The Daguerreotyper

Chapter One

The daguerreotyper, Mister Edwards, was not an extraordinary man. However, he was a man who was soon to find himself in exceptionally extraordinary circumstances. It's true that a number of unusual events were visited upon him, quite suddenly and without explanation, which may explain some why he acted as he did in the face of them.
The first of these events came to him in the shape of a Mr. A. C. Brown of Brown & Spicer Ltd., knocking quietly on his studio door one damp and windy morning in March. In the dim, milky light, his scarlet greatcoat shone wet and bright. From across the road, he could be seen reflected in red on the shining stone doorstep below. Except, of course, he was not seen at all. The wide street was quite empty.
Mr. A. C. Brown stood patiently on the doorstep for a long time before the tall and slightly dishevelled figure of Mister Edwards opened his black front door in his dressing gown, permitted the man a quizzical look, and said:

"Good morning, Sir. Excuse my state of dress - I've not been expecting guests today..." The stranger gave a kindly nod. He was shorter that Mr. Edwards, with a thinning patch on top of his head of auburn hair. "Mister Edwards, I do beg your pardon," he said, and at once his clear yet softly-spoken tone cut through the sound of the rain like a knife through butter. "I've been up and about travelling this morning and had not felt the earliness of the hour."

Mr. Edwards gave two slow blinks. "Early hour? Oh no, not at all. I've been up most of the night I think..." He trailed off, seeming to count something off in his head. As the wind flung a fine shower of water under the eaves of the doorway, Mr. Brown shuffled ever so slightly from one foot to the other, causing a little gathering of rain from his shoulder to pour steadily down one arm. Mr. Edwards, alerted by the cold water now edging into the doorway, came out of his reverie and looked down to face the wet stranger before him.
"My dear fellow, you're simply drenched. Please, come inside."
He stepped aside and the red-coated stranger walked up the front steps into the dim light. The door swung shut again, leaving the street as empty as before, with only the grey sound of falling rain swallowing up all other noise in its' soft hissing static.

The first thing one would notice upon crossing the threshold into Mr. Edwards' lamplit townhouse studio was a lingering burning smell. It seemed to have seeped into the soft furnishings and the weathered silk wallpaper, all of which had the faintest tint of yellow, like stained cigarette paper. Mr. Edwards strode along the corridor and turned right into another room. The man in the scarlet greatcoat snaked behind. The drawing room which they had just entered was better illuminated than the dim corridor, due to the presence of several brightly burning gas lamps and a large bay window overlooking the deserted street outside.
"What can I do for you?" said Mr. Edwards, pulling out a worn chintz armchair and gesturing to another seat opposite, "Mister, ah..."
"Mr. Albert Cornelius Brown of Brown & Spicer Ltd.," he replied, sitting down, "Very pleased to meet you Mr. Edwards, very pleased indeed. I've called on you today after reading about your studios at Winnows Wynd in an article in The Wynbridge Gazette." As he spoke in his steady, resonant tones, he began to twirl the ring of his left hand which was set with a dull, crudely-cut green stone. "I hope you don't mind my calling - I myself have some interest in the business of image-making."

"Business?" Said Mr. Edwards, distracted, "You mean the Art. For I am most certain of that fact, Mr. Brown, as you may have noticed." At this point, he walked over to the bay window, opened it and stuck his head out, gesturing to the stranger with one hand. "See there?" The stranger manoeuvred his head through the window and tilted his head upwards to where Mr. Edwards was pointing. With both their heads now squashed together, they squinted up at the letters painted onto the front of the building. Being on the second story, it was easily missed. 'Edwards Daguerreotypy, Winnows Wynd' it read, in peeling, almost illegible white paint. Beneath this, in fresher lettering, and applied with great care, were the words Artist's Studio. The stranger waited for Mr. Edwards to sit back down before removing his own wet head from the window.

