Free The Parliament of Blood by Justin Richards

the pictures from the archive file.
    Pennyman was rather more self-assured and confident than he had been the previous evening. He was evidently getting over the loss of his employer, and he was happy to look at the photographs for George.
    â€˜Well, process-wise they seem fine,’ he said. ‘But dear oh me – who took these then?’
    â€˜Does it matter?’ George asked. ‘Lots of people, I expect. Is there a problem?’
    Pennyman sniffed. ‘I’ll say there is. I mean, I’m no expert, not on composition and such. But look at this one.’
    He reached for a picture of a group of people. It had been taken in a garden. A large hedge formed the background, and about twenty people were standing in agroup. Or rather, they were standing in two groups, a narrow gap between them.
    â€˜Why’s he done that, then?’ Pennyman asked, tapping each of the groups of people in turn. ‘Makes no sense. They should all be standing together. And look here.’ He pulled another photograph from the untidy pile. This one showed three children and a large chair. There was a girl standing beside the chair and two younger boys sitting on the floor in front of it. ‘What’s the chair for?’
    â€˜It’s like there’s something missing,’ George said slowly. ‘Something or someone.’
    Pennyman dropped the photograph back on the pile. ‘I don’t know, maybe they’re practice shots. Like a rehearsal for a play. Mr Denning does that sometimes, to check the lighting and arrangement and everything. Not usually with people though. But some photographers might. Then they take the real photograph when all the parties are present, knowing the conditions are right and favourable.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ George said, but he wasn’t convinced that was the answer.
    â€˜As for the process used and whether there’s anything odd about that …’ Pennyman gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘I know what to do, but I don’t understand how or why it all works. You need to talk to an expert. Mr Denning would have known. Or –’ He broke off and clicked his fingers. ‘You need to talk to Nathaniel Blake,’ he said.

    Nathaniel Blake’s voice was as stretched and cracked as his ancient face. ‘I worked with him back in the forties,’ he said. The skin was baggy and lined and the flesh of his neck was bulging out over the top of his collar. What little hair he had was a white wisp that stirred in the chill breeze. He huddled deeper into the blanket draped over his shoulders.
    â€˜So you understand the photographic process?’ George prompted. He was feeling the cold himself, despite his heavy coat.
    The two of them were sitting on a bench away from the main house. The gardens were well kept, with many narrow paths through the lawns and flower beds. Several of the guests at the home for retired and infirm gentlepeople were walking slowly round the grounds. One old man had a nurse steadying his elbow as he shuffled past the bench.
    â€˜Grandson, Nathaniel?’ the old man asked in a husky voice.
    Blake didn’t answer. ‘He was working on his book,’ he told George. ‘
The Pencil of Nature
. That was how Fox Talbot saw photography. Everyone called him Fox. He hated that. William Henry Fox Talbot.’ Blake broke off so as to let loose a cannonade of rasping coughs. ‘Yes, I understand the silver process. Helped him refine it. He saw it as a tool, a mechanism. Not an art. Not like these fancy boys now who pose everything. You had to back then, with such long exposure times. No need now. You can catch nature in the act. So why don’t they? Eh?’
    â€˜Well,’ George said. ‘Er, quite.’
    â€˜Exactly.’ Blake nodded. ‘Exactly. What did you say your name was?’
    â€˜Archer, sir. George Archer.’
    â€˜Sir George Archer?’ Blake seemed impressed.
    â€˜Um, no.