01 - Memories of the Dead by Evelyn James Page A

of Oliver behind her and was instantly cross with herself.
    “I thought some were a little
before your time, unless you are much older than you look.” She said.
    “I’ll treat that as a
compliment.” Oliver grinned, as Clara blushed with annoyance, “Father rented
this place after the war, said the old studios held too many memories, but he
prefers to do artistic photography these days and leaves the running of the
business to me. Would you like to come through and have a cup of tea?”
    Without waiting for a reply,
the eager photographer led Clara through a curtained archway and into an untidy
backroom that served as his office space. The walls were lined with heavy wood
filing cabinets and an old desk was wedged between two of them and littered
with papers, loose photos, a week’s worth of newspapers and a tea plate with
the remains of cold toast sitting on it. The office had very much the feel of a
man’s working domain and that wasn’t just because of the odd scattered hat or
jacket, or the smell of tobacco. It was the sort of place women would rarely
enter, Clara suspected, even perhaps the bumbling receptionist.
    Oliver dragged a stack of
unused photography plates from a green leather armchair and motioned for Clara
to sit. He then proceeded to remove a well-fed tabby cat from his own, wooden,
desk chair. The creature gave a disgruntled yawn and headed out of the door.
    “Mrs Grimby, pot of tea
please?” Oliver yelled before sitting at his desk with a smile, “So, to what do
I owe the pleasure.”
    Clara was regaining her sense
of calm now she was sitting in the studio surrounded by the detritus of
ordinary life.
    “You invited me to come and
see the photos you took at Mrs Greengage’s house.”
    “So I did.” Oliver nodded, the
smile fading a little, “Are you sure you want to see them?”
    “It can hardly be worse than
seeing the actual dead body.” Clara replied with false bravado.
    “I suppose.” Oliver got up and
went to a filing cabinet, “Inspector Park-Coombs has had copies of course.”
    He brought back a selection of
black and white pictures.
    “I take lots in case some
don’t come out.” Oliver was a bit apologetic about the number of photos,
“Lighting outside the studio can be so tiresome.”
    Clara cast through the pile,
scenes of Mrs Greengage’s parlour from all angles and directions flitted before
her eyes; close-ups of the table and rug, and the sideboard where glasses had
been stacked.
    “There is something missing.”
Clara tapped the pictures and looked meaningfully at Oliver. With a sigh he
handed over the photographs he had carefully held back.
    Clara looked at the new images
displaying Mrs Greengage’s body. Oliver had been as thorough with these as with
the other shots and there were several taken from varying angles and distances.
    “She doesn’t look like a woman
who was shot.” Clara remarked, surprising herself with the statement.
    “How do you mean?”
    “She looks peaceful, maybe a little
puzzled, but not scared or distressed.”
    “Most murder victims don’t.”
Oliver answered, “It’s a myth of fiction that people die with their faces
twisted in an awful grimace, most just look, well, dead.”
    Clara sorted through the
photos again, vaguely aware that she was no longer disturbed at the sight. This
Mrs Greengage felt distant, removed, not a woman she had met and who had then
been horribly murdered. Not a woman she had sat and drunk sherry with only two
nights before.
    Sherry!
    She flicked back through the
shots until she reached the one of the sideboard and drinks cabinet. There were
all the glasses, all empty except for one. How many had had sherry that night?
Herself, Tommy and Mrs Wilton, that would account for three glasses, but the
fourth one had been for Mrs Greengage and she had never touched hers because of
the commotion surrounding the sudden death of Augustus. And the poison found in
the parrot had made them all assume that someone had