Edwards continued his impassioned speech. "Indeed - this particular form of image-making as you call it, I believe, is of the purest kind. Are you familiar with the process?"
"I am familiar, but have never seen it in practice myself. Forgive me," he said, inclining his head apologetically, "but I was under the impression that the Daguerreotype process is not the usual manner of doing things these days. I would go so far as to say it was, in fact, quite behind the times?" After speaking these words, Mr. Brown seemed to notice his own left hand twisting the gold ring somewhat incessantly, and desisted. Mr. Edwards smiled. "I'm actually glad you said that, Mr. Brown," he said, leaning forwards, "as I do so love to prove people wrong."
Mr. Brown, now leaning forward in a gesture mirroring the man opposite, looked at him with a wry smile.
"In fact," said Mr. Edwards, suddenly standing, "let me prove the argument to you myself." His eyes were now bright and wide awake. "If you'll follow me upstairs. It should actually be about ready now..." As the daguerreotyper turned the other way, Mr. A. C. Brown smoothed back his wet hair, patted down his coat as if checking something, and then followed the tall figure out of the drawing room and up the narrow staircase.

As it was a townhouse, the rooms were rather narrow and the floors, plentiful. The top room, where the two gentlemen now were headed, was the largest with the staircase finishing up in the middle of the wooden floor, and with no other walls separating the space. The floorboards themselves were covered with numerous, unmatching rugs, and scattered on top of wardrobes, dressers and tabletops were countless objects, infinitely varied and seemingly meaningless to anyone except the indefatigable Mr. Edwards who was presently unpacking something from inside a small varnished cabinet. "Now, Mr. Brown - let me ask you - what is the value of a portrait?" Mr. Brown paused thoughtfully for a moment. "I suppose it would depend on the skill of the artist in question." "Yes, indeed, indeed," Mr. Edwards replied, continuing to rifle through drawers, "and can you think of any other factors which may have an effect? For instance, a sketch by Da Vinci would certainly be priced higher than most other painters you could name." He pulled out a metal plate in a black casing, about the size of his hand. "But what if it were the only surviving Da Vinci left in the world?" He looked expectantly at Mr. Brown. "Well..." Mr. Brown began, "such a thing would surely be priceless."

"Precisely!", exclaimed Mr. Edwards, and striding over to an almost empty stretch of wall, he lifted a dark cloth covering a spindle-legged instrument and slotted the plate into the back of it with a hollow, wooden knock. In front of the instrument, a vase of flowers had been placed on a chair, waiting. With a slight flourish, the daguerreotyper lifted the black casing away, leaving the plate inside and turned round to face Mr. Brown.

"The process of image-making is dependant on light. You'll notice the windows," he gestured needlessly to the glass all around, "but the plates themselves must be prepared in complete darkness." He walked over to a cabinet built against the wall, just about large enough for two men, and entered. Mr. Brown lifted back the curtained doorway uncertainly and peered inside.

There came a curt cry from within: "Don't stand out there with the door open, Brown! I thought you said you were familiar with the process." Mr. Brown muttered apologies and shuffled in.

He found himself six inches away from Mr. Edwards' enraptured face. It was pitch black inside, save for a lamp emitting a strange orange light. "Pungent isn't it?" He said, beaming. He took Mr. Brown's quizzical pause for comprehension. "It's the mercury of course." Mr. Brown gave a small choke of alarm, which the daguerreotyper ignored. "One of five chemicals which have to be used to prepare the metal plates before the silver nitrate can be applied. Look - here's some before the iodine coating. See the difference?" He held up two identical plates for Mr. Brown's assessment. "We have Edmond Becquerel to thank for that. Pioneers like him are what allows the artist to survive, you know."
Fluted glass bottles of unknown effects lined walls of the cabinet, each one hand labelled in Mr. Edward's indecipherable scrawl. Scratchings of diagrams were spotted here and there on scraps of paper and even occasionally etched into the wooden walls and work surface itself. He had the feeling that these may have been scratched feverishly by the daguerreotyper one day when he sat in the pitch-black fumigated cabinet alone. Edwards peered down into a shallow dish of chemicals and, seemingly satisfied with what found inside, lovingly plucked out a shining silver plate, the faint impression just visible in the strange light. After cleaning the plate with a muslin, Edwards walked out of cabinet holding it with both hands and squinting down at the captured image. Mr. Brown followed. In the clear light of the studio, a haunting portrait could be seen of an old but beautifully adorned man. He appeared to be dressed as a character from The Tempest, as a hand-lettered quote next to him made clear. He was sat amongst decidedly ropey props, which surrounded him on all sides - some of which could be spotted on the shelves about the room. The eyes seemed to penetrate with a defiance and a sadness.

