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inside him had longed to keep her with him. Didn't she understand that they
belonged together? Had she forgotten the vow she had made in the throes of
passion that last night at Arcane House?
I am yours.
19
Harold Burton's small, shabby photographic gallery was sunk in gloom. It was
almost as if the business had somehow sensed that the proprietor would not be
returning and had closed its own doors.
The heavy fog did nothing to brighten the atmosphere, Venetia thought. She
stood in a doorway directly across the cramped lane from the entrance to
Burton's Photographic Gallery, tt was early afternoon, but the vapor was so
thick she could barely make out the little shop. She raised her eyes to the
windows of the rooms above the gallery. There was no indication that anyone
was about up there, either. Those rooms had no doubt been Burton's private
quarters.
She had made the decision to come here today on impulse, leaving Amelia and
Maud, the shopgirl who managed the gallery, the task of choosing the model for
the next portrait in the gratityingly successful
Men of Shakespeare series.
The possibility that Burton had taken other photographs of her photographs
that he had not had time to deliver to her doorstep before he died, had been
worrying her since she had awakened. There was no knowing what mischief Burton
might have been up to with his retouching tools before his untimely demise.
She could not afford to have an embarrassing photograph fall into the hands of
one of her competitors or, worse, land on a client's doorstep.
There was little activity in the lane. The shops on either side of Burton's
Photographic Gallery were open but there were no customers. The tew hearty
souls who had ventured out in the heavy fog wandered like lost ghosts, so
concerned with not bumping into walls or stumbling over the paving stones that
they did not notice Venetia lurking in the doorway. She realized that, garbed
in black from head to toe, her face clouded by a black net veil, she was
almost invisible.
Page 66
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
She waited until an empty hansom rattled past, moving slowly in the mist, and
then she crossed the lane to the gallery.
It came as no surprise to discover that the front door of the shop was
securely locked. Shades had been lowered in all of the windows. Burton would
have closed tor the day before taking himself off to the exhibition hall and
the encounter with his killer last night.
She made her way to the corner, turned and went down a narrow walk that led to
a thin alley intended to service the shops. If anything the fog seemed even
denser in this narrow passage.
She found the rear door of the gallery and discovered that it, too, was
locked. She removed a hairpin and went to work. One became quite handy with
tools and mechanical devices when one took up a career as
a photographer, she reflected. It seemed one was always having to improvise.
The door opened. She paused, taking a last look around to make certain that
there was no one about to see her enter the shop. Nothing stirred in the sea
of fog that had drowned the alley.
Moving quietly she let herself into the back room of the gallery and closed
the door. She stood still for a moment, surveying the cluttered, gloom-filled
space.
The room contained the usual paraphernalia that proliferated in a
photographer's gallery. Cartons of old negatives were stacked to the ceiling.
Faded backdrops of various colors and designs were pushed up against the wall.
An aged, well-worn sitter's chair, one leg broken, occupied a corner. A pair
of small-sized ladies' shoes was tucked under the chair. The shoes were in a
style that had gone out of fashion at least two years earlier.
An unexpected pang of sympathy went through her. Poor Burton. He had either
not realized how important it was to stay current with the latest fashions or
else he had not been able to afford to replace the shoes when styles changed.
There were three pairs of ladies' shoes in her own gallery. They were all in
the very latest style and considerably more elegant than the pair here in
Burton's establishment. But they had one thing in
common with Burton's shoes. They were all sized for the smallest and daintiest
of feminine feet.
She was quite certain that Burton had invested in the shoes for the same
practical reason that had led her to buy three pairs that were too small for
anyone in her family. Delicate, elegant footwear proved extremely useful when
one was confronted with a female client who desired a full-length portrait
that did not display her own large feet. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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