Case in Camera

Oliver Onions

Description

Later in his career, the novelist who worked under the pen name Oliver Onions turned his focus to ghost stories and tales of the supernatural. However, his early work spanned a number of genres, including historical fiction, science fiction, and detective fiction. A Case in Camera delves deeply into a puzzling murder, and it's sure to please readers who appreciate well-written mysteries.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 février 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776531332
• Langue: English

Extrait

A CASE IN CAMERA
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OLIVER ONIONS
 
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A Case in Camera First published in 1921 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-133-2 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-134-9 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Part I - What Happened in Lennox Street I II III IV V VI VII VIII Part II - What Happened Outside I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII Part III - What the Women Did I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII Part IV - The Man in the Public-House I II III IV V VI VII VIII Part V - Some Byways of the Case I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X Part VI - The Man in the Club I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX Part VII - The King's Road I II III IV V VI Part VIII - At Santon I II III IV V VI VII VIII Part IX - What Philip Knew I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX
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To
OLE LUK OIE
"Our Life is like a curious Play Where each doth strive to hide himself. One Mask doth to another say 'Let us be open as the Day' The better to conceal himself."
Part I - What Happened in Lennox Street
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I
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The tale I am setting out to tell has to do with the killing, on a Maymorning of the year 1919, of one young man by another who claimed, andstill claims, to have been his friend. The circumstances weresingular—perhaps even unique; the consequences affected a number ofpeople in various interesting ways and byways; and since the manner oftelling the story has been left entirely to me, I will begin with thebreakfast-party that Philip Esdaile gave that morning at his studio inLennox Street, Chelsea.
II
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Philip had at least two good reasons for being in high feather thatmorning. The first of these was that barely a week ago, with amagnificent new quill pen, he had signed the Roll, had shaken augusthands, and was now Philip Esdaile, A.R.A., probably the most giftedamong the younger generation of painters of the pictorial phenomena ofLight.
I and his second reason for contentment happened to arrive almostsimultaneously at the wrought-iron gate that opened on to his littlefront garden. We all knew that for many months past our barristerfriend, Billy Mackwith, had been tracking down and buying in again onPhilip's behalf a number of Philip's earlier pictures—prodigalpictures, parted with for mere bread-and-butter during the years ofstruggle, and now very well worth Philip's re-purchase if he could getthem into his possession again. (I may perhaps say at once that I don'tthink Philip owed his Associateship to his pictures of that period. Itis far more likely that the artist thus honored was Lieutenant Esdaile,R.N.V.R., sometime one of the Official Painters to the Admiralty.)
A carrier's van stood drawn up opposite the gate, and I saw Mackwith'sslim, silk-hatted and morning-coated figure jump down from the seat nextto the driver. Evidently Philip had seen the arrival of the van too, forhe ran down the short flagged path to meet us.
"You don't mean to say you've brought them all?" he cried eagerly.
"The whole lot. Fourteen," Mackwith replied. "Glad I just caught youbefore you left."
Esdaile and his family were leaving town that morning for some months onthe Yorkshire Coast, and it was this departure that was the occasion ofthe farewell breakfast.
The three of us carried the recovered canvases through the small annexe,where the breakfast-table was already laid, and into the large studiobeyond. There we stood admiring them as they leaned, framed andunframed, against easels and along the walls. No doubt you rememberEsdaile's paintings of that period—the gay white and gray of histumultuous skies, the splash and glitter of his pools and fountains,the crumbling wallflowered masonry of his twentieth-century fêtes-champêtre . There is nothing psychical or philosophic about them.He simply has that far rarer possession, an eye in his head to seestraight with.
"Well, which of 'em are you going to have for yourself, just by way ofthank-you, Billy?" the painter asked. "Any you like; I owe you the bestof them and more.... And of course here comes Hubbard. Always does blowin just as things are being given away, if it's only a pink gin. How areyou, Cecil?"
