“Photographs in the pictorial style, I take it,” Vivian said. She did not bother to conceal her disapproval. “That’s Winston Bancroft’s style. He does mostly nude female figures, I might add.”
“Bancroft’s nudes are art, not porn.”
“Just because he doctors his photographs in an effort to make them resemble paintings doesn’t make his pictures art. No matter what he does he can’t make a photograph an abstract painting. In any case, what’s the point of trying to imitate another kind of art?”
Fenella gave her a stern look. “You would do well to study Bancroft’s work, Miss Brazier. At least some museums and galleries such as mine are willing to hang works from the pictorial school of photography. I’m afraid the modernist style is doomed to fail.” She smiled coldly. “When all is said and done it is nothing more than a form of journalism, isn’t it?”
Vivian’s mouth went dry. If Fenella Penfield had learned of hernewspaper work, her career was truly doomed. Still... Fenella had not actually accused her of debasing her art by doing photojournalism. Fenella was not exactly the subtle type. If she did know the truth or if she had heard rumors, she would not have asked Vivian to show her some work.
Would she?
Not that it mattered now. Fenella had just accused her of doing pornography. That was probably lower than news photography on the respectability scale.
A figure loomed in the doorway of the back room, a man this time. He was in his mid-thirties, tall, slender, attractive in a distinguished sort of way, and athletically built. From his sleekly oiled hair to his well-cut blue blazer, expertly knotted tie, and neatly creased and cuffed trousers he was the picture of upper-class sophistication. He looked like the sort of man who played polo and golf in his spare time.
He had a folded newspaper tucked under one arm.
“Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that managed to combine amused curiosity with just the right edge of ennui. “What do we have here? An artist, I suspect. The scarf is a nice touch, if I may say so. It adds a certain, shall we say, flair?”
“Mr. Deverell,” Fenella said. “I wasn’t expecting you this afternoon.”
“I happened to be driving past the gallery and decided to pop in to see if the Bancroft was still available. I’m told it is.”
“Yes, it is,” Fenella said. “I asked Miss Curry to show you to my office.”
“Don’t blame your clerk,” Morris said. “When I heard that you were talking to an artist I couldn’t resist having a look for myself. I find artists fascinating.”
Fenella hesitated. Vivian got the impression that she did not particularly want to make the appropriate introductions but it was obvious she had no alternative.
“This is Miss Brazier,” Fenella said. “She’s a photographer. MissBrazier, Mr. Deverell. He’s an avid collector of fine art photography. The pictorial tradition.”
“Miss Brazier is a photographer?” Morris’s eyes glittered. “What a coincidence.”
“I beg your pardon?” Vivian said.
“Under the circumstances, meeting you gives me a bit of a cold chill. A rather exciting cold chill but a chill nonetheless.”
Vivian stared at him. And then she looked at Fenella, seeking guidance. Collectors were known to be an eccentric lot. She had met a few, mostly wealthy acquaintances of her parents, but the feverish excitement in Morris’s eyes and his strange comment indicated thateccentricmight not be a strong enough word to describe him.Mentally unstablewould be more accurate.
Even Fenella, notoriously unflappable and believed to have ice in her veins, looked a little wary.
“What an odd thing to say, Mr. Deverell.” She gave him a cool smile. “Please wait for me in my office. I will be with you in a moment.”
Morris chuckled. “I gather you haven’t seen the afternoon papers, Fenella. The Dagger Killer struck again last night.”
“Yes, I heard the news on the radio this morning while I was having breakfast,” Fenella said. “Ghastly business. But I don’t understand what that has to do with Miss Brazier’s photography.”
“I see you haven’t heard the latest.” Morris did not take his gaze off Vivian. “According to the afternoon papers, the police have concluded that the killer is most likely a photographer. A very good photographer. An artist.”
Vivian could not tell if it was lust or sick excitement she saw in his eyes. She opened her senses for a split second and glimpsed a hellish mix of toxic, twisted energy. She suddenly wanted to escape Fenella’s back room as quickly as possible.
Fenella looked startled. “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Deverell? How could the authorities possibly conclude such a thing?”
“I doubt if they figured it out on their own,” Morris said. He finally took his attention off Vivian and smiled at Fenella. “Don’t forget there are always a number of news photographers at a murder scene. Got a hunch one of them gave the idea to the detective in charge of the investigation. Whatever the case, the newspapers are running with the story.”
“That’s the press for you,” Fenella said. Disdain dripped from every word. “Always happy to print the wildest speculations.”
“If you will both excuse me,” Vivian said, “I’ll be on my way.” She fastened her portfolio case and tucked it under her arm. “Thank you for your time, Miss Penfield.”
