Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
N ivedita and her father, Sergeant Byron Brooks, lived in a small terrace house in Covent Garden. It wasn’t much different than Leo’s home with Claude and Flora, except for the fact that every time Leo was welcomed inside, it smelled of something delicious. Unlike herself, Dita possessed culinary skill, taught to her by her mother. The late Mrs. Anika Brooks had been born to an East India Company captain who fell in love with and married a young woman he met while in the port of Calcutta.
Whenever Dita prepared Leo’s favorite dish—spiced lentils and soft roti—she felt slightly envious that her friend had memories of learning to cook at her mother’s side. Leo didn’t know if her mother had cooked; she had a vague memory of an older woman speaking a strange language in her family’s kitchen. But when she asked Flora once if they’d had a cook or a maid, her aunt had told her not to be ridiculous; they couldn’t have afforded it.
So, Leo contented herself on Dita’s memories of her own mother. When the front door to the Brooks’ home opened, emitting a cloud of warm curry, onion, and spices, her rumbling stomach announced itself.
Dita laughed. “Did you burn the eggs again?”
“I wasn’t home to try.”
Dita yanked Leo inside and shut the door. “Where have you been so early in the day?” She gasped and grinned widely. “Or did you not return home last night?”
Leo scowled. “Of course I was home last night.”
Disappointed, Dita waved her toward the kitchen. “My father is already gone. I’m following shortly. Here, eat this.” She put a steamed rice cake into Leo’s hand as soon as they stepped into the small kitchen. It was already topped with ginger chutney. She bolted it down happily as her friend gathered her things and then locked the door behind them.
“All right then, why do you look as if you slept on the ground last night?”
Leo had forgotten about her dirty cheek and Jasper’s attempt to brush the dirt away. The memory of it stumped her for a moment, but then she got to the point of why she’d wanted to see her friend.
“I didn’t sleep on the ground. I fell into a hole.”
“How did you come to do that?” Dita exclaimed.
“It’s a long and complicated story, but suffice to say, I’d like to ask you about the children you were guarding the other day at the Yard. The ones you said were caught up in a photographer’s scheme.”
Dita’s chin dimpled in the center as she frowned. “What about them?”
“You said the person who was arrested was taking indecent photographs of the children?”
Dita walked fast by routine, but at this unsavory topic, she seemed to increase her speed. “Yes, that is what I was told. Why? What does this have to do with you falling into a hole?”
“It was a grave, actually.”
Her friend came to a halt. “ What? ”
“We believe photographs of the same nature, perhaps used for blackmail, were buried with the man whose grave I fell into. And in truth, I was pushed, but that’s too much to explain.”
Dita peered at her more shrewdly. “ We ?”
“Inspector Reid and I. But please don’t say anything to anyone.”
“I won’t,” she promised as she started walking again, and Leo knew she would stay true to her word. “But you were pushed into a grave over some indecent photographs? Was Inspector Reid pushed in too?”
“No, he hadn’t arrived yet,” she answered, though things were sliding off course. “My question to you is where would I go to purchase this sort of photography?”
Dita slammed to a halt again. “Why would you want to do something so awful?”
“It’s for the investigation, of course.”
“But you’re not a detective.”
Leo arched a brow. “You’re starting to sound like Jasper. But I am involved, Dita. It all started with the break-in at the morgue.”
Her friend began to walk again, appearing dazed. “And finding illicit photographs is going to help?”
They had about fifteen more minutes until they arrived at Great Scotland Yard, so Leo used that time to explain the details of the case to her friend. When she heard about the peephole and the box camera lenses that would match up against the hole in Miss Barrett’s bedroom wall, Dita balked.
“A hidden camera taking photographs of people in…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “ Sexual congress ? That would certainly be perfect for blackmail.” She seemed to contemplate a moment. “Listen, I may only be a matron, but I hear things. The arresting officers who brought in the children mentioned that portrait studios and printshops sometimes sell the pictures. Not out in the open, of course, but in a back room. On the surface, they’re just sitting people for portraits or printing leaflets, broadsides, and caricatures. But if you ask the right way, they offer something more.”
“Where are these shops located?” Leo asked.
“You cannot possibly go!”
“I won’t, of course,” she said, lying through her teeth and feeling somewhat guilty for it. “The addresses are for Inspector Reid.”
Dita didn’t look convinced but sighed and said, “They mentioned Pall Mall and Covent Garden. Cambridge Circus and the Dials. And of course, Fleet Street has several printers.”
Cambridge Circus? The busy traffic circle was where Hogarth and Tipson was located. Mr. Carter could have brought his photographs to a nearby printshop on his way to or from work.
