Half Moon Street

by Anne Perry

  A few more were rather Arthurian, reminding him of the pre-Raphaelite painters, definitely romantic. Something in the background of one of them caught his attention, a use of lighting rather than a specific article. In the center was a young girl kneeling in vigil. On the altar were a chalice and a knight’s sword. It made him think of Joan of Arc.

  In another a woman in despair leapt to her feet as if fleeing from a mirror, presumably intended as the Lady of Shalott.

  A third came from the classical Greek theatre, a young girl about to be sacrificed. The same length of carved wood was used in all three, very cleverly. It gave them a richness of texture as the light and shade accentuated the repeated pattern.

  Pitt had seen it before, but it took him a moment or two to remember where. Then it came to him. He had passed by it as he had gone from Cecily Antrim’s dressing room to the back door.

  “Where did you buy these pictures?” he said aloud.

  Hadfield did not even look up from the list he was writing. “What’s the matter now?” he said wearily. “What crime are you trying to tie them up with?”

  “Where did you get them?” Pitt repeated. “Who brought them to you?”

  Hadfield put down his pen, splattering ink over the page, and swore. He came over to Pitt irritably and stared over his shoulder at the photographs.

  “I dunno. Some young photographer who thinks he can make a few bob. Why?” His voice was laden with sarcasm. “What terrible offense ter ’umanity and civilization can yer see in these? Got a dirty mind, you ’ave. Looks as innocent as a cup o’ tea ter me.”

  “Who brought them to you?” Pitt repeated, a steel edge of anger to his voice, although it was misery he was feeling inside. He did not want the answer he was almost certain would come.

  “I dunno! Do you think I ask the name and address of every young amateur who comes here with an ’andful o’ pictures? They’re good pictures. Nothin’ wrong wif ’em. I bought ’em. Fair sale. Nothin’ more ter say.”

  “Describe him!”

  “Describe ’im! Yer crazy, or summink?” He was thoroughly aggrieved. “ ’E was a young man wot fancies ’isself as a photographer, an’ ’e in’t bad.”

  “Tall or short? Dark or fair? Describe him!” Pitt said between closed teeth.

  “Tall! Fair! But there’s nothin’ wrong wif ’em! You can find pictures like this all over London . . . all over England. Wot’s the matter wif yer?”

  “Did he see your other pictures? Like the one of Ophelia chained up in the boat?”

  The man hesitated. In that instant Pitt knew that it was Orlando who had brought the photographs, and that he had seen Cathcart’s picture of his mother. Until then Pitt had been clinging to the hope that it had been Bellmaine, or even, by some obscure chance, Ralph Marchand, pursuing his crusade against pornography.

  “Sergeant Tellman!” Pitt turned sideways, his voice sharp.

  Tellman stood up, letting the postcards fall onto the floor.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Go and find the nearest constable to stand guard here. I think we should continue this discussion at Bow Street.”

  “All right!” Hadfield snapped. “ ’E could ’ave! I dunno!”

  What was his name?”

  “I’ll ’ave ter look at me records.”

  “Then do it!”

  Muttering under his breath, Hadfield went back to his desk, and it was several silent, painful minutes before he returned, waving a piece of paper. There was no name on it, simply the amount of money, a brief description of the photograph, and the date—two days before Cathcart’s death.

  “Thank you,” Pitt said quietly.

  Hadfield’s face conveyed the words he did not dare to say.

  Pitt wrote him a receipt in exchange for the photographs he was sure were taken by Orlando Antrim, also the sales receipt with its date.

  Outside the air seemed cold.

  Tellman looked at him questioningly.

  “Orlando Antrim,” Pitt answered. “He was here two days before Cathcart’s death. If he saw that picture of his mother, and perhaps some of the others, how do you suppose he felt?”

  Tellman’s face was pinched with misery, and there was an emotional conflict in him that was painfully apparent. “I don’t know,” he said, stumbling a little as he stepped off the pavement onto the road to cross. “I don’t know.”

