Murder in the Unfinished Photograph

How it begins

There were five people in the portrait. Elsie had photographed four.

The fifth lay beneath the chair, one polished shoe visible beside the mother's skirt.

She held the glass plate closer to the lamp.

At half past ten, the family had arrived complaining about the wind. At eleven, they had left complaining about the price. Between those events, Elsie had arranged a chair, a painted garden, two unwilling children, and a mother determined to look serene.

There had been no man on the floor.

She set the plate down without touching its wet surface.

In the shop beyond the darkroom, the bell rang.

“Closed,” she called.

“Your sign says otherwise.”

Inspector Hale's voice was familiar. He had once asked whether a photograph could be improved by making a suspect look less innocent.

Elsie opened the door.

He stood with his hat in his hands. Behind him waited the woman from the portrait, still wearing the same pale gloves.

“We need to ask about your morning,” he said.

Elsie moved aside.

Hale saw the plate on the drying rack. His expression changed before he reached it.

“You recognize him,” she said.

The woman made a small sound.

“That is impossible.”

“So I've been thinking.”

Hale looked toward the studio door. “Was anyone else here?”

“My assistant brought fresh plates.”

“Where is the assistant now?”

“Collecting a frame.”

Elsie went to the storage shelf. Each unused plate had been numbered in pencil. Twelve, thirteen, fifteen.

She counted again.

Behind the painted garden backdrop, the floorboards gave a soft creak.

All three of them turned.

Elsie knew every sound in her studio: the window latch, the settling wall, the pipe that knocked when the bakery next door boiled its kettle.

This sound belonged to weight shifting carefully from one foot to another.

Hale put down his hat.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

Elsie picked up the lamp. She intended to see exactly what came next.