The new-comer wore aiguillettes and the cuff-rings of a Commander, R.N.He was a comparatively new friend of mine, but for two years off and onhad been a shipmate of Esdaile's, and I liked the look of his honest redface and four-square and blocklike figure. We turned to the picturesagain. I think their beauties were largely thrown away on Hubbard.Somebody ought to have told him that their buying-in meant a goodthousand pounds in Esdaile's pocket. Then he would have looked at themin quite a different manner.
In the middle of the inspection Joan Merrow's white frock andbuttercupped hat appeared in the doorway, and we were bidden to come into breakfast. Monty Rooke and Mrs. Cunningham had just arrived, whichmade our party complete.
The little recess in which we breakfasted was filled with the sunlightreflected from the garden outside. Everything in it—the napkins andfruit and chafing-dishes on the table, the spring flowers in the bowls,the few chosen objects on the buff-washed walls, the showery festoon ofthe chandelier overhead—had the soft irradiation of a face seen under aparasol. Little shimmers of light, like love-making butterflies, dancedhere and there whenever glasses or carafes were moved, and thestretches of shining floor almost looked as if trout might have lurkedbeneath them.
And where the tall French windows stood wide open the light seemed to befocused as if by a burning-glass on the two little Esdaile boys whoplayed beneath the mulberry that rose above the studio roof.
I don't suppose the whole of Chelsea could have shown a merrierbreakfast-party than we made that May morning. For, in addition to ourhost's new Associateship and those fourteen wandering pictures safelyback home again, we had a further occasion for light-heartedness that Ihaven't mentioned yet. This was the wedding, to take place that dayweek, of Mrs. Cunningham and Monty Rooke. Philip was generously lendingthem his house and studio for the summer. Monty we had all known foryears, but Mrs. Cunningham I for one set eyes on for the first time thatmorning. Later I got a much more definite impression of her. For thepresent I noticed only her slender and beautiful black-chiffon-coveredarms, the large restless dark eyes that seemed to disengage themselvesfrom under the edge of her black satin turban hat, and her manicuredfingers that reminded you of honeysuckle. The Esdailes had received her"on the ground floor," so to speak, and it obviously pleased Monty thatPhilip had called her Audrey straight away.
So we talked of the approaching wedding, and the Associateship, and thepainting-cottage in Yorkshire, and so back to the pictures again. Onthis subject Commander Hubbard unhesitatingly took the lead.
"Well, it's certainly Art for mine my second time on earth," hegood-humoredly railed, the aiguillettes swinging gently on his breast."Fancy going out of town this weather! Taking away all that gear behindthe bulkhead there,"—he jerked his head to where Philip's paintingparaphernalia lay ready packed in the hall—"a few yards of raw canvasbent on battens—and bringing it back again worth twenty pounds aninch!"
Hubbard had a Whitehall job that summer, and loathed it. Esdailelaughed.
"Can't see why they didn't make me a full Academician while they wereabout it," he said.
" And he's grumbling!" Hubbard retorted. "Perfectly revolting fellow.That's too much lunching with Admirals. Listen, Mrs. Esdaile, and I'lltell you the kind of thing we mere senior officers had to put up with. Ahoist breaks out from the flagship, and every glass in the Squadron isglued to it. You'd think at least we were to proceed to sea immediately.Nothing of the sort! It's the Admiral presenting his compliments to thiswretched wavy-ringed fellow your husband, and would he give him thepleasure—would Lieutenant Esdaile, R.N.V.R., condescend—stoop—to takeluncheon with him! The Admiral, if you please! And that's what it is tobe an Official Painter!"
Esdaile laughed again. He was trying to remove in one unbroken piece theparing of an apple for Joan Merrow.
"Give him a smile now and then and he'll eat out of your hand, Mollie,"he said. "Now, Joan, the last little bit—this is where a steady handcomes in—there!" He held up in triumph the wiggle of apple paring."Throw it over your left shoulder and see what initial it makes on thefloor. Here's my guess on this bit of paper under my napkin—'C forCh' ... Ah, clumsy infant!" The strip had fallen in two pieces. "Theregoes your luck. Allee done gone finish. I'll have the apple myself;you'd better go and write the rest of those labels."
The Esdailes had to all intents and purposes adopted Joan Merrow nowthat she was alone in the world. On the day when Philip, half scared bythe risks he was taking, had informed his private pupils that theirtuition took up too much of his painting-time, he had not included Joan.She had continued to prime his canvases and to make use of his models atlong range from odd corners of the studio; and then, during his absenceon Service, she had come to live in the house, had taught and mended forthe children, and had been companion and friend to Mollie. By anaffectionate fiction, her former fees were supposed to cover the cost ofher board, and a proper arrangement was to be come to one of these days.She was twenty, had only lately ceased to have the stripli