  Pitt tried to imagine himself in Orlando’s place. Cecily was an actress. It was her profession to portray emotion in public and behave in such a way as to stir any of a score of passions. He must be used to it. But could anything make this acceptable to him?

  Pitt could see the grotesque picture of Ophelia in his mind’s eye so clearly there was no need to pull it out of his pocket to remind himself. It was a woman bound by literal, physical chains, but appearing to be in a paroxysm of sexual ecstasy, as if the bondage she experienced excited her as no freedom could. It suggested that she hungered to be overpowered, forced into submission. It was lust that lit her face as she lay there, knees apart, skirts raised. There was nothing of tenderness in it, certainly nothing that could be thought of as love.

  If Pitt had seen his own mother like that, for any reason at all, it would have revolted him beyond measure. Even now, striding along the footpath at an increasing speed, he could not allow his mind to touch such an idea. It polluted the very wellspring of his own life. His mother was not that kind of woman. His intelligence told him she had loved his father. He had heard them laughing together often enough, long ago, and seen them kiss, seen the way they looked at each other. He knew the nature and the acts of love.

  But that picture had nothing to do with love, or the things men and women do in private in generosity, hunger and intimacy. It was a mockery of them all.

  Of course the world was full of people whose ideas were different, whose acts he would have found offensive if he had considered them. But within one’s own family it was different.

  Had he seen Charlotte portrayed that way . . . he felt the blood rise in his face and his muscles lock, his fists clench. If any man were ever to speak coarsely to her he would be tempted to violence. If anyone actually touched her Pitt would probably strike him and consider the consequences afterwards.

  For anyone to think of Jemima in that way, and then use her so, would break his heart.

  Cecily Antrim had such profound understanding of so many different kinds and conditions of people, how could she fail to grasp the distress any man must feel to see his own mother in such a way? Had she no conception of the grief and the confusion that had to follow?

  He thought of Orlando. If he had seen that picture, or any of them, he would have walked away from the shop like a blind man; the world of footpath and stones and sky, soot in the air, clatter of people, smell of smoke and drains and horses would make no mark on him at all. He would be consumed by the inner pain, and perhaps hatred.

  And above all, he would be asking the same question Pitt was— Why? Was any cause worth fighting in such a way? Pitt could ask it, and still be hurt by the disillusion over a woman whose glorious talent he had admired, who had made him think, and above all, care about her on the stage. How infinitely more must Orlando have felt?

  Pitt had been convinced from the beginning that Cathcart’s death was a crime of passion, not simply escape, even from the life-draining clutches of blackmail. That would induce hatred and fear, but there was more than either of those in the way Cathcart had been laid in the mockery of Millais, the exact replica, a soul-deep injury that could not be undone.

  “D’you think he knew who took that picture?” Tellman’s voice, which cut across Pitt’s thoughts, was harsh, yet so quiet he barely heard it.

  “No,” Pitt replied as they both stopped at the next curb while a heavy wagon rolled past, horses leaning forward into the harness, the wheels rumbling over the cobbles. “No. He saw it two days before Cathcart’s death. I think it took him that long to find out.” He started forward across the street. He
did not even know where he was going; at the moment he simply needed to put in a physical effort because he could not bear to keep still.

  “How could he do that?” Tellman asked, running a couple of steps to keep up. “Where would he begin? He can’t have asked her. In fact, if I were in his place I couldn’t even have spoken to her.”

  “He’s an actor,” Pitt replied. “I presume he is better at masking his feelings than either of us.” He walked a few yards in silence. “He would know it was a professional photograph . . . the square exposures. Professionals don’t use the round ones. No good except in daylight. And he’d hardly have the film manufacturer develop them, which is what the amateurs do.”

  Tellman grunted with profound disgust. His emotions were too raw to find words. He walked with his shoulders tight and hunched, his head forward.

  “He’d have started to consider the different professionals it might be,” Pitt continued with his thoughts. “He’d do it very discreetly. He would have been thinking of murder already . . . or at the very least a confrontation. Where would he begin?”

  “Well, if he’s trying to keep it secret, he’ll hardly ask anyone,” Tellman retorted. “Not that you would ask anyone about pictures like that anyway.”