"A chillingly real creation, isn't it?", spoke Edwards. Mr. Brown agreed. "And only one copy. I emphasise that not as a businessman, but as an artist. Knowing that you own this reflection, this moment, this perfect image that can never, ever be repeated again..." He looked down at the plate as he handed it over to Mr. Brown. "It's a piece of magic in your hands. A silver-plated miracle."

Mr. Brown examined the object, and started nodding. "Yes, indeed", he said, turning it over, "quite a marvellous process."

There was a short silence, and Mr. Edwards suddenly exclaimed, "I've not taken your coat!" Mr. Brown looked up shortly. "You're still soaking wet - here let me take it for you."

And, indeed, there was a shining trail of wet patches on the floor where the stranger's greatcoat had been dripping onto the floor. But, as Mr. Edwards reached forward to take it from him, Mr. Brown seemed to flinch away. He said, "Oh... really, I prefer to leave it on. It will only get everything else wet..."
"Nonsense! It's no problem at all..."
Mr. Brown took a step backwards. "I'm rather cold actually."
Mr. Edwards paused. "Alright. Cold, you say? I've always been told how stifling it gets up here. With the windows and all..."
"I find I get cold easily - circulation problems," said Mr. Brown.
"Not to worry. I can send for some tea." He walked over to a row of bell pulls by the cabinet and rang the farthest to the left. A small tinkling sound came floating up from downstairs.
There was a short yet pregnant silence. The daguerreotyper frowned. "Where did you say you saw this article?" said Mr. Edwards.
"Article?", replied Mr. Brown.
"Yes, the article about me in.... which paper was it?"
"Ah yes, it was the Wynbridge Gazette. The best of the lot in my opinion!"
"I must say," said Edwards frowning, "I certainly don't recall ever -"
"As an investor," interrupted Brown, "I often browse the opinion pieces and classifieds in search of something interesting, and was very pleased to come across your daguerreotypy studio." As Mr. Brown talked, he buttoned his coat closer around him and moved imperiously towards the two nearest chairs. "Such an unusual find." he said with a smile. The daguerreotyper returned it hesitantly and sat down. "In fact, It may surprise you, but I believe I may be able to present you something of interest. I've recently come upon a rather intriguing conundrum - and I feel certain that I am the only tradesman in possession of it. I was hoping that you might be able to confirm this." Mr. Edwards glanced towards the staircase, where the manservant's footsteps could be heard distantly.

At this point, the stranger began to twirl his ring again. He cleared his throat and then reached into the inside pocket of his scarlet greatcoat. "I do hope you'll forgive my presumption in coming to you. But I think you will find this artefact particularly fascinating..." Reaching over, he placed the object on the table. The daguerreotyper was so instantly absorbed by what was in front of him, that he didn't notice the strangers hand trembling as it withdrew.

***

Six hours later, by the side a wet field, surrounded by black bare oaks, two men were having a heated conversation.
"I can' very well answer ye wi'out knowin' where ye be goin'?"
"Listen -- " The man was fast becoming frantic. Suddenly, the old coach-driver seemed to notice it. "Take all the money you want - take my pocketwatch. I don't care!" He pulled his scarlet greatcoat open violently and pulled out a long gold chain from inside it and thrust it into the old man's hand. The coach-driver paid no attention to the gold now in his open palm. He was staring with horrified fascination at what the man was wearing beneath. "Wha' the 'ell happened to you?" The man seemed not to hear him.

He had obviously once owned a fine set of clothes, but they now were so weatherworn it looked as if he'd worn nothing else night and day for time beyond guessing. There were maroon stains that looked suspicious and countless holes and tears in the fabric so that it was truest shredded. The coach-driver thought he knew what kind of man carried a gold watch and fistfuls of cash and walked around in rags, but they were never so well-spoken as this gentleman. And there was something else as well - some other quality in the stranger he couldn't quite put his finger on. So he found himself loading the man's case onto the cart and mounting his horse without another word.

The man in rags scrambled up onto the back steps of the trailer as it began to slowly trundle forward. Rain drove down suddenly harder and the wind picked up - a sheaf of paper was loosed from his partially-open case out across the sodden field. "Never mind it!" he called to the driver, wrapping his greatcoat around him as the floating rain blew once more into his clothes, leaving him shivering in the cold air, "Just keep driving..."

