by Anne Perry
At first she had found it difficult to understand and know how to help. She had experienced nothing like it in her life with Edward. Now she knew at least when to remain silent, when encouragement was appropriate and when it was not, and what to say that was intelligent. It was the one area in which Joshua had no patience with less than honesty. He could not bear to think he was being patronized. It was at those moments she caught a rare glimpse not only of his temper but of his vulnerability.
“Thomas was here yesterday evening. Of course he is missing Charlotte . . . and the case he is on is giving him concern.”
“Doesn’t it always?” He took another slice of toast. “What good would he be if it didn’t worry him? I’m sorry about Cathcart, he was a brilliant photographer. I suppose Thomas is no nearer finding out what happened?”
How much of the truth did he want to know? Not all of it—not until he had to.
“I don’t think so. You didn’t know him, did you?”
He was surprised. “Cathcart? No. Just by repute. But I know his work. Everyone does . . . well, I suppose people in the theatre do more than most.” He looked at her narrowly. “Why?”
She was not as good at deceiving him as she intended. He sensed she was telling him less than she knew, though he did not know what it was. She hated the feeling of concealment, the barrier she was creating between them, but to have told him would be a small selfishness, exposing him to unhappiness just for her own peace of mind. And he had already been hurt so deeply by Samuel Ellison, even if it was healed now.
She made her smile more spontaneous, more direct.
“Poor Thomas is trying hard to learn about him because it seems such a personal crime, a matter of hate or ridicule. If you know anything about him other than reputation it might help.” That sounded reasonable, like herself.
He smiled back and resumed his breakfast.
She made her excuses and went upstairs. The matter of Lewis Marchand had to be addressed, but not until that afternoon. Mrs. Ellison should be seen now.
As yesterday, she was still in bed.
“I am not receiving visitors,” she said coldly when Caroline went in.
“I am not a visitor,” Caroline replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I live here.”
The old lady glared at her. “Are you reminding me that I have no home?” she enquired. “That I am dependent upon the charity of relations in order to have a roof over my head?”
“That would be quite unnecessary,” Caroline answered her levelly. “You have complained about it often enough I could hardly imagine you were unaware—or had ever forgotten.”
“It’s not something one forgets,” Mrs. Ellison retorted. “One is never allowed to, in a dozen subtle ways. You will learn that one day for yourself, when you are old and alone and everyone else of your generation is dead.”
“Since I have married a man young enough to be my son, as you never tire of telling me, I shall be unlikely to outlive him at all, let alone by long,” Caroline pointed out.
The old lady stared at her, her eyes narrow, her mouth tight shut in a thin, miserable line. She had been bested at her own game, and it thoroughly disconcerted her. She was not sure how to retaliate.
Caroline sighed. “If you are still not well enough to get up, I shall send for the doctor. We can tell him whatever you please, but whether he believes you is another matter. It is not good for you to lie there. Your system will become sluggish.”
“I am perfectly able to get up! I don’t want to!” Mrs. Ellison glared at her, daring her to argue.
“What has wanting got to do with it?” Caroline asked. “The longer you delay it, the more difficult it will be. Do you wish to cause speculation?”
The old lady raised her eyebrows. “What is there to speculate about? Who cares what I do or do not do?”
Caroline did not speak. All sorts of thoughts crowded her mind, how close the old lady had come to destroying the happiness she held so precious. She still cringed inside at the memory of her own misery and the fear which had darkened everything inside her.
“Please go away. I am exhausted and I prefer to be alone.” Her face was set in a mask of loneliness and despair, shutting out Caroline and everyone else. “You don’t understand. You have not the faintest idea. The least you can afford me is the privacy of suffering without being stared at. I do not want you here. Have the decency to go.”
Caroline hesitated. She could feel the other woman’s pain as if it were a living thing in the room, but beyond her power to touch. She longed to reach out and give it some comfort, some beginning of healing, but she did not know how to. For the first time she realized how deep it was. The scars were woven through Mariah Ellison’s life, not only for the humiliation itself but for how she had dealt with it over the years. It was not just what Edmund had done to her but what she had done to herself. She had hated herself for so long she did not know how to stop.
“Get out of my room!” the old lady said between her teeth.
Caroline looked at her, lying hunched up in the bed, her gnarled hands gripping the covers, her face blind with misery, the tears running down her cheeks. Caroline was helpless to do anything about it, even to reach out to her, because the barrier between them had been built over the years, reinforced with a thousand daily cuts and abrasions until the scars were impenetrable.
She turned and went out, closing the door behind her, startled to find that the tears were thick in her throat also.
She went to call on the Marchands as early as it was decent to do so, perhaps even a little earlier. Mrs. Marchand was surprised to see her but appeared to be delighted. They sat in the heavy, comfortable withdrawing room for several minutes, making idle conversation, before Mrs. Marchand became aware that Caroline had some purpose in coming other than to find a pleasant way to fill an otherwise empty afternoon. She stopped in the middle of a sentence about some small event and what people had said about a particular soiree.
