off. Then one of the regulars asked if that meant he wouldn’t be working forThe Crierno more, and well, I said yes. So later, Mr. Donaldson—Timothy Donaldson, he is—came up and asked if there was an opening, like, atThe Crier, and…well, I said I’d ask.”
From Digby’s expression, he was half expecting to be upbraided for his temerity.
Izzy smiled reassuringly. “Well, we are looking for a photographer.” She glanced at Gray, wondering what he thought.
He caught her eye, then looked at Digby. “You hadn’t met or heard of this Donaldson before?”
The lad shook his head. “But quite a few of the photographers knew him. Seems he was a member from long ago, before he went to France, and he’s got a reputation as an up-and-coming man.”
That answered the question of Donaldson’s bona fides, at least in terms of the Society of Photographers. When Digby looked back at her, she asked, “Tell me what you thought of Donaldson’s photographs—the ones he showed at the exhibition last night.”
Digby’s face lit, and she didn’t really need to listen to the superlatives that fell from his lips to understand the answer.
When Digby ended his paean and regarded her hopefully, she hid a smile. “Well, we need another photographer, and the sooner the better. Do you know how to contact Donaldson?”
“Aye, ma’am. He said he’d drop around at home tonight, just in case you was interested.”
Knowing that Donaldson was keen and hungry for the position was reassuring and potentially helpful. She nodded decisively. “Very well. Tell him to come around for an interview tomorrow and that I’ll expect to see his portfolio and any references he has.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Almost bouncing on his toes, Digby snapped off a salute and rushed off to whatever chore was waiting.
Izzy grinned. “He’s probably scanning the photographs to see if everything’s come up as it should.”
“Hmm.” Gray stared unseeing at the empty doorway, then looked at Izzy, who had gone back to poring over the printed pages. “About this Donaldson.”
She glanced up. “What about him?”
“He couldn’t possibly be involved in Quimby’s murder, could he?”
She frowned. “Meaning have we gone off on an irrelevant tangent with our hypothesis about the photographs and overlooked a far simpler explanation?”
“Exactly. Killing a rival to take his job is hardly an unknown motivation.”
Her eyes narrowed, then she shook her head. “I can’t see it. Why go to the bother of—and take the risk involved in—wrecking all the daguerreotype plates if his only motive was to remove Quimby and create an opening? And if Donaldson is as up with the latest techniques as he sounds and had some other motive for destroying Quimby’s negatives, he would have known to search for the calotype negatives as well.”
