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by its feet, Dr. Caspian swam into view with one hand on his cane, the other raised to doff his hat. Bromven was about to shout and wave him aside. But the plate was ready. Dr. Caspian’s exaggerated pose before the tower was as good a test piece as any, and she wanted to waste no more time. She pressed the bulb.
As she took the exposed plate quickly back to the tent, Caspian observed: ‘A somewhat outmoded technique, surely? I understood the day of the wet plate was past.’
‘Dry plates do not produce results of the same quality. Useful when one is moving about, but not for serious studies. My father refused ever to work with them.’
‘Ah. I am told Charles Lutwidge Dodgson recently gave up photography altogether for similar reasons.’
‘Besides,’ said Bronwen, plunging back into her dark-tent, ‘one can check one’s results in a matter of minutes.’
Most important if you could not be sure of returning to a site to rectify mistakes. And once she had left this surly place, she doubted if she would wish ever to return.
Carefully she poured on the solution of acetic and pyrogallic acid, and slid the plate into its hypo bath. Now, as on so many occasions since his death, she could almost believe that her father was still at her shoulder fussing, squeezing in under the cloth, or grunting a ‘Hm, hm’ outside, and a ‘You’ll lose it if you don’t look lively’, or at most a ‘Well, I’ve seen worse, mm, yes.’
The picture clarified. She was glad her father was not there to see the final result. The tower was as she would have wished it, Dr. Caspian emerged strong and clear, just as he himself would have commanded it. But between him and the tower, a peculiar shadow swirled and thickened, darkening into a cap above the darkness of his head. It was vexing. And more than that. Even in the negative form, where white was black and black was white, she was disturbed by the grimace of that faceless shape behind Caspian’s shoulder—something warped and violent, some hint of predatory lips and menacing talons.
‘You let some light in,’ her father would have chided her. ‘Isn’t that it, mm? Or someone crossed the green and you didn’t even notice.’
* * * *
Meredith Powys had been a Caernarvon architect who discovered early in the experimental days of photography the advantages of showing prints of existing buildings to his clients when explaining his own plans. He also, for his own satisfaction, amassed a collection of pictures of his native Wales, and in due course ventured across the borders. Unlike so many of his contemporaries he was horrified by the demolition which went on in the name of industrial progress: several years before alert preservationists created the Society for Photographing the Relics of Old London, he was hard at work recording threatened buildings for posterity. If a row of old cottages or some corner of an abandoned castle was marked down for destruction to make room for a new railway or a new factory, it became the custom to call in Meredith Powys so that at least a two-dimensional memory of its existence might be preserved.
Mrs. Powys presented him with seven daughters. Two died in infancy, one went to America and was never heard of again, three married—two living still in Wales, one in London. Bronwen was the youngest. Sixteen when her mother died, she had looked after her father’s depleted household and helped him with his work. Most of his time in later years was devoted to photography, and most of that time was spent away from home: the grey stone house in Caemarvon was too hollow and too haunted. He sought the past, travelling, making notes, obsessively taking pictures of churches and abbeys, of great houses and straggling hamlets. Bronwen went with him. She sorted out his notes, kept his files and records, catalogued the accumulation of plates, and coaxed him homewards again when their load grew too bulky and it was necessary to devote some weeks to slotting glass negatives into their appropriate places in the library at Caemarvon.
For some time before his death it had been tacitly accepted as inevitable that Bronwen should continue his work. Once there had been talk of her becoming a teacher until such time as she married, but nothing had come of it. ‘Time you left me to it, girl,’ her father had said on a number of occasions. ‘Time you thought of yourself.’ Or, ‘Don’t have to be hanging round me all your life, now, Bron.’ But he would have been devastated if she had taken him at his word; and what pleased him most and mellowed his last painful months was her assurance that his collection would continue to grow even when he was no longer there.
The echoing hollowness of the slate and granite house was even more desolating after he, too, had left. His executors, the local solicitor and a second cousin from Llanberis, assumed Bronwen would sell it. Instead, she extended the library into a second room, and converted two of the ground floor rooms into a commercial photographic studio. It was a somewhat daring venture for a young unmarried woman with no male guardian on the premises but her family had been known and respected for so long, and she was so affectionately established in local minds as ‘Meredith Powys’s ginger one’, that allowances were made for her. Wedding groups and a certain amount of fashionable portraiture for the gentry brought in a fair income to supplement what her father had bequeathed her; but she did not neglect that other inheritance, her task of expanding topographical and architectural records as her father would have wished. Several weeks each year were set aside for exploration and accumulation. Usually they were uneventful weeks. She would find some inexpensive place to stay, take her pictures, make the relevant notes, and depart. It was rare to encounter trouble such as she had unwittingly run into at Hexney.
Nor were her troubles, apparently, over. The camera must have suffered some damage. How else could that strange blur have insinuated itself by Dr. Caspian’s head, writhing down out of the sky? Back in her room, Bronwen tilted the plate to and fro between her palms. It was not that Caspian himself had moved: his outline was perfectly sharp.
It was too late to make a positive print in this fading light. She would have to wait until tomorrow.
* * * *
From her window she saw Dr. Caspian emerge from a side lane into the village square. He was sunk in thought, his head down, his cane tapping a steady rhythm across the cobbles. She was able to look directly down upon the top of his high-crowned hat as he entered the inn.
He was already seated in the dining room, a decanter on the table before him, when she went down to eat. As she entered the room he stood up.
‘Good evening, Miss Powys. Will you take wine with me?’
She hesitated.
‘The landlord’s cellar contains no great treasures, but I have unearthed a more than tolerable claret which must have crept in without his noticing it.’
A place had been laid at another table, closer to the fireplace; but it did seem rather absurd that the two of them should conventionally keep their distance in this large, unpopulated room.
‘That’s most kind of you.’ She sat down.
‘I trust the results of your labours were satisfactory?’
‘Not altogether. Something went wrong.’
He went to the other table to fetch a second glass and, returning with it, poured glowing red wine and set it before her. ‘I have a suspicion I was at fault. I made some foolish gesture when I should have remained rigid.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. There must have been some trick of the light. It produced a very strange shape at your shoulder, Dr. Caspian.’
He raised his glass to her. His eyes gleamed as deep and dark as the wine. ‘Don’t tell me you have been concocting spirit photographs? You really must let me into your technical secrets. They could prove most useful in my own profession.’
‘I’m still ignorant of what that is.’
Instead of taking her up on this he said: ‘If you could spare me half an hour of your time, I believe you might be of some service to me here, tomorrow.’
‘After bungling one picture of you—’
‘I wasn’t thinking of my own image. What I need are some photographs of the footprints.’
Mrs.