Free Night's Child by Maureen Jennings Page A

emitting from the classroom. Somebody was whistling an old folk song, sweet and tuneful as any musical instrument. Given what he had already seen of Miss Slade, he assumed it was she who was creating the sound.
     

CHAPTER NINE
    T he first studio was on the second floor above a dry goods store, currently closed down. On each side were boarded-up vacant houses. In an attempt to combat the surrounding air of decay, the entrance to the right of the dry goods store was newly painted and a sign, GREGORY’S EMPORIUM: WELCOME AND COME IN , hung from the doorknob. There was an ink drawing of a camera on a tripod in the corner of the notice. Following instructions, Murdoch went inside. Almost directly in front of the door was a steep flight of stairs, carpeted in rush matting and, in case the customers happened to get lost between entrance and stairs, a second sign was tacked on the wall. A hand pointed upward, underneath it the words EMPORIUM, THIS WAY . Before Murdoch had even reached the first stair, however, a door on the landing above opened and a young man and woman came out. They were laughing and, not seeing Murdoch, turned toward each other. The man grabbed both of the woman’s buttocks in his hands, lifting her up to press against him. Murdoch heard a cry of protest that was smothered by the man’s hard kiss. Embarrassed at being an involuntary witness to this private embrace, Murdoch called out.
    “Good morning, I’m looking for the photograph studio.”
    He might as well have shot off a gun. They leapt apart and stood staring down at him. He proceeded up the stairs.
    “Good morning,” he repeated and tipped his hat to the young woman. Her wide-brimmed hat had been knocked backwards by the force of the man’s embrace and she straightened it quickly. She was dressed in a fawn-coloured walking suit with a corsage of fresh flowers at the breast. He had on a brown tweed overcoat and a snappy bowler hat. Everything about them said they were newly married.
    “The studio is this way, I presume?” he said, indicating the door behind them.
    “It is,” the man replied. Recovered from his surprise and made a touch belligerent because of it, he pulled his bride toward him and they went down the stairs, his arm around her waist. Their progress was awkward because of the narrowness of the stairwell, but he wouldn’t let go of her. She now belonged to him.
    On the door was hung yet another sign, GREGORY’S EMPORIUM: KNOCK FIRST. THEN ENTER. In smaller print, Leave umbrellas in the hall . A little drawing of a furled umbrella and an arrow aiming in the direction of a stand beside the door. Currently it was devoid of coats or umbrellas. Murdoch glanced around. So far he couldn’t say he was impressed with the Emporium. The stairs and hall were dull, no paintings, no wall covering, just a dingy pale green coat of paint. Either it needed redoing or the gaslight was leeching out the colour, which everybody complained it did.
    He rapped sharply and went inside. Another young woman, about the same age as the shy bride he had just encountered, was sitting behind a desk facing the door. This one, however, gave him a smile brimming with confidence.
    “Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Emporium.”
    She was dressed in a demure gown of tartan taffeta and her hair was tightly pinned in a knot on top of her head. Murdoch removed his hat and returned her smile.
    “Newly wed?”
    She looked at him, startled.
    “I beg your pardon, sir?”
    He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. “The couple that just left. I’ll wager they’ve just got hitched.”
    “Oh, yes, you are quite correct. Early this morning, I believe. They wanted to get photographed before they went to their wedding breakfast.”
    “Lucky man,” said Murdoch.
    She lowered her eyes to the piece of paper in front of her.
    “Quite so. Now as for you Mr….?”
    “Murdoch. William Murdoch.”
    “Are you interested in a wedding portrait?”
    Murdoch felt a