Free Night's Child by Maureen Jennings Page B

twinge of warning in his gut. It wasn’t that the young woman wasn’t professional in her appearance and manner, she was in a rather self-conscious way, but her reaction to his question had been too wary. There had been a momentary flash of cold suspicion in her eyes.
    He gave a phony chuckle. “Oh no, ma’am, not me. I haven’t had that kind of luck yet to find me a bride. I’d just like to inquire about a photo picture to give to my dear old mother.”
    She smiled at him. “How very thoughtful of you. A cabinet then.” She consulted a notepad in front of her. “We actually have time now. It isn’t usually the case, normally we are full up, but there was an unexpected cancellation.” She smiled at his good fortune and handed him a card. “Here is a list of our prices. I do recommend you order the package of five. It is more economical.”
    Murdoch had not really expected this and he wasn’t sure how he was going to pay. Or if he could pay. So far this investigation was unauthorized.
    “Can you send me the bill?”
    “Of course, that is our usual procedure.” She allowed the smallest note of reproach to creep into her voice as if he were impugning the integrity of the Emporium by implying that they were money grabbing.
    She stood up. “I’ll fetch Mr. Gregory, our photographer. And will you be so kind as to fill out this form with your name and address.”
    “Thank you, Miss…?”
    “I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. I’m Miss Hill.”
    She smiled again, a smile quite as false as Murdoch’s overdone grinning. Then she handed him a piece of paper and disappeared through another door. Ignoring the form for the moment, Murdoch took a look around him. The room wasn’t large, but a tall window allowed good light and created a pleasant airy feeling to the place. Several chairs, nicely covered in burgundy plush velvet, were around the edge of the room, a mahogany coat stand stood by the door, the carpet was a richly patterned Axminster. Perhaps the savings accrued from the sparse furnishing of the entry had been used here where it counted. The walls were lined with row on row of photographs, and Murdoch went to examine them. Gregory’s seemed to specialize in wedding photographs, given the number of portraits of happy couples, sombre for the moment, all dressed in their best. Interspersed here and there were what he assumed were the cabinets, head-and-shoulders photographs of serious-looking men and a few women. He was more interested in the backdrops but at a quick inspection, he didn’t see the artificial wood panelling or the leopard-skin rug and the birdcage that were in the stereoscopic picture of Agnes.
    He had just returned to his seat and picked up the form when Miss Hill returned, followed by a stocky fellow whose hand was outstretched even as he came in the door.
    “Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. My name is Gregory. Bartholomew Gregory. At your service, sir.”
    He had a strong cockney accent.
    Murdoch shook hands. Gregory’s grip was vigorous. Despite the formality of his black worsted suit, there was no hiding the fact he had performed manual labour at some point in his youth. His shoulders were wide and sloping and his upper arms filled the sleeves of his jacket. Murdoch could feel the hard calluses on his palm.
    “I was actually looking for a Mr. Loft. I understood he had a studio here. He did some good work for a cousin of mine a while back.”
    Gregory grinned, revealing the glint of a gold filling in his front tooth.
    “Dead and gone. Or I should say, Mr. Loft is enjoying a well-earned retirement. I purchased the business a few months ago. Decided to change the name to avoid confusion.”
    “From over the pond are you, Mr. Gregory?” Murdoch asked, gaping a little.
    “ Horn and head , born and bred to you,” said Gregory. “Now I understand from Miss Hill that you would like our cabinet package of five.”
    “That’s right. For my mother.” He waved vaguely at the