Half Moon Street (11 page)

Mariah felt the misery tighten inside her, like an iron band, never to be escaped again. Damn him for coming! Damn Caroline for letting him. It’s easy to talk about courage and fighting when the battle is an honorable one and everybody understands. When you aren’t so ashamed you could die of it!

Was that what he was talking about? Did he guess—even know? She stared at his charming, humorous face, so like her own son’s in its features, but she could not read it. There was no one she could turn to, certainly never Caroline. She must not know, ever. All those times they had quarreled, the times over the years, even more often recently, when she had told Caroline what a fool she was . . . marrying a man two-thirds her age instead of retiring decently into widowhood. It was bound to end in disaster, and she had told her that. It was no less than the truth. It would be unbearable now, unlivable with, if Caroline were to know all her long-buried darkness. She would rather be dead and respectably buried somewhere . . . even beside Edmund. That was probably what they would do. It was what she had told them she wanted—what else could she say?

But one did not die merely of wanting to. She knew that well enough.

They were talking again. The noise buzzed around her like a jar full of flies.

“Was New York very different after the war?” Caroline asked. She was bent forward a little, the soft burgundy silk of her dress pulled tight across her shoulders, her face intent. She was very individual, the intelligence and will in her, the unusual shape of her mouth. The old lady had thought her beautiful in the beginning. Now they were too familiar for her to think in such terms. And beauty belonged to the young.

“Changed beyond belief,” Samuel was answering. A curious expression crossed his face, laughter in his eyes and something which could have been excitement, and both sadness and distaste in his mouth. “The war had left everything in a flux.” And he proceeded to describe its color, violence, corruption and excitement. He told of it so enthrallingly even the old lady listened, begrudging every vivid moment.

“I’m sure you could not imagine, Mrs. Ellison, being a young man recently returned from the fear and hardship of war, and the strange tragedies of victory which were far more bitter in the mouth than any of us had foreseen.”

He moved from the city life to his adventure westwards.

“The men and women who took the wagon trains through were among the finest and bravest I’ve ever known,” he said with fierce admiration. “The hardships they endured, without complaint, were enough to make you weep. And they were all sorts: Germans, Italians, Swedes and French, Spaniards, Irish and Russians, but so many from right here. I came across one group of English people who were pushing all their worldly possessions in handcarts, women walking beside, some with babes in arms, going all the way to the Salt Lake Valley. God knows how many died on the way.”

“I cannot imagine it,” Caroline said softly. “I don’t know how people have the courage.”

Caroline watched Samuel and thought of the previous evening at the theatre, and how utterly different that had been. She could see perfectly in her mind’s eye Cecily Antrim’s vivid figure illuminated on the stage, her hair like a halo in the lights, her every gesture full of passion and imprisoned despair. She wanted so much more than she had. Would that woman ever conceive of what it would be like to struggle simply to survive?

Or were the emotions much the same, only the object of the hunger different? Did one long for love, for the freedom to be yourself, unrestrained by social expectations, with the same fierceness as one hungered for religious or political freedom, and set out to walk on foot into a vast and unknown land inhabited only by an alien race who saw you as an invader?

Cecily Antrim was fighting a complex and sophisticated society in order to win the freedom to say anything she wished. Caroline felt threatened by her. Sitting here watching Samuel and less than half listening to him, she could admit that. She was used to a world where certain things were not said. It was safer. There were things she did not want to know—about others and about herself. There were emotions she did not want to think others understood. It made her naked in a dangerous way, and far too vulnerable.

Cecily Antrim was very brave. Nothing seemed to frighten her sufficiently to deter her. That was part of what Joshua admired so much; that, and her beauty. It was unique, not a prettiness at all, far too strong, too passionate and uncompromising for that. Her face had a symmetry from every angle, a balance in the smoothness of the bones, the wide, unflinching eyes. She moved with extraordinary grace. She made Caroline feel very ordinary, sort of brown and old, like a moth instead of a butterfly.

And the worst thing of all was that it was not merely physical. Cecily had such vigor and courage to fight for whatever she believed in, and Caroline was increasingly unsure of what she thought was right or wrong. She wanted to agree with Joshua that censorship was wrong. The only way to freedom and growth, to the just equality of one person’s faith with another’s, was for ideas to be expressed and questions to be asked, comfortable or not. And for laws to be changed, people’s emotions had to be awoken, and their sympathies for passions and beliefs outside their own experience.

That was what her mind told her. Deeper, woven into her being, was the conviction that there are things that should never be spoken, perhaps not even known.

Was that cowardice?

