Lost Among the Living(35)

“I am,” I said. “I was. I don’t know who Hans Faber is. My only theory is that my husband bought the camera secondhand.”

“It’s quite possible,” Crablow agreed. He turned the case over in his hands. “This is very finely made, and it’s custom fitted to the camera, which is not of standard valise dimensions. The leather is of the best quality. Whoever Mr. Faber is, or was, he invested a good penny in the creation of this case.”

“I don’t understand what it’s for,” I said. “It seems to me that the camera stands on its own with no case at all.”

“It does,” Crablow replied. “Mr. Faber went to some trouble for this.”

“Does the case keep out the rain?”

“Possibly, but it isn’t sealed with waterproof rubber. Besides, if one is using a camera in the rain—which I do not recommend—one can purchase a slick to prop over it, much like a mackintosh.” He studied the case again. “If I had to guess, Mrs. Manders, I would say that whoever carries this case is disguising his camera as a simple piece of luggage.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and nodded. “So thieves won’t recognize it,” I said.

“Perhaps. The other thing that strikes me is that there is no tripod included. If one is serious about taking photographs, a tripod is a logical piece of equipment.”

My heart sank a little. Alongside paying for film and development, I did not think I could afford a tripod. Photography seemed to be an expensive hobby. “Can the photographer not take pictures by hand?”

“Yes, of course. But the human hand is not as steady as you think. Your husband wasn’t an aspiring journalist, by any chance?”

“No.”

Crablow shrugged. “Well, it’s no matter. I happen to have a spare tripod here. You can borrow it for as long as you like.”

I swallowed. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

“It’s nothing. If you wish to repay me, you can suggest to Mrs. Forsyth that she bring the family in for another portrait.”

“Another?” I asked, watching as he walked to his shelves and rifled through the boxes there. “You took a portrait of the Forsyths?”

“Yes, just before the war. Before the girl died.” Crablow picked up a box, read the label, and came back to his worktable. “They’re not a popular family around here, I know. People still talk about what happened to the daughter and the dead man in the woods. All I know about Frances Forsyth was that I had a difficult time making her sit still. But I was happy with the end result, though Mrs. Forsyth would not let me display it in my front window.”

“Do you have a copy of the picture?” I asked him. “May I see it?”

He glanced at me in surprise. “Yes, of course. I have it in my box of samples I show to private clients. Just over here.”

He had mounted the photograph on thick pasteboard to make it easier to handle. He pulled it from a box of similar pictures and handed it to me.

The family was posed in the large parlor, Wych Elm House’s most formal room, in front of the grand mantel. In the back stood Robert, younger, slimmer, his face blandly handsome and less puffy than it was now. Standing beside him, Dottie looked curiously softer, as if the years between had set the lines of her face in stone. Her hair was tied back as tightly as it always was. Seated in a chair in front of his father, Martin was a young man grown out of childhood, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes soft and staring directly at the camera, a confident smile on his face. This was the same Martin I had seen in Dottie’s picture of him in uniform, the Martin who looked almost nothing like the man today.

Frances was placed beside her brother, seated on a chair in front of Dottie. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen, wearing a dress with puffed sleeves and a high lace collar. Her face stared out at me, the same face I’d seen in the small parlor—the high forehead, the clear, calm eyes. She was a few years younger than the girl I’d seen, wearing a different style of dress, her hair down around her shoulders and tied back with a ribbon, but she wore a string of pearls around her neck that I recognized. Her face wore no expression, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her gaze was serious and fathomless and somehow sad.

I stared at her, captured in silver nitrate and printed on paper. I realized with a jolt that I didn’t just recognize her face—I knew her. I knew something of the fear she suffered, the isolation. I knew it because even though she was dead, she had made me see.

What do you want, Frances? What do you want from me?

“Mrs. Manders?” the photographer asked.

I stuttered an apology and handed the portrait back to him. “Can you show me how to use the camera?” I asked.

He spent an hour teaching me how to set it up, how to load and unspool the film, how to take pictures and advance the film using the lever. He talked about light—I’d need a powerfully strong light to shoot anything indoors, unless I acquired a flash, and outdoor sunlight would work best, especially the less harsh hours of dawn and dusk. Thinking me a hobbyist, he even gave me tips on where to find the best vistas in the area. I tried to take it all in, and then I left, carrying the camera in its valise and my borrowed tripod, my mind spinning.

At Wych Elm House, I had missed dinner. The sky was dark, the late-autumn wind chill now that the sun had gone.

I pulled off my hat and gloves and stopped in the library first, looking for Dottie, the camera and tripod still in my hands. She had dismissed me for the day hours ago, but there were potential art buyers due to arrive tomorrow, and if she were still working I would offer to help. I found the library empty, Dottie’s desk tidy. The new typewriter sat on my little writing desk, hunched under its cover.