“There’s horses,” Sebastian said.

“You get horses anywhere.”

He took the camera and left the driver standing guard on the Daimler, observing the show field from its running board. Some boys were trying to get Arnot’s attention, probably to ask if they could climb up and have a sit behind the wheel, but he was ignoring them.

Down in the field, Sebastian quickly found what he was looking for. Bordering one side of the fairground was an entire row of attractions, each with a walk-up platform and a show front. Each had a barker and some had demure dancing girls, in full white skirts and ankle socks. The barkers were playing hard to the crowds, but it was still early and the crowds were sparse.

The show fronts were decorated to an astonishing standard, every one a rococo basilica of gilt and paint and gingerbread. The grandest of them all was the Electric Coliseum, a veritable cathedral face built around an eighty-seven-key Gavioli organ. Little matter that it was pure illusion, all scaffolding and panels that would pack down into a line of wagons when it was time to move on. It promised awe and glory, and all for pennies.

The Electric Coliseum was a Bioscope show, exhibiting a program of moving pictures. A show would run around twenty minutes, each one containing four or five subjects, always ending with a comedy.

Still carrying his parcel, Sebastian went to the Electric Coliseum’s pay booth.

To the woman in the booth, he said, “Who’s in charge?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to the boss.”

“Mister Sedgewick’s inside. Oi.”

Sebastian was halfway up the steps to the walk-up platform.

“That’s sixpence, thank you, sir,” she said in a voice that managed to combine a superficial courtesy with a deeper sense of menace.

He went back to the booth and paid up.

So Sedgewick himself ran the show. That was no surprise. The man with his name on the fair was likely to own most of it, and from its size and its position in the grounds the Electric Coliseum was one of the fair’s grandest attractions.

That said, the tent was only one-third full. Sebastian took a seat. The subject playing was a comedy chase titled The Plumber and the Lunatics. It was a simple story, and built around a single joke—that of a plumber dropping his knife in an asylum, and running in terror from two inmates who were merely attempting to return it to him. But the audience liked it well enough.

Then came a short film of some local parade, which seemed to last forever but which actually ran for three minutes. The grand finale was a novelty Vivaphone subject, in which film projection and a Gramophone record were roughly combined to present an actor in blackface and boxing garb performing The Night I Fought Jack Johnson.

When all was done, an imposing bearded man in a tailcoat appeared before the screen and called out, “Side exits, please, ladies and gentlemen, and tell all your friends that our program changes daily.” Whereupon the Gavioli struck up and the floor shook with its bass notes as the audience flocked out into the fading daylight.

Waiting to be among the last of them, Sebastian stayed back and got the bearded man’s attention.

“Are you Abraham Sedgewick?”

The man turned. He was half a head taller than Sebastian. His beard was streaked with gray and his morning suit was faintly shabby, as formal clothing would be if one’s workplace was a field.

He said, “Who would be asking?”

“Sebastian Becker. I’m the one who stepped in to release your consignment of curiosities on the railway. Did you take delivery?”

“The specimens? Yes, I did. And I heard the story. Waxworks, eh?”

“I’m in the area on the Lord Chancellor’s business.” Sebastian took out his letters of authority and showed Sedgewick the crest. He said, “I’m trying to do something for those two girls killed in Arnmouth.”

“An appalling affair. Is it a charity benefit you’re looking for?”

“No!” Sebastian said quickly. “No. I’m looking for your professional help.” He gestured toward the picture screen and said, “Over at the Wild West show they told me that you make these entertainments as well as screening them.”

“We do.”

Sebastian tore away the brown paper wrapping to reveal the Birtac camera.

He said, “Then I think you’re the person I need. This was found at the scene. I’m told that it’s a moving-picture camera. I believe there may be exposed images in it. I would very much like to know what they are.”

Sedgewick took the camera from him and turned it around in his hands. Over on the other side of the tent, people were beginning to enter for the next show.

Sedgewick said, “Exposed film can be easily spoiled. Has anyone opened this?”

“I can’t be sure, but I sincerely hope not.”

Mindful of the paying customers, Sedgewick indicated for Sebastian to follow him. They made their way around to the projection booth, separated from the exhibition space by a fireproofed wall.

In this cramped room, dominated by the projection apparatus and smelling of ozone and naphtha and nitrates, a young man was cranking a handle to rewind a film spool for the next show.

Sedgewick introduced him as Will. Just Will. The young man was in white shirtsleeves and a buttoned-up waistcoat. Barely out of his teens, he had a wisp of a mustache and beard.

It took Sebastian a moment to recognize him as the Second Lunatic from the short that he’d just seen. Sedgewick showed Will the Birtac camera and said, “Ever seen one of these? Don’t open it, there’s film inside.”

Will took it and looked it over, much as the older man had. He shook his head.

“It’s amateur’s kit. A new one on me, boss.”

Sedgewick went on, “We’re doing a good deed for those poor little girls. Sort this gentleman out with whatever he needs.”

SEBASTIAN FOLLOWED Will out of the Bioscope tent and into the part of the showground away from the public area. The growing noise of the crowd and the steady roar of the fairground organs seemed muted here; the noise of the steam traction engines did not. Sebastian had to duck through washing and avoid tripping on heavy cables as he followed Will through.

Will looked back over his shoulder and said, “We don’t develop much film these days. My father made a deal with Gaumont. They give us raw stock, we make the scenes, and they develop it for free. For that Dad lets them sell our subjects outside the area. Watch yourself. The third step’s loose.”

He was ascending to a door into a square-sided wagon that stood some yards apart from all the others. Despite the warning, Sebastian almost stumbled on the third step. Will switched on an electric light.

There was a bench down one side of the wagon. Strips of moving picture film hung from clotheslines above it, all of differing lengths, stirring in the draft from the door like the tails of so many kites. Metal film cans were stacked high on every surface, and on the wall a large hand-painted notice warned of the dangers of sparks and naked flames.

Will said, “This calls for the nuns’ drawers.”

“The what?” Sebastian said.

Will flushed slightly as he realized that he’d spoken without thinking. “Sorry,” he said.

He reached under the bench and produced a black velvet bag with two sleeves. The camera went inside, and the bag was sealed. Will then put his hands in through the sleeves, which were elasticated for a light-tight fit around his forearms.

He fiddled around inside the bag for a while. Sebastian heard the catch go, and the sound of the camera body coming open. Will made faces and stared off into nowhere as he explored the innards of the machine, like a blind man feeling his way around the works of a pocket watch.

“Yep,” he said. “It’s amateur gauge.”

“What does that mean?”

“Half the width of the film we use. Smaller film, smaller image, costs less money. Looks awful on a big screen but good enough in your living room.”