Caroline was aware that she had not been listening. Now that she was faced with putting into words what she feared, it was much harder than she had imagined. She looked at Mrs. Marchand’s wide blue eyes, her direct, almost challenging stare and her pretty features. She was so sure of her world, of its conventions and its rules. She had conscientiously taught them to her son. Caroline was certain it had never crossed her imagination that he would venture outside its values. She cared almost as passionately as her husband about censorship so the innocent would not be tainted. She would have put fig leaves on all the great classical statues, and blushed to look at the Venus de Milo in the presence of men. She would have seen in it not naked perfection but the indecent display of a woman’s breasts.
“Are you quite well, my dear?” Mrs. Marchand asked with concern, leaning forward a little, her brow furrowed. “You look a trifle pale.” Of course, what she meant was “You are not listening, what is disturbing you so much you have forgotten your usual manners?”
There would never be a better opening. She must take it.
“To tell you the truth, I have been worried lately on a number of matters,” she began awkwardly. “I am so sorry my attention wandered. I had no wish of being so . . . discourteous.”
“Oh, not at all,” Mrs. Marchand disclaimed immediately. “Can I help, even if it is only to listen? Sometimes a trouble shared seems a little lighter.”
Caroline looked at her earnest face and saw only kindness in it. This was going to be worse than she had expected. Mrs. Marchand was so vulnerable. It occurred to her to invent something, evading the link altogether. Perhaps she was quite wrong. Maybe Lewis’s remarks about Ophelia, the look she had seen in his eyes, was only her own imagination, fueled by Mrs. Ellison’s story and what Pitt had told her.
But what if it were not? What if Lewis had Cathcart’s photographs, lots of them, images which could twist his dreams and cause untold pain in the future—to him, and to some young girl as unknowing as Mariah Ellison had been half a century ago?
“My son-in-law is a policeman, as you know . . .” She ignored the slight flicker of distaste and plunged on. “He is working on a matter at the moment to do with a photographic club . . .” That was a ridiculous euphemism! She swallowed and plunged on. “From something Lewis said when I was here the other day, I believe he may have stumbled on a piece of information which could help. May I have your permission to speak with him?”
“Lewis?” Mrs. Marchand was incredulous. “How on earth could he? He is only sixteen! If he had seen anything . . . wrong . . . he would have told me, or his father.”
“He could not know it was wrong,” Caroline said hastily. “It is merely information. I am not even sure if I am correct. But if I am, then it would greatly serve justice if he would tell me. I don’t believe it would be necessary for him to do more than that. Please, may I speak with him . . . confidentially, if that is possible?”
Mrs. Marchand looked uncertain.
Caroline nearly spoke again, then changed her mind. To press too hard might awaken suspicion. She waited.
“Well . . . yes, of course,” Mrs. Marchand said, blinking several times. “I’m sure my husband would wish Lewis to be of any help he can. We all would. A photographic club? I did not know he was interested in photography.”
“I don’t know that he is,” Caroline answered quickly. “It is just that I think he may have seen a particular photograph, and he could tell me where, and I would tell Thomas without mentioning how I learned.”
“Oh. I see.” Mrs. Marchand rose to her feet. “Well, he is upstairs with his tutor. I am sure we could interrupt them for something so important.” She rang the bell for the maid, and Lewis was sent for.
He arrived within minutes, having been going over some of the more abstruse irregular Latin verbs, from which he was delighted to be distracted. He went quite willingly with Caroline into the library and faced her with interest. Anything she had to say, however tedious or pedestrian, had to be better than the eccentricities of the past tense of words he would never in his life have any cause to use. It had been explained to him many times that it was not the practicality but the mental discipline of the exercise which benefited him, but he remained unconvinced.
“Yes, Mrs. Fielding?” he said politely.
“Please sit down, Lewis,” she replied, sitting herself in the worn, leather armchair in front of the fireplace. “It is kind of you to spare me your time. I would not have interrupted you were it not an issue of great importance.”
“Of course, Mrs. Fielding.” He sat opposite her. “Whatever I can do.”
She wished now that she had had sons as well as daughters. She had no acquaintance with sixteen-year-old boys. Her own brothers had been older than she, and their adolescence had been an impenetrable mystery to her. But there was no retreat now, except complete failure . . . cowardice. She could hardly send Pitt to do this, although he would certainly have been better at it. He was not the one who had heard Lewis’s remarks about Ophelia or seen the look in his eyes.
She must somehow continue to be direct enough to allow no misunderstanding, and yet spare him as much embarrassment as possible. She had no desire to humiliate him, and no need to. It might even destroy the very purpose for which she had come. Looking into his earnest young face, polite, not really interested, smooth-cheeked still, guileless, she had no words ready that would be subtle.
“Lewis, I did not tell your mother the whole truth; that is up to you, if you wish. The matter my son-in-law is investigating is very serious indeed . . . it is murder.”
“Is it?” He was not shocked or alarmed. There was a quick flare of interest in his blue eyes. But then he almost certainly had no conception of what that word meant in reality. He would know the facts, not the loss, the horror, the fear that it brought, the sense of pervading darkness.
