Waxwork by Peter Lovesey

the studio.’
    Cromer got up at once. ‘I am absolutely at your disposal. It is on the ground floor.’
    As they made their way down a carpeted staircase, Cribb asked, ‘Where were you on the day Perceval died, sir?’
    Cromer gave him a sharp glance. ‘In Brighton, Sergeant. The Portrait Photographers’ League was holding its annual conference. I am Vice-Chairman.’
    â€˜Of course. Should have remembered. I read it in the statement your wife made.’ Cribb paused to look out of a window. ‘What time did you leave the house that day, sir?’
    â€˜Early,’ answered Cromer. ‘I cannot be exact as to the time.’
    â€˜You were catching a particular train?’
    â€˜No particular one. The Brighton service is frequent, as you must know.’
    â€˜What time did the conference begin, sir?’
    â€˜At eleven, Sergeant.’
    â€˜Then you must have started early. It would take the best part of two hours to get to Brighton from here. You were there in time, I hope?’
    â€˜The trains are most reliable,’ Cromer answered, pushing open a door. ‘This is the reception room. The entire ground floor suite has been converted into studio accommodation.’
    Cribb stepped inside, expecting a row of chairs and a pile of magazines. He swiftly learned not to confuse photography with dentistry or men’s haircutting. This was no common waiting-room. It was high and spacious, with a pink and white wall-covering that looked like brocade. The design was repeated in pale blue and yellow in the fabric covers of a carved gilt sofa and chairs in the Louis XIV style. The opulence extended to twin cut-glass chandeliers, an ebonised occasional table and a display cabinet crowded with fine porcelain. Round the walls were ranged framed photographs of purposeful-looking men in frock coats standing beside tall-backed chairs as if they had just risen to make statements of surpassing interest.
    â€˜The doors to right and left lead to the dressing-rooms,’ Cromer explained. ‘The ladies in particular use the powder-puff up to the last possible moment, while no gentleman will submit himself to the lens without straightening his tie.’ He pushed open a pair of doors flanked by tall vases of pampas grass and announced, ‘My studio, Sergeant.’
    It was as large as the booking-hall at Kew Gardens station. What had once been a spacious drawing-room had been more than doubled in size by removing the north-facing wall and extending the room outwards into the garden. Besides giving additional space, the extension was obviously designed to admit as much natural light as possible. It was formed largely of glass and dominated by a broad skylight that could be blocked out by a blind operated with pulleys and a cord.
    â€˜Fit for the Queen herself!’ ejaculated Cribb. He strode to the centre to examine a camera large enough to seat a cabman. Ahead was the podium where clients could be posed in suitable attitudes among profile props that included a stile, a church steeple and a rowing-boat. ‘I’m no authority on photography,’ he said conversationally, ‘but I don’t under-estimate its possibilities. We photograph habitual criminals to assist us in detecting crime, did you know that? Half-profile, to get the shape of the nose, you understand, and in their own clothes, naturally. I don’t suggest the results could be compared with yours. We don’t take much trouble over posing the sitters, and retouching isn’t included, but the character comes through. There’s no artistry in it, of course,’ he tactfully added.
    Cromer had already moved through the room to another door. He seemed keen to make the tour as quick as possible.
    â€˜That cabinet to your left,’ said Cribb. ‘Would that by any chance be where the wine is kept? I see you have some glasses on the top.’
    â€˜I do beg your pardon,’ said Cromer,