Page 7 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
She halted before the darkroom door and rapped sharply. “Quimby?”
She waited, but heard nothing—certainly not the grumpy roar she’d expected. She frowned. “That’s odd.”
Gray reached past her and thumped a fist rather more forcefully on the solid wooden panel.
“Quimby!” she called, exasperation and command in her tone.
Silence answered.
“The room’s not that large, and while he’s an irascible old coot, he’s not deaf.” She reached for the doorknob and rattled it vigorously. “Quimby!”
Even she heard the rising anxiety in her voice.
When nothing happened, she bit her lip and glanced at Gray. “Usually, the threat of anyone walking in brings him roaring to the door.”
Gray didn’t need better light to see the apprehension in her face. Apparently, Quimby was old enough for her to fear he’d had a seizure and collapsed. Feeling slightly grim himself, he nudged her sideways, gripped the knob and turned it, then slowly pushed the door open.
Nothing happened. He stepped into the strange dimness created by a low-level, red-shielded lamp. He halted and, while his eyes adjusted, scanned the area. Filing cabinets lined the wall to his left, with a large, white enamel sink in the far corner. A high, narrow table ran down the middle of the room, and a raised bench stood along the right side.
Scattered along the bench was a conglomeration of photographic implements and supplies, including numerous trays, bottles, and jugs, and there was an untidy pile of glass plates strewn on the central table. The plates looked to be the treated glass photographers used to capture their images. Gray estimated over fifty or more plates lay haphazardly discarded in the pile.
What he failed to see was any man who might be Quimby. “There’s no one here. Perhaps your Quimby simply forgot to reset the sign when he left.”
Crowding close, Izzy peered around him. “That would be even more odd. Quimby’s a stickler about using that sign.”
Her hands splayed on his back and tentatively pushed.
He stepped to the right, allowing her into the room.
She paused beside him, scanning as he had, then she gasped. “Great heavens!” She rushed to the table and the pile of glass plates.
“Oh no!” She reached out to touch one, but stopped before she did. “His daguerreotype plates!” She leaned closer, squinting at the plates. “Good Lord—they’re all scratched and ruined!”
She looked at Gray, then glanced around wildly. “What on earth happened?”
Her gaze snagged on several partially open cabinet drawers. “Why would he—”
Her voice suspended.
Moving down the other side of the table, Gray glanced at her.
She was staring at the space before the sink. Even in the poor light, her face was deathly pale, and a mask of horror had overlaid her features.
“Oh, my God!” She rushed forward. “Quimby!”
Gray swore beneath his breath and strode along the narrow table. He rounded the end to see Izzy crouched beside the slumped form of an older man in a dun-colored dustcoat, presumably Quimby. The photographer appeared to have staggered back against the wall, then slid down to a sitting position with his legs half stretched before him.
“Quimby? Can you hear me?” Izzy lightly patted one of Quimby’s cheeks.
His head lolled forward.
“Here! Let me help you up.” She lowered her hands to Quimby’s sides, then froze.
She drew back her right hand and stared at the palm. Her expression stunned and stricken, she looked at Gray and held up her bloodied palm. She swallowed. “He’s been stabbed.” Dragging in a shaky breath, she looked back at Quimby. “I think he’s dead.”
Gray stepped around the photographer’s legs, bent, and gently gripped Izzy’s shoulders. He drew her upright, then eased her aside. “Let me look.”
Once he was certain she was steady on her feet, he released her and crouched before the fallen man.
