Fresh debates broke out in the crowd, but no-one seemed inclined to oppose Mr Livermore’s wishes.
‘Are we all agreed?’ he repeated.
There was a murmur of assent, and a few cries of ‘Yes!’
‘In the meantime, I would earnestly beg you all to keep calm. We don’t want to turn into a riotous assembly now, do we?’ he added with a playful smile.
There was some laughter.
‘Is that agreed?’
The crowd indicated its agreement and Mr Livermore bowed and after a few words with the constables he was permitted to enter the police station.
‘It sounds like Mr Livermore did the right thing,’ said Mina, thankful that Richard’s baseless speculation had not led to a murderous rampage.
‘Oh yes, because everyone was very determined to go in and see the man, and not for any beneficial purpose,’ said Richard. ‘We made some good photographs of the commotion. I must say not all of the gentlemen there wished to be photographed, I really don’t know why, but there is no reason why you have to ask them first.’
‘And did Mr Livermore get his deputation?’
Richard grinned. ‘Oh, my dear girl, what came next was the very best part of all!’
‘Quickly, give out the cards!’ said Beckler, losing no opportunity to set me to work while everyone waited for Mr Livermore to return. ‘If they ask, say that I am photographer to the nobility.’
Round hat came and stared at the apparatus. ‘You should go inside and picture the man in the cells. Then we can all see him and make our minds up.’
‘Is there enough light in the cells?’ I asked.
‘Not nearly enough,’ said Beckler, with a regretful shake of the head.
I had another inspiration. I have so many good ideas, Mina, you can’t imagine! ‘I know, we could burn some of that metal ribbon! Have you got any about you? I mean it works in caves, why not cells?’
To my surprise Mr Beckler did not think this was a good idea. ‘That could involve damaging municipal property. It is not the kind of advertisement I was seeking.’ He looked up at the Town Hall windows, and I could see he was thinking. ‘But if they brought him out of the cells and put him near to a window with the sun coming through as bright as it is now, and I adjust the exposure time, I might be able to secure a passable image.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s worth trying. Come with me!’ Beckler took up the camera and tripod and I picked up the case of glass plates, and we advanced on the Town Hall. Fortunately, Mr Livermore’s speech had quietened the crowds, so it wanted only some care and politeness to be allowed through the mass of waiting gentleman. ‘I hope they will admit us,’ said Beckler, ‘but all we can do is ask.’
The constables stared at us laden as we were as we mounted the steps. I arrived first, and Mr Beckler, who was more heavily burdened, which was his fault as he insisted on carrying the camera, brought up the rear looking like the porter of a foreign expedition. So I suppose the police thought that I was the man in charge. Before Beckler could say anything, I greeted the policemen with an extravagant salute, announcing ‘Scotland Yard photographic department!’
‘Do you have a note, sir?’ asked one constable, staring at the camera.
‘No time, I’m afraid, we just rushed here as soon as we could!’
The constables glanced at each other. ‘All right, you can go in and see the sergeant.’
Inside, the tiled reception hall was quite handsome, but it smelt of old clothes and stale pastry. There was a small attendance of people sitting in rows on wooden benches looking very unhappy to be there. They must have been hoping to see the sergeant who was manning a desk, however it was obvious that Mr Livermore had already asserted his superior authority and had ignored the grumbling masses in order to take first place.
He was discussing with the sergeant his proposal to take a delegation down to the cells, and the sergeant was scratching his chin and pondering the request.
‘Ah, my good man,’ I said, approaching the desk, ‘your troubles are over, we are here! I expect you are relieved to see us, eh?’ Mr Beckler put the camera down and stared at me, mouth gaping open like a large fish. He was obviously dismayed at my boldness, which must have come close to impertinence, but unsure whether or not to interrupt as it seemed to be doing the trick.
‘I don’t rightly know who you are,’ said the sergeant. ‘Why are you here and who sent for you?’
‘We are Beckler and Scarletti, photographers to nobility and royalty,’ I said before Becker could reply. I still had some of the advertising cards in my pocket, so I took one, made a bit of a flourish with it, and handed it to the sergeant. ‘Engaged by the special photographic department of Scotland Yard to make a portrait of your prisoner, Mr Holt. We received an emergency telegram, from someone very important, and we came here at once.’ I patted my pockets as if looking for the telegram. ‘I had it here somewhere. No matter. Do be a good chap and bring the fellow Holt or whoever he is up to the light so we can get a decent photograph.’
The sergeant frowned, but the card and the presence of abundant photographic equipment was proof enough. ‘If I do, and I can’t promise it, he’ll be under close guard. Not that I think he’ll run off. Docile as a lamb. You’d think he wanted to be locked up.’
Livermore had been watching us very keenly. ‘There are a hundred men outside who would very much like him to be freed for an interview,’ he said grimly.
‘That I don’t doubt,’ said the sergeant.
I hardly dared look at Beckler, but when I did he was looking at me as if he couldn’t decide whether to compliment me or dismiss me on the spot. Then I saw the professional gentleman assert himself once more. ‘Is there a place near a window where we can have sufficient light for a photograph?’ he asked.
The sergeant stared at him, then glanced at the card. ‘This is that new shop in Ship Street?’
‘Under the patronage of Viscount Hope,’ said Mr Beckler.
The policeman considered this, and nodded. ‘You sirs,’ he addressed us, ‘you can come this way. Mr Livermore, I will attend to you shortly.’ We were shown to a private office at the front of the building, which was uninhabited, and left to prepare the room.
There was no time to talk about what had happened. I watched Beckler set up the camera on its tripod and then he threw back the curtains to admit the sunlight. When he did so, there was an excited roar from outside, which soon subsided as the crowds saw a very tall figure at the window, who was obviously not their quarry. I handed him a glass plate from the box, and he slotted it into place, then replaced the lens with the one he uses for portraits. I drew up a chair before the window and he positioned it where he judged that the light would best fall on the face of the subject.
When the sergeant returned, he was accompanied by Mr Livermore, Mr Westbury and Mr Cobbe. ‘We are to be allowed to see the prisoner,’ said Livermore, triumphantly. The members of the delegation ranged themselves against the wall facing the chair, and everyone waited expectantly for the appearance of Mr Holt.
The three gentlemen, Livermore, Westbury and Cobbe, stood in a row, fidgeting with anticipation, all of them eager and primed to see, hear and speak whatever evil they knew of Mr Jasper Holt, while the sergeant went to fetch the prisoner. Beckler’s attention was directed solely towards his camera, and he circled about it, adjusting for the available light like a costume-maker dancing about a bride being fitted for her wedding dress. Several times he dipped his head under the black hood at the back, emerging with a dispirited expression, and increasingly rumpled hair, then stared disconsolately out of the window as if in the hopes of heavenly intervention.