The premises of Jones, Chemist, of Cambridge were not familiar to me, but I found them -- in a somnolent down-at-heel back-street -- by the simple stratagem of referring to the trade directory.
Most in the chemist and pharmacy line of business, I suppose, see an air of hygiene as essential. Evidently, Mr Jones held another opinion. The cardboard sign propped in the window declaring "Photographic Studio and Supplies" was yellowing as if with jaundice, and the conventional display of gigantic dropsical bottles above seemed to be growing fungus in the coloured waters within.
The bell on the shop-door defied the
genius loci
by jangling merrily as I entered. In response, a thick-set figure in a grubby white cotton coat emerged through a doorway beyond the counter, staggering like a bear on hind legs and enriching the air with an odour of brandy.
"Ah, Mr Jones," said I.
Mr Jones only stared at me blearily, until he turned his head to bellow over his shoulder, "Customer!" He then staggered back whencever he had come.
Through the open doorway I could see down a long corridor. A pale figure materialised in the darkness at the far end: a pale-faced, pale-haired young man of slender outline, also in a white coat. It was only when he emerged into the shop that I saw that "he" was in fact a shy young woman with hair cut unusually short.
"Miss Jones?" I asked, assuming she was Mr Jones's daughter.
"Mrs Jones," was the unexpected reply. "What can I do for you, sir?"
My first thoughts as to what she could do for me were of a frankly scandalous nature. She was pretty, in a blonde-eyebrowed, large-blue-eyed, fair-skinned way; but much more than that, she had a timid grace about her that roused all my manly instincts, both good and (as the world would say) bad. And her white coat was spotless.
Now, of course, came the ticklish part. "I think I must speak to Mr Jones. It's about some particular photographs."
In her diffidence she would not look directly at me. She swallowed and said, more or less to the furthest corner of the dusty floor, "I could speak to him, sir. Would that be the regular type of photography, or a special kind?"
"Well, it's not a regular sort of photograph, no."
"Excuse me, sir."
She disappeared through the doorway. I heard her murmur a question. The reply was a loud, slurred, "Show him some, then. Don't disturb me when I'm resting, woman!"
There was a delay, and then she reappeared holding an envelope of sturdy brown paper. "These are some half-size samples, sir," she said, and blushed. "Mr Jones takes the photographs himself. You won't find them elsewhere." She handed me the envelope at arm's length, as if wanting as little to do with the contents as possible.
When I saw the photographs I understood. They showed figures in a state of undress, two, three or even four persons at a time, engaged in a variety of practices -- all of which were punishable with imprisonment, for every one of the figures was a well-equipped male.
I could not help but burst out laughing. "Put them away, young lady!" I exclaimed. "They're not to my taste at all."
"You won't tell the authorities, sir?" She was shovelling them back in the envelope.
"Please say you won't tell. Only this sort of thing is all that keeps the shop from going under."
"I wouldn't dream of betraying you. For one thing, as a Utilitarian I regard that sort of activity as harmless. Still, the pictures I have in mind are not entirely unlike these. A few tintypes. They would have come in to be developed not long ago."
For the first time she looked directly at me. She stared for a moment, then she lifted the flap of the counter, stepped to the shop-door, turned the sign from "Open" to "Closed", pulled down the blind and returned to behind the counter.
"We do recommend tintypes as robust and convenient for the inexperienced, sir, and we also develop them."
I leaned my head conspiratorially towards hers. She mirrored the movement. "And have you developed any recently?"
"I believe we have, sir," she said softly. "I did catch a glimpse of them, and the more I look at you, the more I'm reminded of a gentleman in the tintypes."
"And could you show me them?"
"Ah, that's the problem, sir."
My heart sank, for it seemed likely that Handscombe or an employee had already collected the pictures.