  “He’d narrow it down to professional photographers who use that kind of scenery,” Pitt answered his own question. “He’d study them for style. He takes photographs himself. He knows how an artist puts things one way, then another, trying to get exactly the right effect. It’s like a signature.”

  “So how would he see the style of Cathcart’s photographs?” Tellman turned to look at him. “There must be dozens! How would he even know where to look?”

  “Well, he did!” Pitt pointed out. “He found him in less than two days, so whatever he did was effective.”

  “Or lucky.”

  Pitt shot him a sideways glance.

  Tellman shrugged.

  “Exhibition,” Pitt said abruptly. “He’d look to see if there was an exhibition of photography anywhere. Wherever he could see the largest collection of different people’s work.”

  Tellman quickened his pace a trifle. “I’ll find out! Give me half an hour and I’ll know where there are any.”

  Nearly two hours later Pitt and Tellman stood side by side in a large gallery in Kensington, staring at photograph after photograph of lovely scenery, handsome women, magnificently dressed men, animals and children with wide, limpid eyes. Some of the pictures were hauntingly beautiful, a world reduced to sepia tints, moments of life caught forever, a gesture, a smile.

  Pitt stopped in front of one. Ragged children huddled together on a doorstep in some alley, dresses with holes in them, trousers held up by string, no shoes. And yet the childish curves of their cheeks held a timeless innocence.

  In others sunlight slanted across a plowed field, bare trees filigree against the sky. A flight of birds scattered in the wind, like leaves thrown up.

  He was looking for style, use of water, someone who saw symbolism in ordinary objects. Of course Pitt knew he was looking for Delbert Cathcart. Orlando had had no idea of who he was trying to find, or why the man would have used his mother. Had he believed it was blackmail, some kind of force or coercion that had made her do it? He would have to believe that. Anything else was unbearable.

  He looked at Tellman, who was standing a few yards away, unaware that he was blocking the view of a large woman in lavender and black, and her dutiful daughter, who was quite obviously bored silly and longing to be almost anywhere else. Tellman was staring at a photograph of a young girl, a housemaid, caught momentarily distracted from beating a rug slung over a line in an areaway. She was small and slight with a humorous face. Pitt knew she reminded him of Gracie, and he was startled that anyone should think of her as a subject for art. He was proud that ordinary people were considered important enough to be immortalized, and it confused him because it was unexpected and made him self-conscious. They represented his own life caught and displayed for its interest, its uniqueness.

  He stopped sharply and turned away, only just missing bumping into the large lady. He muttered an apology and rejoined Pitt. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said quietly. “Can’t learn a thing from this lot.”

  Pitt forebore from making any comment.

  The next room was more useful, and in the one after they saw some pictures which Pitt knew immediately were Cathcart’s. The light and shade, the accentuation of focus, were all similar to the work he had seen both in Cathcart’s own house and in those of his clients. There were even two with the river for background.

  “That’s his,” Tellman said bluntly. “But how would Antrim know that? It doesn’t prove anything, except that Cathcart’s work is exhibited. You’d expect it to be.”

  “We’ve got to prove the link,” Pitt said unnecessarily. “Antrim found out who he was. This is probably how.”

  Tellman said nothing.

  Pitt looked carefully at the other pictures until he had found several more showing water, two with small boats, one with a garden and half a dozen using artificial flowers, and one with a long velvet gown.

  “Who took these?” Tellman asked.

  “According to the card there, Geoffrey Lyneham.”

  “Wonder if Antrim went to see him?” Tellman thought aloud. “Or if he went to Cathcart first? If he did it will be harder to prove, seeing as he can’t tell us anything, and Mrs. Geddes doesn’t know or she’d have said so.”

  “He went to Lyneham first,” Pitt assumed. “And probably somewhere else as well. It took him two days to find Cathcart. I don’t think he waited any longer than he had to.”

  “I wouldn’t!” Tellman said with narrowed lips. “Where do we find this Lyneham?”