***


At a wide crossroads several miles further, the old man was watching the red-coated figure round the corner and disappear. Bringing out the pocketwatch and studying it, he noticed that it too looked used, rather as though it had been second-hand more than once before, but was cleverly restored. An emerald glinted at the centre of the dial. Without looking back, he placed it on top of a nearby fence-post and walked away leaving the gold watch glinting in the setting sun.

***


Mr. Edwards poured the tea into two china cups and handed one to Mr. Brown. "What a curious thing", said Mr. Edwards. "What kind of creature is that?"

"They don't have a name for it here. The closest comparison which I can think of is that of a monkey." Mister Edwards looked closer at the grainy image on the plate now in front of him. It certainly looked like a monkey, but something about it was decidedly different. Its face was strangely elongated. And yet, the longer he stared at it, the more strange it seemed. He somehow couldn't work it out.

The creature itself sat in front of a shrine of some kind. There were exotic flowers lain on the ground and propped up against a large statue behind. The statue was short and bulky and, by Mr. Edwards' guess, looked to be carved from one enormous piece of wood. Leaning on the statue, with one arm stretched languidly across the top, stood a man in a khaki suit. He was tall and slim, with short curly hair and close-set eyes which stared directly out of the picture. His lanky body seemed to frame the whole scene with a casual confidence.

"Very sinister..." said Mr. Edwards, evidently delighted.

"Yes...", said Mr. Brown. "Well, it's not so much the picture which is puzzling. Take another look at the plate, Mr. Edwards, and hold it up to the light."

"Look a little closer - see the sheen when you hold it up to the light?" Mr. Edwards tilted the plate upwards, and at once a pearlescent green sheen appeared across the surface. He frowned. "Now that really is fascinating," he whispered softly. "I can't think of a single process which I've used that could produce an effect like that." It looked almost like the surface of an ocean. It was mottled and marbled in a way he'd never seen before. "I'd say someone was using an entirely different method completely to create this image." As he said the words, he seemed a little stunned. But it is certainly a one-of-a-kind image. See the slight burning showing through on the other side? You would not be able to produce this more than once. It suppose one would call it a daguerreotype for lack on another word. But it's not one as I know it, not at all."

"One copy only, you say?," the stranger breathed and, with an air of finality, he stood up and held out a hand. Mr. Edwards dragged his eyes from the object on the table and shook the stranger's open hand with both of his, beaming from ear to ear.

***

Despite the daguerreotyper's protestations, the stranger did not leave a card. Instead, he left with a promise to return the next week to discuss the business further. Despite his initial interest that morning, after handing over the object he had brought, he seemed rather in a hurry to leave. He did not finish his tea. Almost as soon as their hands had parted, the stranger began to make his way downstairs, with Mr. Edwards following in his wake. "Don't feel you have to rush off," he breathed as they made their ragged descend down the narrow stairs. "Not at all, I want to leave you to it," said the stranger. "Discover, explore, experiment..." He reached the last step into the corridor with a thump and turned around. "Do whatever it is you artists like to do." He smiled but his face appeared clammy and he was now breathless. He reached into his coat once more and looked at his pocketwatch. "I'm afraid the hour is running late and I have pressing matters at hand." The pocketwatch, Mr. Edwards noticed, was very fine indeed. As his eyes passed over it, the green glint of an emerald winked at him in the flickering light. "I shall see you again shortly, Mr. Edwards," said the stranger. He turned around and, with a sleight of hand that went absolutely unnoticed, he deposited something shiny behind a lamp by the front door and left the studio at number thirty-one Winnows Wynd without another word.

Chapter 2

Outside in the street a young woman stood still looking out across the distance, her gloved hands placed neatly on the wall in front her. Beyond the wall was a drop, from which a dim view of the city could be seen. Birds dipped and drifted on the updrafts. They flittered like fragments in water, floating in the expanse of grey air which filled the cavernous gorge. She had the notion they were guarding sentinel to the slumbering city spread beneath. Spires, towers and pointed stonework sprouted up like intricate crystalline structures through the rows of slate roofs. She watched. Here and there, the tiny orange glow of a streetlight was snuffed out. A dark plume was rising from the station in the distance.

The woman was dark-haired and dark-eyed. If anyone had been watching her from that high and lonely place, they might have called her sad, however any observation of this enigmatic expression would have been a guess.
But, of course, there was no one there to contemplate the fortress of that dark and distant stare. The wide street remained empty. She was quite alone.

