He turned to me. ‘Mr Scarletti,’ he rapped, ‘assist me if you please by sitting in the subject’s chair.’
It was really more of an order than a request. I had the feeling that Beckler was not at all pleased with me for speaking out, which I thought he ought to have been, however I sat where directed. And now I was obliged to endure repeated and probably unnecessary corrections of my posture before Beckler once again retreated to the camera and threw the dark cloth over his head and shoulders.
I had once been allowed to look under the camera hood so I knew that Beckler was examining the screen to judge if the picture was sharp enough. I couldn’t help wondering how a fellow was expected to keep his hair in good order with such a tiresome demand. Ladies much prefer gentlemen to have tidy hair and I am always careful with his grooming when going out, although now I think about it, Mina, you often take me severely to task for my appearance when I return. That is hardly reasonable; one can’t expect a fellow to be perfectly coiffed with a clean collar after a night out. But perhaps,’ Richard mused, ‘some ladies like a little wildness about the locks. It hints at adventure, like the dreadful Mr Hope who so I have heard is very successful with ladies. I wonder if it would help my chances if I went to Africa, but it does seem like a lot of trouble.’
‘Was it possible to take a photograph?’ asked Mina, making an effort to be patient.
‘Oh, yes, well, as I was saying, Mr Beckler emerged from the camera hood looking thoroughly dissatisfied, and started searching about the room, peering closely at things like wall plaques and a framed certificate. Eventually he found a battered tea tray on top of a cabinet, which he snatched up triumphantly as if it was a great prize. Then he handed it to me together with a polishing cloth from the camera case. ‘Take this and rub it till it shines,’ he said. The three gentlemen were all looking very surprised by this. ‘It will serve to reflect the light’ Beckler explained.
It was no occupation for man of my ability, but what could I do but obey, and think of what complaint I might make later. When I had completed this task as well as I could, Beckler examined the tray, then gave it an extra rub with the cloth before handing it back. ‘Now, hold this, stand up and face the window. No — not there — there. Now turn. Turn more. Stop. Good, stay there. And hold the tray just so. Higher. Yes. And don’t move unless I say so.’ I felt less like a photographer’s assistant than a performing animal.
At last, the door of the office opened, and the Chief Constable entered, followed by a constable and the sergeant, bringing with them the unexpected guest. The Chief Constable greeted the three delegates, shaking hands with them, and nodded to me and Mr Beckler, then stood beside the fireplace to keep a wary eye on the proceedings, taking particular care to place his body between the fire irons and the prisoner. The constable had stepped to one side so as to guard the door, and then came the sergeant, with one hand firmly on the prisoner’s arm. The sergeant’s hand was large with thick gnarled fingers. It went almost entirely around the upper arm of the prisoner, not tightly but admitting of no resistance, although the man offered none, and hardly looked capable of it. I realised that beneath his clothing the prisoner was thin almost to the point of emaciation.
At the first sight of the arrival, Mr Westbury impulsively tried to take a step forward for a closer look, but the sergeant thrust out his free arm, palm first, to dissuade him. ‘Get back, Sir,’ he said, but his words were hardly necessary. It was a strong arm and a firm palm and Mr Westbury stepped back. I admit I was lost in admiration. What would it be like to command men in that way, with a simple word and gesture? I thought if I became a policeman, then ladies would surely be impressed by my air of authority. Admittedly the uniform is not so good as a military one, but I think I might look rather handsome in it. Did you know, Mina, that I had once considered soldiering as profession? The uniform is so splendid, and all that marching about on parade looks like fun, but when I mentioned it to Mother, she had an attack of hysterics, and the idea had to be given up. Do you know how much policemen earn? Is it hard work?’
‘Richard, did you pay any attention at all to the man claiming to be Mr Holt?’ Mina demanded.
‘Yes, I did, a great deal in fact, because I knew you would ask me about him and would be very cross if I had nothing to say. It’s a pity you weren’t there, Mina, because everyone has been trying to solve the question of who he is, and no one can but if you had seen him you would have had the answer in a trice. So I stared very hard at him, and tried to remember as much as I could, as if I was a sort of camera, only one that recorded colours and sounds and smells too, which someone really ought to invent one day. Well, perhaps not the smells.
The supposed Mr Holt is neither tall nor short, but he seemed shorter than the average size because he did not stand straight. His shoulders were held very rounded as if he was pressed down by the weight of misery. He was not old, nor very young, in fact it was hard to guess his age with any exactness, not that I could remember how old Mr Holt was supposed to be. His hair was thick and very untidy, more grey than brown, and rather dirty. It hung over his ears almost to his collar. He was heavily bearded, but not in the fashionable manly style; bearded as a result of long neglect. His clothes were worn; thinning at the elbows, baggy at the knees, with a ragged stained collar. I rather thought that the poor fellow must possess only the one suit of clothes which he wore every day and was never cleaned. But I could see that the garments had been good once, perhaps they had been given to him out of charity. The shoes were in a similar state, worn at the toes, unpolished, the upper starting to lift from the soles, but made from good leather.’
‘Do you think he was a beggar, a man without a home?’ asked Mina. ‘Such a man might admit to anything just to have some sheltered place to stay.’
‘He could have been a beggar, but there was no deeply ingrained grime that might have been expected if he had lived long on the streets. His hands were not clean, although there was some smeary evidence that they and his face had recently, probably that morning, been allowed to make simple ablutions, and there was a very determined blackening about the fingertips, as if he had rubbed the pads of his fingers in coal or something similar. He smelt unbathed, and as he moved further into the room, the air became pungent with it.
‘No-one must approach the prisoner,’ said the sergeant, firmly to all three witnesses. ‘Now then sir,’ he said to his charge, ‘I see there is a chair set ready for you so please make yourself comfortable.’
The door was closed, and the constable stepped in front of it. No-one was about to try and make their way through either.
The prisoner shuffled forward but whether this odd gait was due to bodily weakness or the restrictions of his broken footwear was unclear. He eased himself carefully into the chair by the window, and sat very still with bent head, taking very little notice of those around him. The movement, seen from outside brought a fresh set of exclamations from the assembled onlookers in the square, and the voices of the constables who guarded the front door could be heard persuading them not to mount the steps.
‘You couldn’t close the curtains, could you, sir?’ asked the sergeant. ‘The crowds are getting very restive.’
‘I’m sorry, but I need as much light as I can get for the photograph,’ said Beckler. ‘It will only take a few moments.’