“I’m afraid so.”
He straightened up a little, and his voice lifted. “What can I do to help, Mrs. Fielding?”
She felt a twinge of guilt for what she was about to do, and also the certainty that she must destroy in him the illusion of adventure that filled him at the present.
“When I was here a few days ago and we were speaking, you made a remark from which I now believe you might know something of use,” she said.
He nodded to indicate he was listening.
“In order for you to help,” she went on, “I need to tell you something about this crime . . . something which is not known to anyone except the police and the person who committed the murder . . . and to me, because I was told by the police. It is confidential, do you understand?”
He nodded more eagerly. “Yes, yes, of course I do. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
“Thank you. I am afraid this is very distressing. . . .”
“That’s all right!” he assured her, taking a deep breath and sitting very stiffly. “Please don’t worry about it.”
She wanted to smile, but it would have been too easily misunderstood. He was so very young, and unaware.
“The murdered man was struck on the head,” she began solemnly, watching his face. “Then he was dressed in a green velvet gown . . . a woman’s gown . . .” She saw him flinch and a look of incomprehension fill his eyes. “Then he was laid in a small, flat-bottomed boat, a punt, and his wrists and ankles were chained to the boat.”
The color drained out of his skin, leaving him white. His breathing was audible.
“And it was scattered with flowers,” she finished. “Only his knees were drawn up a little, in a parody of pleasure.” There was no need to go on. It was painfully apparent from the scarlet of his cheeks and the hot misery in his eyes that he had seen the picture and it was indelible in his memory.
“Where did you see it, Lewis?” she said softly. “I need to know. I’m sure you must realize that the murderer also saw it, and it is not the kind of picture that is easily found.”
He swallowed, his throat jerking.
“I think you know that,” she went on. “It is carefully posed. It is not the way women really behave, it is a pretend thing, for people who take pleasure in hurting others. . . .” She saw him wince but she did not stop. “There are people whose appetites are sick, who are not capable of fulfillment in the way most of us are, and they do these sorts of things, cruel and terrible things, regardless of how they torture others.” She stopped, realizing she was thinking more of Mariah and Edmund Ellison than of the picture of Cecily Antrim, but they were closely intertwined in her belief. “Where did you see the picture, Lewis?”
He started to shake his head. He was having difficulty controlling his voice, and above everything he did not want to humiliate himself by weeping in front of a woman he barely knew. He felt cornered. There was no way of escape.
“I would not ask you if it were not connected with murder, Lewis,” she said gently. “The man who took that photograph is the one who is dead. You can see why it is so important to know everybody who has seen it.”
He gulped. “Y–yes. I . . . I bought it from a shop. I can tell you where it is . . . if you want?”
“Yes, please.”
“In Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly, about halfway along. It’s a shop that sells books and tobacco, and that sort of thing. I don’t remember the name.”
She nearly asked him how he knew of it. Such pictures would not be in the window. But she was afraid of pursuing too far and losing his cooperation altogether. It did not matter.
“That’s all right,” she said instead. “I’m sure they’ll find it.”
He kept his eyes lowered. She had the feeling there was something else he wanted to say. And almost as important to her as finding the information for Pitt was reaching out to this boy and making him believe that what he had seen was an aberration, not the way normal people thought or felt. He had seen the Ophelia picture, she had no idea what other pictures he might also have seen. But how could she do it without betraying his trust to his parents, whose rigid ideas had led him to such a way of le
arning what very little he knew of women and intimacy?
“I suppose they had other pictures as well?” she said.
He avoided her eyes. “Yes.”
“Were they similar—of women?”
“Well . . . sort of.” His face was scarlet. “Some . . . were . . . men . . . doing . . .” He could not say it.
She ignored it, for both their sakes. “Would you prefer to see something a little . . . gentler?” she asked. “Something more like the kind of woman one day you would like to know yourself ?”
His eyes flew open and he stared at her in utter dismay. “You . . . you mean . . . decent women . . . ?” He blushed crimson and stammered to a halt.
“No, I don’t,” she said, trying not to be embarrassed herself. “I mean . . . I’m not sure what I mean. Decent women certainly don’t have photographs like these taken. But we all need to know certain things about men and women.” She was floundering. “This sort of thing . . . what you’ve seen . . . is very ugly, and has more to do with hate than with love. I think you need to begin at the beginning, not at the end.”
“My parents would never allow that!” He said it with absolute conviction. “My father hates . . .” He gulped. “Pornography. He has spent his whole life fighting against it. He says people who make that and sell it should be hanged!”
She did not argue. She knew it was true.
“If you will allow me to mention these pictures, I think I may be able to persuade them.”
“No!” His voice was shrill with desperation. “Please don’t! You promised you wouldn’t tell!”
“I won’t,” she said instantly. “Unless you give me permission.” She leaned towards him earnestly. “But don’t you think, in the long view, it would be better? One day your father is going to have to tell you certain things. Aren’t you ready for it to be soon?”