As she stared at the plume of smoke, slowly fading from view, she touched her hand to a locket on her chest and unclasped it from round her neck. Holding the necklace in her hand, she seemed to contemplate something for a moment as she looked over the edge of the vast expanse. Then she turned away, put the locket inside her coat pocket and began walking briskly along the pavement towards the black door of Mister Edward's Daguerreotypy studio.

***

Mister Edwards had been living at 11 Winnows Wynd for his the entirety of his 30 years and his antecedents had occupied the residence for several lifetimes prior. His great-grandfather was the first to buy the property in -- and set it up as a shop. He was not born into money. His family made its modest fortune through hard work, determination and an uncanny knack for being in the right place at the right time. When Mister Edwards' father Edmund came into possession of great deal of phosphate and decided to convert their shop into a photography studio, it seemed to his wife and friends that he had gone quite mad. The general murmur of underlying opinion was that photography was a highly suspicious practice. Some even called it dangerous. It required specialist knowledge to create these miraculous images which nobody yet understood. Even those who could grasp the principles behind it whispered that it would be far too advanced for a layman to master - a lavish expense out of keeping with the public need. But luckily for the Edwards family, it proved to be a good investment. Business was at first slow but soon the high quality and good manners of the studio meant that their reputation flourished. Although the call for daguerreotypy was not great in Wynbridge, Mr. Edwards Sr. found that people were now willing to travel from out of town for good service, and thanks to the Luddite attitude of the neighbourhood, the Edwards Daguerrotypy Studio was one of the few of it's kind in a wide area.
People began to speak of him very highly. He was seen a entrepreneur and a gentleman. Never once was he boastful. He was too reserved for that. Instead he took pleasure in working for himself in the studio and teaching his young son -- all he was learning about his trade.
"Never doubt yourself, son", he used to say, "there will plenty of other people in life to do that for you." Mister Edwards took this sentiment very much to heart. Even though his father was headstrong, he was not ignorant. He took the advice of those he respected often. But once he had made a decision, he would stick with it to whatever end.

Growing up with such a father was good for the boy in many ways. His love for his trade was as much a part of him as his hands and feet, having grown up among the sounds and smells of photography. As soon as he was of age, Edmund Edwards worked with his son in the studio, showing him the marvels and mechanics of image making - creating the cloudy chemical reactions, adjusting the delicate glass instruments, sourcing the curious props and costumes from theatres across the town. This last venture always excited the young Mister Edwards in particular. The chance to travel to other parts of the town, and to see many different kinds of people was something new for the boy. There were of course a lot of visitors to the studio, but they were mostly of the same sort - important men looking to capture their likeness in a matter of hours, their dour and obedient families poised stiffly beside them in straight-faced solemnity.
But the theatre was different. There, people were always talking and moving. Colours, lights and laughter surrounded the place. When they paid their visits backstage, actors and dancers would gravitate around the daguerreotyper and his son, their faces brightened with white paint and crimson smiles. They enjoyed the company of the youngster who was so ready to watch them and listen to their long soliloquies. The young Master Edwards at this time was in his age of absorption. He listened politely and interestedly to these words, his mind whirling around every new and shining piece of information.
Loudly they would pronounce their woes - on the questionable character of the theatre-owner, the difficulties caused by an inattentive audience, whether certain people were or were not drunk during the performance, and all manner of other complaints and theatrical hearsay.
But always they would speak rapturously of their art - without a trace of humbleness or embarrassment. Sharing the thespian calling with the ladies and gentlemen of Wynbridge was a noble cause to each and every performer. This sentiment struck a great resonance with William. The desire to claim an art for himself was to have a significant effect on the boy, as we will see in his story to follow.

