CHAPTER TEN

The studio was not much larger than the reception room and had the same impoverished decor of the entrance hallway and stairs. The plank floor was uncarpeted, there was no furniture at all, and the walls were whitewashed. In spite of the three deep windows, the dull light of the rain-soaked day was not sufficient for photographic purposes and two gas chandeliers overhead had been lit. A camera on a wheeled tripod was aimed between two platforms, each curtained off by a curved rod, rather like miniature stages.

“Well, which do you fancy, Mr. Murdoch? You can have your penny dip. This setting here is what we call the Park. An exact depiction of the Allan Horticultural Gardens, which I’m sure you are familiar with.”

He drew back the heavy curtains of the nearest stage, revealing a painted backdrop of depressing ineptitude. The pavilion leaned slightly and looked as if a good gust of wind would blow it away; the few shrubs in the foreground were an odd muddy green and the sky and the dirty clouds looked as if the painter hadn’t bothered to clean his brush. In the centre of the platform was a flimsy wooden plinth, painted to look like a marble sundial.

“Stand here, Mr. Murdoch, if you please. Turn to the right just a titch. Good. Excellent. Don’t move for a tick and a tock.” Gregory went over to the camera and wheeled it to the front of the Park. He disappeared underneath the focusing cloth, moved a little closer, then reappeared. “Now that is a fine portrait as ever hit my peepers. You are most definitely an outdoor man. I must say I would never take you for a man of commerce.”

Murdoch grinned, showing lots of teeth. “But that is what I am, Mr. Gregory, and I think I’d be better off with the indoor setting. What’s that other one like?”

Gregory sighed, just enough to let customers know how foolish they were to question his choice. He pulled back the second curtain to reveal a stage that was bare except for a plain wooden chair in the centre and a small rolltop desk at the back. However, Murdoch could see that the painted backdrop depicted a panelled wall. Something must have shown in his expression because Gregory became hearty again.

“I know it don’t look like much as is, but in a photograph, it is very realistic. You’d think you were in the Prince of Wales’s study.”

Murdoch pointed to the adjacent set of double doors.

“Got anything else back there I can look at?”

“I’m afraid not. That leads to my private birch and broom and the dark room. A dark room is where the plates are developed,” he added.

Murdoch chortled. “Well, I didn’t think it was a place you sat with the lights out.” He walked around the little stage. “It’d be better with carpet on the floor. Have you got any more props or is that it?”

“Course, I do. I’m just setting you up first. Why don’t you sit on the lion’s lair and take the weight off your beaters.”

Murdoch mounted the platform and sat in the chair while Gregory brought the camera over and focused it.

“Yes, yes, that’s better. You were the Isle of Wight. I’d ask you for a loan if I thought I’d get it.” His voice was muffled by the black cloth. “Shall I take the photograph now then?”

“I thought you were going to put down a piece of carpet.”

Gregory’s head emerged. “I was about to get it.”

He headed for a large wardrobe that was in the corner of the room.

“I wouldn’t mind a plant of some kind, pictures, a clock. I’m sure his Majesty don’t sit in a bare room,” Murdoch said.

He could feel the man’s exasperation, but decided it was for show, intended to intimidate him. While Gregory was rooting in the wardrobe, he studied the backdrop. He couldn’t be sure it was the same one that had been used in the picture of Agnes Fisher. There wasn’t much to define either one.

“How’s this mug?”

Gregory was throwing down a fringed rug. It was surprisingly fresh and colourful with a pattern of overblown roses intertwined with lilies.

“Is that the only one you’ve got?”

“Yes, it is. And it’s mint as you can see.” He went over to the desk. “I’ll put these have a looks here like so.”

They weren’t real books, just the outer shells.

“What about some greenery? A fern or one of those leafy plants, asperdasters they’re called.”

“You mean, aspidistras. And no, I don’t have anything like that.”

Murdoch stood up. “Maybe I can look for myself. See what you’ve got.”

Gregory didn’t flinch. “By all means. I want satisfied customers even if it takes all May.”

Murdoch pointed at the windows, which were blurry with rain. “Not likely you’ll get many now.”

While the photographer watched, he walked over to the wardrobe. There was in fact a piece of greenery in there, not the one he was looking for, but a basket of bent and warped ivy. He pulled it out triumphantly.

“See, you did have something. This’ll look real good on the desk.”

“You’re right. Don’t know how I overlooked it.”

He’d told the truth about the rugs. There weren’t any others and Murdoch couldn’t see anything else from the stereoscopic photographs. He picked up a clock with the hands perpetually set at ten to three and a framed print of a watercolour that must have been done by the same artist who had painted the sets. He seemed to specialize in dull colours and vague, lopsided shapes. It was only on second glance that Murdoch recognized Niagara Falls.