  It was late afternoon and already growing dusk, the gas lamps coming on in the streets and the air crisp and cold when they went up the stairs of Geoffrey Lyneham’s house in Greenwich. Wood smoke drifted on the damp air from a bonfire in someone’s garden nearby, and the smell of earth and leaves was sweet.

  Lyneham was a small man with a sharp, intelligent face. He was at least fifty, probably more, his hair white at the temples. He was startled when Pitt told him who they were.

  “Police? Why? As far as I know I haven’t infringed any laws.”

  Pitt forced himself to smile. None of the horror was Lyneham’s fault, and he would very much sooner discuss the matter in the warmth of Mr. Lyneham’s sitting room by the fire than out there on the step.

  “It is a matter of importance, sir,” he replied. “About photography.”

  “Ah!” Lyneham’s face lit with instant enthusiasm. He pulled the door wide and stood back. “Come in, gentlemen, come in! Anything I can tell you. I should be delighted. What is it you would like to know?” He led the way inside, to the sitting room, still waving his hands energetically, leaving Tellman to close the front door and follow behind.

  “I saw several of your photographs in the Kensington exhibition,” Pitt began courteously.

  “Oh yes . . . yes?” Lyneham nodded, waiting for the inevitable comments.

  “Excellent use of light on water,” Pitt said.

  Lyneham looked startled. “You like that? I find it most interesting to work with. Gives the whole thing an extra dimension, don’t you think?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Funny you should say that,” Lyneham went on, standing with his back to the fire. “Young fellow here a couple of weeks ago, said almost exactly the same.”

  Pitt felt his stomach tighten. He tried to keep his face blank.

  “Really? Who was it? Maybe someone I know.”

  “Said his name was Harris.”

  “Tall, fair young man, about twenty-five?” Pitt asked. “Very dark blue eyes?”

  “Yes, that’s right! You do know him,” Lyneham said eagerly. “Most interested, he was. Keen photographer himself. Very good eye, judging by his remarks. Amateur, of course.” He waved a deprecating hand. “But very keen. Wished
to know what localities I thought best, and that kind of thing. Asked about the use of boats. Bit tricky, actually. They tend to move about. Any wind and you’re sunk, so to speak. Essence of good photography, light, focus, and position.”

  “Yes, I see. And what localities did you recommend? Or is it a secret of your profession?”

  “Oh no, not at all! Norfolk Broads, myself. Lovely light in East Anglia. Don’t have so many painters there for no reason, you know?”

  “Always the Broads?” Pitt asked, although he was certain he had the answer.

  “Personally, yes,” Lyneham replied. “Got a house up there. Makes it easy, convenient for taking advantage of the weather. Moment’s notice, and there you are. Damned nuisance if you have to go a distance from home and trust to chance. Can get rained on just as you arrive. Carting tripods and things around, very heavy . . . awkward. Much better to have it right there to hand. I’ve got some lovely shots of swans. Beautiful creatures. Light on white wings.”

  “I can imagine,” Pitt agreed. “Never on the Thames?”

  Lyneham pushed out his lip and shook his head. “No, not personally. Some people have—very well too. Fellow called John Lawless, does some excellent work. Specializes in pictures of children and the poor. People washing, people playing, pleasure boats and so on.” His face darkened. “And of course poor Cathcart. He actually had a house on the river. Opportunity right there.” He frowned. “Why do you want to know, sir? Has this to do with Cathcart’s death?”

  “Yes, I am afraid it has,” Pitt admitted. He produced a theatre bill with Orlando’s picture on it, and showed it to Lyneham.

  Lyneham looked at it only a moment, then up again at Pitt. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That is the young man. I hope he is not seriously involved. He was such a . . . a decent-seeming fellow.”

  “What was his mood? Please think carefully.”

  “Upset. Very upset,” Lyneham said unhesitatingly. “Oh, he hid it well, but there was obviously something that troubled him. Didn’t say what, of course. But I really can’t imagine anyone killing another man over photography—even passionate about it as some of us are. He just wanted to know about styles, that kind of thing . . . nothing else. And he never mentioned Cathcart.”