Jones was killed trying to save a relic in a house fire was wrong.”
The initial shock was fading. Venetia found that she could once again think clearly.
“The reason I am certain that it cannot be the real Mr. Jones,” she said, “is because in the time that I spent with him at Arcane House I learned that he was a very reclusive gentleman. For heaven’s sake, he even belonged to a society whose members are obsessed with secrecy.”
“What do his eccentricities have to do with this?” Beatrice asked blankly.
Venetia sat back in her chair, satisfied with her own reasoning. “Trust me when I tell you that having a casual chat with a member of the press, especially a reporter from a gossipy rag such as
The Flying Intelligencer,
is the very last thing the real Mr. Jones would do. Indeed, the gentleman I met at Arcane House would go out of his way to avoid such a meeting. Why, he refused to even let me photograph him.”
Amelia pursed her lips. “If that is the case, then we must assume that someone else has chosen to pose as our Mr. Jones. The question is why?”
Beatrice frowned. “Perhaps one of your competitors has concocted this tale thinking it will create an embarrassing sensation that will hurt the business.”
Amelia nodded quickly. “We all know that your success has not set well with every member of London’s photographic community. It is a very competitive profession and there are those who would not hesitate to reduce the competition.”
“Such as that very unpleasant little man named Burton, for example,” Beatrice said grimly.
“Yes,” Venetia said.
Beatrice peered over the rims of her spectacles. “Do you know, now that I think upon it, I would not put it past Harold Burton to plant an outrageous tale in the press simply to start up gossip about you.”
“Aunt Beatrice is right,” Amelia said. “Mr. Burton is a dreadful creature. Every time I think of those pictures that he left on our doorstep, I want to strangle him.”
“So do I,” Edward declared fiercely.
“We do not know for certain that Mr. Burton was the person who left those photographs,” Venetia said. “Although I must admit one of them certainly bears his stamp. He is a very good photographer, after all, and he does have a rather nice style.”
“Odious little man,’ Beatrice muttered.
“Yes,” Venetia said. “But somehow I do not see him engaging in a scheme of this nature.”
“What do you believe is going on?” Beatrice asked.
Venetia drummed her fingers lightly on the table. “It occurs to me that whoever has decided to pose as Mr. Gabriel Jones may have blackmail in mind.”
“Blackmail.”
Beatrice stared at her in horror.
“What on earth will we do?” Amelia asked.
“What is blackmail?” Edward asked, searching each of their faces in turn. “Does it refer to a letter written on black paper?”
“It has nothing to do with paper and ink,” Beatrice said briskly. “At least, not directly. Never mind. I will explain later.” She turned back to Venetia. “We do not have enough money to pay an extortionist. We have invested everything in this house and the gallery. If this is a blackmail attempt, we are ruined.”
That was quite true, Venetia thought. They had used almost every penny of the generous advance that the Arcane Society had paid her to rent the small town house here in Sutton Lane and to outfit the gallery on Bracebridge Street.
Venetia took another sip of coffee, hoping for inspiration.
“It occurs to me that this may be one of those situations in which one must fight fire with fire.” she said at last. “Perhaps I should go to the press, myself.”
“You must be mad,” Amelia said, astonished. “Our goal should be to squelch the rumors, not fuel them.”
Venetia checked the paper again, memorizing the name of the correspondent who had written the outrageous piece. “What if I were to inform this Mr. Gilbert Otford that an impostor is perpetrating a terrible
The initial shock was fading. Venetia found that she could once again think clearly.
“The reason I am certain that it cannot be the real Mr. Jones,” she said, “is because in the time that I spent with him at Arcane House I learned that he was a very reclusive gentleman. For heaven’s sake, he even belonged to a society whose members are obsessed with secrecy.”
“What do his eccentricities have to do with this?” Beatrice asked blankly.
Venetia sat back in her chair, satisfied with her own reasoning. “Trust me when I tell you that having a casual chat with a member of the press, especially a reporter from a gossipy rag such as
The Flying Intelligencer,
is the very last thing the real Mr. Jones would do. Indeed, the gentleman I met at Arcane House would go out of his way to avoid such a meeting. Why, he refused to even let me photograph him.”
Amelia pursed her lips. “If that is the case, then we must assume that someone else has chosen to pose as our Mr. Jones. The question is why?”
Beatrice frowned. “Perhaps one of your competitors has concocted this tale thinking it will create an embarrassing sensation that will hurt the business.”
Amelia nodded quickly. “We all know that your success has not set well with every member of London’s photographic community. It is a very competitive profession and there are those who would not hesitate to reduce the competition.”
“Such as that very unpleasant little man named Burton, for example,” Beatrice said grimly.
“Yes,” Venetia said.
Beatrice peered over the rims of her spectacles. “Do you know, now that I think upon it, I would not put it past Harold Burton to plant an outrageous tale in the press simply to start up gossip about you.”
“Aunt Beatrice is right,” Amelia said. “Mr. Burton is a dreadful creature. Every time I think of those pictures that he left on our doorstep, I want to strangle him.”
“So do I,” Edward declared fiercely.
“We do not know for certain that Mr. Burton was the person who left those photographs,” Venetia said. “Although I must admit one of them certainly bears his stamp. He is a very good photographer, after all, and he does have a rather nice style.”
“Odious little man,’ Beatrice muttered.
“Yes,” Venetia said. “But somehow I do not see him engaging in a scheme of this nature.”
“What do you believe is going on?” Beatrice asked.
Venetia drummed her fingers lightly on the table. “It occurs to me that whoever has decided to pose as Mr. Gabriel Jones may have blackmail in mind.”
“Blackmail.”
Beatrice stared at her in horror.
“What on earth will we do?” Amelia asked.
“What is blackmail?” Edward asked, searching each of their faces in turn. “Does it refer to a letter written on black paper?”
“It has nothing to do with paper and ink,” Beatrice said briskly. “At least, not directly. Never mind. I will explain later.” She turned back to Venetia. “We do not have enough money to pay an extortionist. We have invested everything in this house and the gallery. If this is a blackmail attempt, we are ruined.”
That was quite true, Venetia thought. They had used almost every penny of the generous advance that the Arcane Society had paid her to rent the small town house here in Sutton Lane and to outfit the gallery on Bracebridge Street.
Venetia took another sip of coffee, hoping for inspiration.
“It occurs to me that this may be one of those situations in which one must fight fire with fire.” she said at last. “Perhaps I should go to the press, myself.”
“You must be mad,” Amelia said, astonished. “Our goal should be to squelch the rumors, not fuel them.”
Venetia checked the paper again, memorizing the name of the correspondent who had written the outrageous piece. “What if I were to inform this Mr. Gilbert Otford that an impostor is perpetrating a terrible
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