Dita touched her elbow. “I worry about you sometimes. Are you sure this information is all for Jasper Reid?”
She danced around the truth. “I assure you it is for his case.”
Her plan was only half-formed, and Leo knew that was a problem. If, and when, she found a shop willing to show her their illicit collection in some back room, what would she do? She couldn’t very well ask if William Carter or Hannah Barrett had ever provided the photographs. She’d be tossed out on her ear.
Still, she was convinced Miss Barrett and Mr. Carter had been employing that peephole in some illegal way and that it played into the reason they were both dead. Finding evidence of their illegitimate enterprise could lead to the name of the person they’d mistakenly underestimated and tried to blackmail.
She walked Dita to Scotland Yard, then carried on to Spring Street, where she found her uncle in the postmortem room. He looked up from the cavity of an open chest on what appeared to be a middle-aged man.
“There you are. How was your visit to All Saints?”
For a moment, Leo forgot all about the note she’d left before dawn with her excuse.
“Eventful,” she replied after her brain caught up. “I promise to tell you more, but first, do you need assistance with that?” She gestured toward the postmortem.
“Not at all. Look.” He held out his bloodied hands. They barely quivered. “It’s a good day. Not for this fellow, of course. Expired of a weak heart. The report will be simple. Why? Are you going somewhere again?”
The question tugged at her, pulling her stomach low. “I have been gone a lot lately, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”
Claude shook his head. “I didn’t mean for you to apologize. I know things have been difficult with your aunt. Some of her comments…”
“It’s not that. I’m not avoiding Aunt Flora, not on purpose at least. It has to do with the morgue break-in.”
He blinked, his thick spectacles magnifying the motion. “You’re not involving yourself in anything dangerous, are you?”
Being pushed into a grave by a potential murderer could be considered dangerous, but in the end, all she’d received were sore limbs and a dirt-streaked face.
“I’m being careful, I promise. So,” she said, moving along swiftly, “you’ve no objection if I go out for another hour or two?”
He waved his hands as if to shoo her along and then turned back to the cracked chest of the corpse on the table.
Leo was grateful for the mild weather as she crossed Trafalgar Square and walked up Charing Cross Road, toward Cambridge Circus. It would have been a long way in the rain, but under the fair sky, it felt far less than the quarter hour it took before she entered the circle, where several streets joined into one central artery. She kept her eyes sharp for any shingles hung out for printers or photography studios as she walked around the circle, careful to avoid carriages and omnibuses.
To the east was the Seven Dials, a similar conjunction of streets. It wasn’t the finest part of London, and Leo knew better than to tread there alone. However, it was very much the sort of place that might house a shop selling salacious photography. Ignoring the cautionary voice in her head—which sounded an awful lot like Jasper—telling her to stop, she turned in that direction. Her palms began to sweat as the businesses and buildings changed noticeably and with remarkable haste. Almost immediately, the middle-class appearance of Cambridge Circus eroded into that of a lower class. She started toward the center of the Dials, promising herself she would only go that far and then turn around if she hadn’t seen anything.
But Leo slowed after a quick glance down a side street. A sign prominently carved with the word “Portraits” captured her interest. Looking over her shoulder, the corner frontage of Hogarth and Tipson across Cambridge Circus was still visible. Not a long walk for Mr. Carter to have made, to be sure.
Gathering her mettle, she turned down the side street. Shops selling tobacco, spirits, second-hand clothing, and one advertising herbal remedies and tinctures for one’s longevity and good health dotted the pavement. The portraitist had a name painted on the shingle: Mr. Colin McDaniels. Still uncertain what to say once she entered, Leo pressed down her shoulders and let herself into the shop. A bell chimed overhead. The shop was spare, with some framed portraits of men and women, and a few children, displayed on the wall as well as on standing easels. A layer of dust had settled on the frames and the furniture, and the floor and carpets looked as if they hadn’t been swept in a season.
There was no sign of the proprietor at first, and Leo was left to wander the shop. But then, a curtain to a back room swept aside, and a man appeared, tugging on the lapels of his coat collar, as if just having put it on at the sound of the bell.
“Ah, welcome, miss, and good day to you.” His fair cheeks had flushed from the rush to reach the front of his shop.
“Good morning,” Leo replied. “You are Mr. McDaniels, the portraitist?”
He adjusted his thin bowtie, which was limp and spotted with grease. “That I am, miss, and what can I do for you? A portrait for your sweetheart?” He peered a bit closer at her, and his welcoming grin faltered. “If that’s so, I’ve a mirror and comb for use, free of charge.”
