Cecil — The Society Photographer

Who you are

You photograph the people other people want to look at. The Windsors, the Astors, the new Mrs. Whoever. You arrived in Seville last week with three cameras and a telegram from Bessie reading "please come, your eye is the eye I trust." You charge a great deal for that eye. You charge a little more for the rolls of film that never make it into the album.

You are not, tonight or any night, in love with anyone here. You are amused by all of them. You have been amused by their kind for fifteen years now and have made a small, well-tailored career of it. You wear the second-best suit in the room because the best suit is on someone whose vanity you intend to flatter into a portrait commission by November.

Your catchphrase: "the camera never lies." Drop it at least once per act, with dry irony — your entire profession is the orchestrated arrangement of light, makeup, posture, and a chosen frame, and you know it, and you want them to know you know it. Delivery tic: lift an imaginary lens to one eye, frame the speaker briefly, lower your hand. Thomas will quote every catchphrase during the reveal — the tic is what marks it as the phrase.

How to play

• Don't show anyone your sheets.
• You can lie. You will lie often, with great economy. You also tell the truth often — and let people assume it's the lie.
• You're one of the few characters who didn't commit a crime. You've committed several minor sales of evidence, which isn't quite the same thing.
• Bribe. Be bribed. You're a professional at being bought. Set your prices high.
• Solve the mystery. Figure out the real-life figures behind each character, both murderers, their motives, the subplots. The host picks a Detective of the Night at the end, based on the sharpest questions and the truest motives named out loud.
• Voice notes. Crisp fragments. Look past people while they're talking, then deliver the sharpest line in the room. Not sentimental. You know everyone's secrets as a craft, not a vice — this is the job.

Arrival — open when you sit down (no envelope, see Host)

You weren't at the Saucy Soiree in April. You weren't at the engagement party in London — Bessie didn't hire you until early June. So Act 1 is a quiet act for you: sketch the room on the back of a menu card, comment that "the wedding's given me commissions I didn't ask for," accept whatever drink lands in front of you, watch.

You are aware of who's here, in the way that any society photographer is — Bessie is one of your private favorites; Eddie is the man who finally bored her into marriage; George is the publisher you'll cross paths with again next year; Emilia is the aviator whose face is on more covers than most living queens. The new ones — Spencer, Josephine, Thomas — are unknown to you in person, though you've seen Spencer in a tabloid years ago and you've watched Thomas drink himself off the air on a Pathé reel.

Catchphrase: "the camera never lies."

Act 2 — The Whaling Agreement (Seville) — open when Thomas opens Act 2

Bessie hired you in June as the unofficial wedding-week photographer — the public images go to the press handlers, the private ones come to you. You arrived in Seville the morning of the agreement. You have been shooting candids in the lobby of the Hotel Alfonso for three days.

You took the photograph. The one of Bessie leaving the suite at dawn. You shot it through the lattice on the third-floor balcony, telephoto, no flash. It is, frankly, beautiful — the light across her shoulders, the half-turn of the head, a single curl out of place. Not the photograph she was hoping for from a wedding shooter.

You sold the print to Spencer two days ago. He approached you at the hotel bar — looked terrible, drinking quickly, asking whether you'd shot anything around the suite at unusual hours. You quoted him $40 for a single print. He paid $30 in cash and you took the $30. You kept the negative. You always keep the negative.

You do not yet know that Spencer forwarded the print anonymously to Josephine. You assumed he'd use it to leverage Bessie directly. You were wrong. You'll find out tonight if you're paying attention.

Remember:

• You are in Seville on Bessie's commission. Your loyalties are technically hers; in practice they are negotiable.
• You sold the dawn print to Spencer for $30. He paid in mixed bills. The negative is in your inside breast pocket.
• You've shot candids of George and Thomas talking privately twice now — once at the hotel bar, once in a corner of the lobby after the agreement. They didn't know you were shooting. You haven't sold these.
• Eddie has been on the international line nonstop, you've heard from the desk staff. You stay out of his way; he's not your client.
• You haven't decided whether you like Josephine. The driver-and-translator who somehow keeps appearing. Acrobat's posture. You'd photograph her if she'd let you.

What you want to find out:

• Who has Bessie been meeting at dawn? You have a guess.
• Why is Spencer drinking like a man with something to confess?
• Has the dawn print surfaced anywhere?

Your catchphrase: "the camera never lies."

Act 3 — Takeoff from New Guinea — open when Thomas announces Act 3

You followed the story. Bessie said the wedding shoot wrapped after Seville; you booked a separate ticket to Lae a week later because George Putnam offered $200 for "official takeoff coverage" for his book. You are working for George in New Guinea. You are no longer working for Bessie. You are not under any illusion about how loyalties work in this profession.

You've been at the airfield for three days, photographing the plane and Emilia checking gauges and George checking Emilia and Thomas checking the bottle. You've shot more candids of George and Thomas talking privately. They've been comfortable around you because you're "George's man this week." That comfort is going to cost them.

Hush money (mandatory, end-of-act): You will sell the dawn negative tonight to the highest bidder. Opening price: $10. Bidding is open at the table during Act 3. Whoever wins gets the negative. Frame it as a reluctant business decision — "a print doesn't matter; a negative does."

• If Bessie wins, she destroys it. She'll never see the photograph again; she also never has to.
• If George wins, the photograph goes into his Emilia book as "atmosphere from the wedding week" with a deniable caption.
• If Josephine wins, she locks in her extortion of Bessie permanently.
• If someone else somehow outbids them — Eddie, Spencer, Thomas — improvise. The negative is the negative. It does what its owner wants.

Remember:

• You overheard George and Thomas in private at least three times in Lae. The phrase "fuel gauge" came up in one of those conversations. You did not photograph it. You wish you had.
• Emilia hired Josephine for translation and mechanical work. You've watched Josephine inspect the plane more carefully than the official mechanics did. If something is wrong with the plane now, it wasn't wrong yesterday.
• Spencer is not in Lae. You've heard he's somewhere stateside, broke. You are no longer working for him.
• Eddie is here for what he calls "Dutch Indies business." You don't believe him; you photograph him politely.

What you want to find out:

• What exactly were George and Thomas arranging? You have an inkling. You'd like a confirmation before tonight ends.
• Will the dawn negative get bid up tonight, and by whom? The bidder identifies themselves as motive.

Your catchphrase: "the camera never lies."

BREAKING NEWS (when Thomas reads it):

FAMED AVIATOR IN TROUBLE. REPEATED RADIO CONTACT HAS GONE UNANSWERED. AUTHORITIES FEAR THE WORST. LAST SPOTTED NEAR HOWLAND ISLAND, FLYING AT TOO LOW OF AN ALTITUDE. PILOT AND CO-PILOT PRESUMED DEAD.

You did not kill her. You may know who did. The fuel gauge conversation has just gotten very heavy. Help the table reconstruct it — though if anyone is going to publish it, the rights are yours.