“Actually, it was the next year,” I said.
“Yes, well. This is the 1916 make. It’s in excellent condition. There is no film in it. You open the case here,” he said, pressing the lever and peering inside the box when the door swung open. The insides of the camera looked impenetrable to me, but he pulled out his glasses and stared into it, making little sounds.
“It looks perfectly functional,” he said at last. “I can teach you to use it in the space of a few minutes. Whether you have any artistry with it is up to you, I’m afraid. I have some film I can sell you, and when you’ve used the roll, you can come back here and I’ll develop the prints. I’ll have to charge you for that.”
“Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure I wanted Mr. Crablow seeing the things I hoped to capture. “Can you teach me to do it myself? The developing?”
He gave me the sort of smile men have given women since time immemorial. “One thing at a time, my dear lady. I don’t wish to overwhelm you. Now, the case.” He put down the camera and took up the leather valise. “This is an interesting addition. I see a name here. Was your husband Hans Faber? I thought you were the wife of Mrs. Forsyth’s Manders nephew.”
“I am,” I said. “I was. I don’t know who Hans Faber is. My only theory is that my husband bought the camera secondhand.”
“It’s quite possible,” Crablow agreed. He turned the case over in his hands. “This is very finely made, and it’s custom fitted to the camera, which is not of standard valise dimensions. The leather is of the best quality. Whoever Mr. Faber is, or was, he invested a good penny in the creation of this case.”
“I don’t understand what it’s for,” I said. “It seems to me that the camera stands on its own with no case at all.”
“It does,” Crablow replied. “Mr. Faber went to some trouble for this.”
“Does the case keep out the rain?”
“Possibly, but it isn’t sealed with waterproof rubber. Besides, if one is using a camera in the rain—which I do not recommend—one can purchase a slick to prop over it, much like a mackintosh.” He studied the case again. “If I had to guess, Mrs. Manders, I would say that whoever carries this case is disguising his camera as a simple piece of luggage.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and nodded. “So thieves won’t recognize it,” I said.
“Perhaps. The other thing that strikes me is that there is no tripod included. If one is serious about taking photographs, a tripod is a logical piece of equipment.”
My heart sank a little. Alongside paying for film and development, I did not think I could afford a tripod. Photography seemed to be an expensive hobby. “Can the photographer not take pictures by hand?”
“Yes, of course. But the human hand is not as steady as you think. Your husband wasn’t an aspiring journalist, by any chance?”
“No.”
Crablow shrugged. “Well, it’s no matter. I happen to have a spare tripod here. You can borrow it for as long as you like.”
I swallowed. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
“It’s nothing. If you wish to repay me, you can suggest to Mrs. Forsyth that she bring the family in for another portrait.”
“Another?” I asked, watching as he walked to his shelves and rifled through the boxes there. “You took a portrait of the Forsyths?”
“Yes, just before the war. Before the girl died.” Crablow picked up a box, read the label, and came back to his worktable. “They’re not a popular family around here, I know. People still talk about what happened to the daughter and the dead man in the woods. All I know about Frances Forsyth was that I had a difficult time making her sit still. But I was happy with the end result, though Mrs. Forsyth would not let me display it in my front window.”
“Do you have a copy of the picture?” I asked him. “May I see it?”
He glanced at me in surprise. “Yes, of course. I have it in my box of samples I show to private clients. Just over here.”
He had mounted the photograph on thick pasteboard to make it easier to handle. He pulled it from a box of similar pictures and handed it to me.