Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

“The woman is a charlatan. She requested that I offer her free publicity at the expense of our reputation to photograph her Lambton seances. I said no, then, and I’m not about to change my mind.”

“But that’s different, guv,” Archie protested. “Lor’ Lambton’s loss is private. The Renquist case is not. Two months ago, when it were a live murder investigation splashed ’bout in ev’ry newspaper, yer was verra ’appy ter do the same an’ give a proper account o’ it.”

“That was news, Archie. Don’t you see the difference?”

“This is news, wiv all due respect,” Archie grumbled. “Now wot could be better than that the rich widow is fed up wiv the constabulary failin’ ter even get them a suspect, an’ she reckons she’ll find answers elsewhere? ’Frough a medium. See, immediately yer got a story.” He sniffed. “Sure, an’ it’s true enough that Lor’ Lambton’s seances are private, but they’s open ter the public. Each week more an’ more people crowd inter that ’ouse ter get a glimpse o’ the spirit creature wot looks so like the poor dead girl.” He sighed. “Yer beautiful Mrs Eustace wot ’as yer all hot and bovvered an’ yer won’t even give ’er the time o’ day let alone publish ’er picture an’ make ’er the next beauty o’ the decade. Which she could be, yer know.”

“She’s not my Mrs Eustace.” Hamish went to the window. “What makes you think you have any right to speak to me like that?”

“Cos I sees the way yer look at ’er photograph. Yer won’t publish, but yer look at it.”

Hamish felt his skin heat up at Archie’s words and kept his face firmly averted. It was true; he did keep Mrs Eustace’s photograph in his desk drawer. Occasionally he did look at it.

“Mrs Eustace and Mrs Moore are as bad as the snake-oil salesmen who would trick the credulous of their hard-earned money,” he said softly. “I will not sink to their level.”

“My, but yer nevva ’ad such scruples when yer published a picture o’ the Blood Countess. Didn’t that magazine fly o’ the stands?”

“Countess Bathory lived th

ree hundred years ago, and it was a woodcut. It’s hardly the same.”

“An’ ’ow many issues did yer last prosing publication sell? Not nearly as many as that one wot featured a bit o’ the gruesomeness the public want,” Archie persisted. “Yer in the bizness o’ feedin’ public appetites so as ter make money. Yer not a monk.” He gave him an assessing look. “Hmm, maybe that’s the problem.”

Before Hamish could lambast him for his impertinence, Archie went on, “Don’t matter, guvnor; by ’ook or by crook, I’ll be at Mrs Moore’s Wednesday next ter capture Lor’ Lambton’s tears an’ at the Widow Renquist’s séance the night afta that an’ I’ll sell me pictures ter some’un else. The ’ole country will want ter see a murderer be brought ter justice.”

Hamish turned. “How do you possibly imagine Mrs Moore will be anything but discredited through her ridiculous claim that she can discover what the police have not been able to?” he snapped, glaring at the small Cockney who was already halfway out of the door.

Archie stopped and raised an eyebrow. “I reckon yer’ve missed the point, guvnor,” he said.

No sooner had he gone, than one of the clerks tapped on the wood panelling to announce that he had a visitor, and to his astonishment Mrs Eustace was ushered in, with Archie returning in her wake like a bad penny.

Hamish nearly groaned aloud, and was on the point of despatching the photographer with a sweep of his outstretched arm, but was prevented by Mrs Eustace’s gasp of admiration as she took in Archie’s photographic equipment.

“Goodness,” she gushed, “are you the gentleman whose photographs appear in The Family’s Guide to Manners and Morals? Why, it is an honour to meet you. You are a true artist.” She lifted her veil, and Hamish noticed with misgiving that the effect she had on Archie was as dire as upon himself.

“An’ a great many uvver publications, ’sides, not ter mention the fact me portrait photographs are becomin’ quite sought afta by the gentry,” Archie said importantly.

Mrs Eustace’s admiration was replaced by disappointment as she said with a sigh, “Alas, such skill must command a higher remuneration than I am able to pay, but perhaps you may advise me on a related matter. You see,” she went on quickly, “I am looking for a photographer to capture a very important—you might even say, critical—event that,” she lowered her voice, “involves possibly drawing out a murderer. It’s what I came here to talk to Mr McTavish about.”

“Mrs Eustace, I really don’t believe that is what brought you here since you surely must know that I recently declined Mrs Moore, herself, when she put to me this same request,” Hamish interrupted, directing a quelling look at Archie, who appeared dangerously on the verge of crumpling to his knees and offering his services for free as he kissed the hem of the lady’s skirts. “And in fact, Mr Benedict was just on his way out.”

She smiled brightly. “You’re right; it was not what brought me here. I was, in fact, going to put an advertisement in the Wanted column.”

“You can do that with the clerk downstairs.”

“Yes, for a lady’s maid and for a photographer,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken, smiling instead, at Archie. “I have a lady photographer who has offered me her services—”

“Lor’ ma’am, but I don’t reckon no lady photographer is up ter the skill level o’ wot I can offer,” said Archie, staring at her as if he were still mesmerised. Then, more eagerly, “An’ fer jobs that are in the public interest, I can offer yer me rock-bottom rate.”

“Could you? How kind, sir.” She turned to Hamish. “And if the event does prove to be of such great interest to the public, perhaps you could reconsider and publish the article in your newspaper, Mr McTavish.”

Archie sent Hamish a scathing look. “Reckon ‘e might be talked round, ma’am. Our esteemed publisher don’t fink that murder is related ter morals so therefore not wivvin the scope o’—”

“That is not what I said, Archie—”

“Anyways, ’e needs ter make money like the rest o’ us. An’ if ’e don’t publish the biggest news o’ wot’s happenin’ in the supernatural world, then some’un else will.”

“I publish periodicals to educate, not to titillate,” Hamish said. He felt like saying a lot more and in a tone far less measured than the one he’d used; however, it was important that Mrs Eustace understand he was a man who did not easily let go of his passions or his principles.