He knew that Gabriel Jones would not have chosen an unimportant female like the photographer: a woman with no money or social connections—unless she possessed strong psychical powers of her own.
The killer placed the dead fish on the examination table and reached for a knife.
Eyes that gleamed with a nerveless inhuman lack of emotion watched him from inside the fern-choked, glass-fronted Wardian case that lined one wall of the room.
The insect, reptilian and aquatic worlds provided the ultimate examples of the great forces of natural selection in their purest form, the killer thought. There was no sentiment, no emotion, no family bonds, no passion or politics in those spheres. Life was reduced to its most basic elements. Kill or be killed.
He went to work on the fish. Failed experiments were always disturbing but they were not without some interest.
Chapter 12
“Christopher Farley is no doubt greatly indebted to you this evening, Mr. Jones.” Adam Harrow swirled the champagne in his glass with a lazy movement of one gloved hand. “Mind you, I’m certain there would have been an excellent turnout even without your presence on account of the excellence of your wife’s photographs. Nevertheless, I strongly suspect that the news of your astonishing return did much to enhance the size of the crowd.”
Gabriel turned his attention away from the framed photograph he had been examining and surveyed the thin, languidly graceful young man who had come up beside him.
Venetia had introduced him to Harrow shortly after their arrival at the exhibition hall. She had then been swept up by a throng of individuals who appeared to be evenly divided between colleagues, admirers and the just plain curious. She was now holding court on the other side of the room. Gabriel had soon discovered that he would be on his own tonight. The exhibition was a social affair on the surface but beneath the earnest conversations about the art of photography and the latest gossip, his
wife
had business to conduct.
Fortunately Harrow had proved to be an interesting companion. His voice was low and cultured. He projected the cool, amused air that marked him as a gentleman accustomed to the best in everything from clubs and mistresses to art and wine. His trousers and wing-collared shirt were in the latest style. His light brown hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and gleamed with a judicious application of pomade.
Harrow’s features were finely, almost delicately, molded. They put Gabriel in mind of one of the ethereally handsome knights in a Burne-Jones painting. Recalling the name of the painter made Gabriel realize yet again just how common the name Jones was. No wonder Venetia had concluded that no one would notice one more Jones in London.
“I take it that Farley is the person responsible for staging this exhibition?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes.” Harrow took a sip of champagne and lowered the glass. “He is a gentleman of means who has become something of a patron to the photographic community. He is known to be generous to those who are starting out in the profession. He even maintains a well-stocked darkroom here on the premises for photographers who cannot afford their own equipment and chemicals.”
“I see.”
“Farley has contributed greatly to the notion that photography deserves to be considered a true art.” Harrow arched a delicate brow. “Unfortunately, that view is still quite controversial in some circles.”
“One wouldn’t know it by the crowd here tonight,” Gabriel said.
The brightly lit exhibition hall was crammed with well-dressed visitors. The guests promenaded around the room, glasses of champagne or lemonade in hand, and made a great show of scrutinizing the photographs that hung on the walls.
The pictures in the exhibition were the work of a number of different photographers and had been arranged by competition categories: Pastoral Views. Portraits, Monuments of London, and Artistic Themes.
The killer placed the dead fish on the examination table and reached for a knife.
Eyes that gleamed with a nerveless inhuman lack of emotion watched him from inside the fern-choked, glass-fronted Wardian case that lined one wall of the room.
The insect, reptilian and aquatic worlds provided the ultimate examples of the great forces of natural selection in their purest form, the killer thought. There was no sentiment, no emotion, no family bonds, no passion or politics in those spheres. Life was reduced to its most basic elements. Kill or be killed.
He went to work on the fish. Failed experiments were always disturbing but they were not without some interest.
Chapter 12
“Christopher Farley is no doubt greatly indebted to you this evening, Mr. Jones.” Adam Harrow swirled the champagne in his glass with a lazy movement of one gloved hand. “Mind you, I’m certain there would have been an excellent turnout even without your presence on account of the excellence of your wife’s photographs. Nevertheless, I strongly suspect that the news of your astonishing return did much to enhance the size of the crowd.”
Gabriel turned his attention away from the framed photograph he had been examining and surveyed the thin, languidly graceful young man who had come up beside him.
Venetia had introduced him to Harrow shortly after their arrival at the exhibition hall. She had then been swept up by a throng of individuals who appeared to be evenly divided between colleagues, admirers and the just plain curious. She was now holding court on the other side of the room. Gabriel had soon discovered that he would be on his own tonight. The exhibition was a social affair on the surface but beneath the earnest conversations about the art of photography and the latest gossip, his
wife
had business to conduct.
Fortunately Harrow had proved to be an interesting companion. His voice was low and cultured. He projected the cool, amused air that marked him as a gentleman accustomed to the best in everything from clubs and mistresses to art and wine. His trousers and wing-collared shirt were in the latest style. His light brown hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and gleamed with a judicious application of pomade.
Harrow’s features were finely, almost delicately, molded. They put Gabriel in mind of one of the ethereally handsome knights in a Burne-Jones painting. Recalling the name of the painter made Gabriel realize yet again just how common the name Jones was. No wonder Venetia had concluded that no one would notice one more Jones in London.
“I take it that Farley is the person responsible for staging this exhibition?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes.” Harrow took a sip of champagne and lowered the glass. “He is a gentleman of means who has become something of a patron to the photographic community. He is known to be generous to those who are starting out in the profession. He even maintains a well-stocked darkroom here on the premises for photographers who cannot afford their own equipment and chemicals.”
“I see.”
“Farley has contributed greatly to the notion that photography deserves to be considered a true art.” Harrow arched a delicate brow. “Unfortunately, that view is still quite controversial in some circles.”
“One wouldn’t know it by the crowd here tonight,” Gabriel said.
The brightly lit exhibition hall was crammed with well-dressed visitors. The guests promenaded around the room, glasses of champagne or lemonade in hand, and made a great show of scrutinizing the photographs that hung on the walls.
The pictures in the exhibition were the work of a number of different photographers and had been arranged by competition categories: Pastoral Views. Portraits, Monuments of London, and Artistic Themes.
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