“These will do just fine,” he said and brought them back to the stage.

Without a word but making no attempt to hide his impatience, Gregory took them from him. The watercolour he hung on a nail above the desk and the clock at a point just to the right of the chair. Obviously, they had been placed there before and Murdoch wondered why the man wasn’t showing more care. Perhaps it was because he thought Murdoch was unemployed.

“All right then, sir. Sit in the chair and cross your arms. Good. Most impressive.”

He stepped out from the focusing cloth and stood to the side of the camera, the lens cable in his right hand.

“Now I want you to keep as still as you can. Don’t move a muscle. Look straight into the camera.” He pressed the button. “Hold it. Don’t move.”

Murdoch heard a click as the lens closed.

“Good. We got it.” Gregory went to remove the plate from the camera. “Now I could take another for good measure, but that is a cost that has to be born by the customer.”

Murdoch got out of the chair. “I’ll leave it at that. When can I have the pictures?”

Gregory was all hearty again. “They’ll be ready the day after tomorrow at the latest. Now I’d better get on with my work so I’ll leave you to settle your till with Miss Hill.” He held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure to take you, Mr. Murdoch. I’m sure you’ll be quite satisfied.”

He was smiling his broad, gold-illuminated smile, but when Murdoch looked into his eyes but saw nothing there but a cold indifference. Gregory averted his gaze immediately, stepped over to the door, and ushered Murdoch into the other room.

“See to this gentleman, will you, my dear,” he called to the woman behind the desk and he went back into the studio, closing the door behind him.

“Come and have a seat, sir.” It wasn’t Miss Hill any more. This woman was older, thin faced with a sharp nose and chin.

“What happened to Miss Hill?” he asked. “She was the one I was dealing with before.”

“She’s gone to have her dinner,” said the woman, apparently struggling to be pleasant.

“Pity. And who might you be, ma’am, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I’m Mrs. Gregory. Mr. Gregory, my husband, is the one you have just been with.” She had no trace of a cockney accent.

“Very good fellow indeed even if he does talk peculiar. Knows what he’s doing all right.”

She nodded but without expression.

Murdoch decided to stir up a little jealousy. You never knew what would fall out when emotions ran high. He continued.

“That Miss Hill’s a mighty handsome young woman, I must say. Talented too, I’d wager. Does she ever get on the other side of the desk? You know, pose for pictures herself?”

“No, she does not.”

“Pity that, with her good looks she’d be very popular.”

“I’ll let her know your sentiments, sir. I’m sure she will be flattered.”

She took a form out of the drawer. “Perhaps I can take your order now and not keep you any longer.”

So much for calling on the green-eyed god. Mrs. Gregory had been impervious.

She handed Murdoch the piece of paper. “You didn’t indicate which package you wanted sir. I understand it’s ten copies.”

“Oh no. That’s too many for me. Two will do. One for me and one for my mother.”

Mrs. Gregory sighed, looked as if she would try to talk him out of it, changed her mind, and dipped her pen in the inkwell. “Two portraits then. That will be three dollars please.”

“Whoa back, ma’am. The other young lady said you would send a bill seeing as I don’t have a position at the moment.”

Mrs. Gregory frowned. “Miss Hill is new here and obviously not familiar with our policy. We require one half payment now and the remainder on delivery of the photographs.”

There wasn’t any point arguing with that chin and besides he wanted to come back again. He fished in his pocket and took out all the coins he had.

“I’ve got seventy-five cents here. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

She didn’t blink and he regretted he had succumbed so easily. “Given your circumstances, I will make a concession.”

She swooped up the money and put it into a cash box.

“Speaking of mothers,” said Murdoch. “My dear old mother gave me a stereoscope for a Christmas present and I’d like to buy me some more cards. I wonder if you sell them, seeing as you do photographs.”

He was observing her carefully but detected no reaction. Either she was completely ignorant of the possible secondary line of work of the Emporium or she was a consummate actress.

“I’m afraid we don’t, Mr. Murdoch. But I understand Mr. Eaton’s store has a good selection. You know where he is, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed ma’am. He’s right at the corner of Queen and Yonge Streets.”

“That’s right. Now if you will excuse me, I must get on with my work.”

She swivelled around in her chair. There was a typewriting machine on the desk that had been covered before. She inserted a sheet of paper.

Murdoch stood up, retrieved his hat and coat from the stand, and went to the door. The clacking of the typewriter’s keys followed him. Mrs. Gregory sounded like an expert typewriter, he thought. Pity he hadn’t been able to see what kind of machine she was using. He could have verified Enid’s statement that offices were using Remingtons these days.