Leo touched her cheek, recalling the dirt Jasper had tried brushing away. She hadn’t had a moment to stop and wash up.
“No, no portrait, thank you.”
Mr. McDaniels flashed a pleased grin. “No sweetheart?”
His interest put her on her guard. She was a woman, alone, very near the Seven Dials. And though the photographer didn’t appear violent on the surface, one never knew.
She pushed back her shoulders, prepared to tell him that it was none of his concern. But then, a different avenue presented itself. One that might lead her to what she’d come here to potentially find.
“Yes, I do have a beau.” Her hands warmed in her gloves. “In fact, he is why I’ve come. You see he has…interests. I’ve been informed that this shop might accommodate them.”
Mr. McDaniels lifted his chin. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, miss.”
She couldn’t tell if he was baiting her. There was only one way to find out.
“I think you do,” she replied, attempting to be coy. She’d seen Dita do it before with Constable Lloyd and a few other men. Without practice, however, Leo felt like a marionette with knotted strings as she fluttered her lashes.
The photographer held her in a flat, unaffected stare. “I’m afraid I’m just a simple Irishman, miss.”
Well, now she felt idiotic. Leo released the coquettish angling of her head. “I see. Very well then, forgive me for disturbing your breakfast.” She touched her neck as if to indicate his grease-spotted tie.
He was caught between fussing over his tie and stopping her from leaving. “Wait, now, miss, if you’d just tell me more about his interests… specifically …I might be able to show you in the right direction.”
He made a small gesture with his hand toward the curtain through which he’d come. The back room.
“I suppose you’d call these photographs artistic in nature,” she replied slowly, tripping over the words. If she sounded doubtful, it was because she was. But Mr. McDaniels’s flirtatious grin reappeared.
“If you’ll follow me.” He pulled aside the curtain and disappeared into the back.
Jasper’s voice, commanding her to not, under any circumstances, follow, blared in her mind. But she was close. She could feel it. So, she ignored the voice and crossed the threshold, coming into a cluttered storage room filled with shelving. Mr. McDaniels turned on a frosted-green desk lamp.
“This beau of yours is a lucky gent to have a sweetheart willing to support his hobbies,” he said with another sly grin. He unlocked a drawer and took out a file box. It was filled with photographs, all mounted on cards. They weren’t uniform—she saw different sizes, different foils and engravings on the edges before the man set his arm over the top, blocking them.
“Now, what tickles his fancy?” Leo squirmed at the question, and when she failed to produce an answer, he rephrased. “What sort does he like to look at? Women? Men? Or…” He peered sideways at her. “Might you have an interest in sitting for a portrait yourself, as a personal gift?”
Leo couldn’t stop the gasp of insult. “Absolutely not.” She began to heat under her collar. This had been too hasty a plan. What was she doing in this back room, discussing lewd photographs with a stranger? She was about to beat a hasty path to the front of the shop and out the door. But then a thought came to her.
“Are there many photographers who specialize in specific topics?”
He nodded. “Aye. Quite a few.”
She thought of the peephole and how those in the guest bedroom might not have known they were being watched. “Are most staged? Or are there some that are more voyeuristic in perspective?”
Mr. McDaniels touched the side of his nose, as if to say he understood her completely, then flipped to the back of the file box. Leo braced herself for what she might see. She was no shrinking violet, and dead bodies in all stages of decomposition usually failed to turn her stomach, but the first few photographs he spread out on the desk were a shock to her sensibilities.
“As you can see, the variety is colorful,” he said.
It was an understatement. The subjects ranged from men and women together in various states of undress and positions, to women embracing in the same manner, and men together too. Leo’s cheeks heated as she tried to focus on the details of the backdrop of these photographs and not on the people shown.
“See any prospects?” Mr. McDaniels asked after a few moments in which Leo felt entirely out of her depth.
“I’m not sure, I—” Her eyes stopped on a photograph. It was the mounting card she noticed first. Gold foil along the edges, just like the cards scattered over the rug in Mr. Carter’s studio. Next, it was the busy floral pattern of the wallpaper, then the wrought iron poster bed, the privacy screen, and chaise longue. It was all an exact match to the Barretts’ guest bedroom.
But it was one of the two men positioned together in an intimate manner that caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end.
“How much for this one?” Leo picked up the mounted photograph, and Mr. McDaniels cocked his head.
“I see now what sort your beau is,” he said with a nod. “Me, I don’t judge. I just provide. Two bob, miss.”
She paid the man and left straightaway for Scotland Yard.