Lost Among the Living(34)

I picked the camera up, studied it, shook it and listened to the insides. I had no idea if it had any film in it; I didn’t recall Alex acquiring any and loading it. I put the camera down and picked up the custom leather case, turning it over, running my hands over it. For the first time it struck me as curious that the camera had a case at all, since it seemed to be a self-contained unit, protected by leather and equipped with a handle. I pondered it for a moment. The case looked a little like a valise—perhaps it was easier to carry than the camera itself, and protected the camera from wind and rain.

When I opened the case and looked inside, I noticed lettering stitched into the lining. I tilted it toward the light. HANS FABER.

I frowned. Perhaps Alex had bought the case secondhand. Had both the camera and the case belonged to Hans Faber? Why, then, had they been delivered separately? Where had Alex met Hans Faber, and why had he forgotten about the camera almost as soon as it arrived? And why had he bought a camera from a German in 1917, the middle of the war?

I picked up the camera again, feeling the weight and heft of it. A pulse of excitement went through me. I could use this. I had never considered it before, but if I could buy film and a means of developing it, I could take my own photographs.

The leaves, I thought. If I could take a picture of the leaves, I could prove they’re real.

The mist that came to me in the night—I could capture it. Or possibly even Frances herself.

I’m not mad. I’m not.

I put Alex’s camera back in its case, snapped the latches shut, and left the room to ask if I could borrow the motorcar.

? ? ?

As it was a Thursday, the photographer’s shop in Anningley was open. A bell over the door tinkled as I entered and looked about the empty studio, the camera in its case in one hand. The bare room that made up the front of the shop contained only a few easels displaying portraits and two large worktables scattered with tools, debris, and camera parts.

I heard the click of a door and a man came from the back room, looking at me over the rim of his half-glasses. He was perhaps sixty. His hair had gone a bright, snowy white and was brushed thickly back from his forehead. His skin was florid, his body short and rather heavy-looking, as if secretly made of pewter.

“Good afternoon,” he said to me. “You’ve just caught me, I’m afraid. I’m about to close for the day.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, fighting my disappointment. “I can come back Monday, I suppose. It’s just I’ve come from Wych Elm House and—”

“Yes, I know who you are,” the man said with some amusement. “Mrs. Baines at the post office has told everyone all about you.” He glanced at the case in my hand. “I’m Samuel Crablow,” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. “And I don’t mind helping out such a lovely young woman at the end of the day.”

“Nonsense.” I laughed, noticing the interested gleam in his eyes and seeing through him perfectly. “You only want to know what sort of camera I have in this case.”

“Perhaps.” Crablow removed his reading glasses and tucked them in a front pocket. “Though I’d gladly photograph you—I think it would turn out very well. I don’t suppose I could talk you into sitting for a portrait?”

I shook my head. “I came to ask you how to use my camera, not how to sit in front of one.”

“Very well. You have a camera you don’t know how to use—I’m intrigued. Let me know how I can help you.”

I explained briefly how I had come across the camera. Since he already knew of my widowhood from Mrs. Baines, it didn’t take much for him to understand.

“And so you’d like to make use of this impulsive purchase of your husband’s,” he said, taking the case from me and setting it on one of the worktables. “Let’s see what we have. I can give you a few instructions, I’m sure.”

I stood watching him, realizing that part of me had expected to be turned away, to have to argue that my whim was a serious one. “Thank you,” I said.

But he had already forgotten my existence as he pulled the camera from the case and inspected it. “Interesting,” he said. “I see your husband bought this in 1916.”

“Actually, it was the next year,” I said.

“Yes, well. This is the 1916 make. It’s in excellent condition. There is no film in it. You open the case here,” he said, pressing the lever and peering inside the box when the door swung open. The insides of the camera looked impenetrable to me, but he pulled out his glasses and stared into it, making little sounds.

“It looks perfectly functional,” he said at last. “I can teach you to use it in the space of a few minutes. Whether you have any artistry with it is up to you, I’m afraid. I have some film I can sell you, and when you’ve used the roll, you can come back here and I’ll develop the prints. I’ll have to charge you for that.”

“Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure I wanted Mr. Crablow seeing the things I hoped to capture. “Can you teach me to do it myself? The developing?”

He gave me the sort of smile men have given women since time immemorial. “One thing at a time, my dear lady. I don’t wish to overwhelm you. Now, the case.” He put down the camera and took up the leather valise. “This is an interesting addition. I see a name here. Was your husband Hans Faber? I thought you were the wife of Mrs. Forsyth’s Manders nephew.”