Over the course of his young life, the boy became more and more interested by the nature of his father's trade. He learnt the names of the chemical compounds, how to prepare the plates, keep the windows clear and even had the names and addresses of their most regular clients set to memory by his early teens. But eventually he found himself feeling around for something beyond just the practicalities of everyday image making, and had a curiosity about where this practice sat in the wider world that could not quite be sated by his father's simple and logical instruction. It seemed that society was changing about them, becoming faster and busier, but their days remained as they had been always. Like the turning of the tide or the changing of seasons, what the studio produced was something quiet, something which took time, patience, light, artistry - things which cannot be pushed forward by scuttling feet.
As Edwards Jr grew taller, and his face lengthened, and he began to question and feel all the hunger for life that comes to young men; so in turn his father began his incremental decline. It was not at first an easy thing to notice. As everyone knew, he did not venture out often to the clubs or races, preferring to stay in his own home, and so for a period his absence from society was not remarked upon. At home, he had always spoken little, preferring to choose his words carefully, particularly with his son, with whom every sentiment expressed was like a lovingly wrapped gift.
Young Edwards was often distracted by his thoughts, yet it did not take him long to attend that the words spoken to him by his father became less and less. Nothing was discussed about it between them, but privately they began to treat each exchange as preciously as a leaf floating on the swaying waves of a stormy sea.
Although he had a poor hand, he took to writing his fathers words in a ledger, which he had not done before. He had trusted himself to recall advice quite accurately, as they were usually working together on something at the time and he remembered things better when carrying them out rather than when written down. Yet - somehow it felt prudent to see the thing recorded in shining ink, as if to give permanence to his father's increasingly weakened voice.
He also began to fill out all invoicing and correspondence on behalf of his father, as Edwards Sr.'s hand no longer unravelled itself into the neat script it had been not long before. That is when the staff in the house noticed. The lack of requests for the kitchen and increased visits from the physician because suddenly quite clear. When they were told a few weeks later by a pale and red-eyed Edwards Jr. that arrangements were to be made for him to take over the running of the business, it was no longer a surprise to anyone.
As we know, there are several times, as unpredictable as weather, that change a person's life forever. The death of William's father was the first of these for him. Before that joyless day, his life and the lives of those around him had clock-worked about in comfortable familiarity. Now it was time for him to truly put away his dwindling childhood. And yet, it seemed he had had no time to really finish doing it. Like a man rushed from a party as he is still shaking hands with the host and finishing his last sips of champagne, the boy found now himself outside in the cold, preparing for the long walk home that was the continuation of his father's business.
Because of the respectability that the Edwards Daguerrotypy Studio had accumulated through Edwards Sr's hard work and diligence, the death of its owner was a newsworthy event. In the first three weeks, there were many visitors to 31 Winnows Wynd which was both a pleasure and a pain to the young William, who differed from his father in that he enjoyed the company of strangers and distant acquaintances, but for whom the loss remained raw and painful to touch. "What a fine business your father has made for you", they might say, "And always so gracious!". Many ladies spotted their handkerchiefs with tears and many gentlemen proclaimed their admiration for his excellent character and forthrightness.
"I don't expect you've thought much about financial matters and so forth," said Mr. Oliver from the Clarkson Bank, leaning forwards in a quiet tone, "but have you any plans yet for where you are going to take it?"
The nineteen-year-old William Edwards blinked quickly and said in reply, "I expect I shall carry on with it, much as we have done before." Mr. Oliver leaned back again and then after a moment's pause, smiled kindly at him, and patted him on the knee.

The truth was, he had thought a great deal about it. As a young boy, he had been harbouring thoughts, dreams and imaginings of what other things he might do with himself. He would not speak these thoughts aloud, nor even write them in his journal, mostly because not one of them was a full-formed thing but also because he knew in his heart that his future lay on the path that his father had laid out for him, brick by brick, during their life together.
But although he shared Edward Sr's love for Daguerreotypy, he did not share many other of his father's ways. The question of "where are you going to take it?" remained gnawing away at him, and he knew that if he did not find his own way to approach his trade, it would not settle. The general population of the town had also been whispering about this question, and would continue to do so over the years that followed.

****

In 18--, a discussion is taking place in the drawing room of a smoky gentleman's club, in a room of around 20 men, some of which are playing billiards, some of which are drawn around a hexagonal mahogany table, talking, gesticulating and furrowing brows.

"But surely, Edwards," spoke an elderly man with white whiskers and eyebrows, "if someone is seeking a piece of art in the likeness of their beloved wife, daughter, or whomever... That is something an oil painting could do? Commission Mr. - pay him his hefty wage and be done with it."

"No, Mr. Burton - I must disagree," A dozen heads turn back to the youngest man at the table. An impassioned William Edwards hold a photograph in one hand and a whiskey glass in the other, and is slightly red-faced. "A painting is not the same. Not the same at all. You see, an artist is mixing his colours with his hands, painting his impression on the canvas... In a way, the painting becomes more about the artist than the subject. A photograph is absolute truth." He points to the picture. A pale-faced girl with white-blonde curls stares out at the circle of men. "The light that touched her face, it's the very same that touched this plate. This plate, that is reflecting this woman's image back to us here, today." A dreamy look came over him. "Have none of you ever lain back on the grass on some sunny day to imagine your far-away lover, and had a notion that the same sun's light warms both your skins? Over such a distance it's the closest thing to touch you could hope to have."
A momentary silence falls over the table, filled only with the shuffling and uncomfortable laughter of men who still remember what it was to be young, but are pretending not to.
"Now Edwards," said a round-faced portly man who had been standing with the group of men by the billiards table listening to the conversation. "Your father was a top fellow." Emphatic nods of agreement all round. "But you must see that times have changed? You must be planning on making an investment in a tintype camera. I know your father was fond of his traditional methods. But a bright young lad like yourself - you'll be going the way of industry now, won't you?"
Edwards smiled politely but explained he was quite happy with his current equipment and was not making any plans for technological adjustments.
The portly gentleman made a cynical sound - a sort of scoffing tutt which he shared out with his fellow players with a pointed look. "But, Edwards," spoke a thinner man beside him in a kindlier voice, "you can't expect to go on as your father did, with the Daguerrotype method. As I understand it, many others are now able to produce very many more of an image for much less effort, and at considerably better value? Do you not consider it a boon for your trade?"
Edwards frowned. "Of course, I do understand what you are all saying. But I don't think you quite understand what I meant. Surely, the less there is of something, the more value it has?"
The portly gentleman by the billiards table threw his head back and laughed. "Of course not, you silly lad! Why, think how ridiculous I would sound at the mill if I starting spouting a thing like that. That is not the age we live in, boy. You want to have more of a thing, more than any other person has, and when you think you have too much, you make more and more again! That's the bottom line. That's value."

This was the way of much of the conversations in Mr. Edwards' life in the years that followed. He did not find it unpleasant. On the contrary, this debate with his peers fuelled him. It was the fire that he had yearned to find in his work since taking up his father's mantle at the age of thirteen. He loved to think about what he was doing, why he was doing it, and where his trade placed him in the culture of the world. His insistence on the old methods soon became part of who he was, both as a person and a tradesman, and he was eventually held in the view of the townsfolk, not with a lack of respect, but with the definitive label of "eccentric". No one could possibly call him conservative, as he was so very interested in all new things in the world, but he became the least fashionable person imaginable and many people were no longer interested in him as a man of business. He soon lost interest in this label himself. Atop a long ladder in front of his house, painting the words in white that were to announce to the world that an artist worked here, he finally felt he had his own noble and respectable cause that no disaster, great or small could ever quite take away.
Chapter 4

The second event which was to have an extraordinary impact upon his life came upon him a little over forty minutes after the first. As the scarlet-coated stranger disappeared along the road out of Wynbridge, the dark-haired woman came clicking up Winnows Wynd towards William Edwards' front door.
Mr Edwards was still upstairs in the grand loft space when he heard knocking from below. The dark-haired woman had been gently rapping for some minutes whilst Mr. Edwards was in deep thought two floors above. Only when she had removed her glove and banged determinedly with her bare knuckles did Mr. Edwards finally register that, once more, there was someone at the door. Thinking that the stranger had returned already, he ran hastily down the stairs with a great noise and opened the door.
The sight greeting William Edwards was not of a balding ginger gentleman, but a young, dark-haired woman with hooded brown eyes standing on his doorstep in the rain. Her pale completion was mottled with pink, her clothes were stained dark with rainwater and her breath clouded the cold air.
The sight that greeted the dark-haired woman was of lanky William Edwards, freshly tumbled from his trip down the stairs, once again breathless, still wearing his dressing gown and a look of baffled blankness on his face.
"Ahm...," she said uncertainly, "this is the residence of William Edwards?". William blinked several times and thoughts seemed to finally clunk into place.
"Certainly! Yes, this is er... me and... the Williams residence. Forgive me - I wasn't expecting guests. Or rather..." he ran his hand though his mop of uncombed hair and gave a laugh, "...I was expecting someone who I hadn't expected."
Fully aware that he had just made no sense, the dark-haired woman introduced herself as if nothing had happened. "Lucy Albright. Very pleased to meet you." She held out her hand and, as an afterthought, smiled warmly.