She was quite certain Cecily Antrim would think so and would despise her for it, though that hardly mattered. It was what Joshua thought that would hurt. Would he also find a gulf opening up between them, between the brave of heart and mind, those strong enough to look at everything life had to offer and those like Caroline, who wanted to stay where it was safe, where ugly things could be hidden away and denied?

Samuel was still talking, but he was looking mostly at Caroline. Mrs. Ellison sat straight-backed, her black eyes fixed, her face set in lines so rigid one might have thought she was battling some kind of pain.

For the first time Caroline wondered how much the old lady had known of the first Mrs. Ellison. She must have been aware that she had had a predecessor. There would have been legal necessities, and perhaps religious ones also. What kind of a woman was Samuel’s mother that she had bolted from Edmund Ellison, from England altogether, and gone across the Atlantic by herself ?

Socially a disaster. In England in 1828 it had been a crime for a woman to leave her husband, whatever he had done or failed to do, whatever she had wished. The law, had he chosen to invoke it, could have brought her back to him by force. Presumably he had not wished that. Perhaps he had even been glad to be relieved of her, though from all that Samuel had said, she had been an excellent mother, and his love for her shone in his face every time he spoke of her. Perhaps he knew nothing of the circumstances? Or perhaps whatever she had told him had been the facts as she saw them, but less than the truth?

He was watching Caroline now as he spoke of his journey in the steamship across the Atlantic and of his docking in Liverpool, and later his first sight of London. His eyes were dancing with it, and she could not help smiling in return.

His company was remarkably pleasant. He was most interesting to listen to; he had seen so much and recounted it vividly and with a generous spirit. Yet she did not feel threatened as she had yesterday in Cecily Antrim’s dressing room. She was sufficiently experienced in the difference between good manners and friendship to be certain that he liked her, and it was a most pleasing feeling. There was admiration in his eyes as he regarded her, and it was like warmth after a sense of deep chill. He would not find her boring or conventional in her ideas. She did not feel left behind by more daring minds, quicker and more agile and—she said the word to herself at last—younger.

Was that at the core of it, not just sophistication and physical beauty, but age? She was seventeen years older than Joshua. It was like poking at an unhealed wound just to say it to herself. Perhaps the old woman, with her vindictive, all-seeing eyes, was right, and she had been a fool to marry a man she was absurdly in love with, who made her laugh and cry, but who in the end would not be able to protect himself from finding her boring.

That would be the ultimate pain—loyalty through pity.

“. . . and of course at the theatre my host told me of his acquaintance with Mrs. Fielding,” Samuel was saying. “And that she had been Mrs. Ellison until her recent marriage. You can imagine how delighted I was! Well . . . no, you can’t,” he amended. “I feel as if in a sense I have come back to my beginnings, a homecoming.”

“I am glad you find London so entertaining,” Mariah said rather curtly. “I am sure your new friends will wish to show you all manner of things: the Tower, the parks, riding in Rotten Row, perhaps Kew Gardens? There are all sorts of sights to see, not to mention society to meet. I am afraid we no longer know anyone.” She gave a sideways look at Caroline, then back to Samuel. It was a dismissal, and so phrased as to make it clear he need not look to return in the near future. Duty had been satisfied.

Caroline was furious and unreasonably disappointed. Damn Mrs. Ellison. She turned a radiant smile on Samuel as he rose to his feet.

“Thank you so much for giving us one of the most delightful and interesting afternoons I can ever recall,” she said warmly. “It has been a journey into another land without the dangers and inconvenience of travel. I know you must have a thousand things to see, but I do hope you will come again. We may lay some superior claim to you, since we are family, and we must not lose each other now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The old lady swiveled around to glare at her. “Mr. Ellison has called upon us, which is all we could possibly expect of him. We cannot suppose that a man who has fought in a war and ridden with savages will find himself entertained taking tea with old women in a withdrawing room.”

“I do not judge people by their age, Mrs. Ellison,” he replied immediately. “Some of the most interesting people I have ever met have been on the upper side of seventy, and have learned wisdom far greater than mine. It is a mistake of the young to assume that only they have passion or beauty, and I am far too old myself to fall into that error anymore. I hope I shall be invited to call again.” He glanced at Caroline, then away. His meaning did not need elaboration.

Mrs. Ellison’s face pinched, her lips tightened, and she said nothing.

Caroline rose also and moved towards the door to accompany him at least as far as the hall when he had bidden them farewell. “And as for being invited,” she said warmly, “please consider that you are always welcome.”

He accepted instantly, and after wishing each of the ladies good-bye, he took his leave.

When Caroline returned to the withdrawing room her maid informed her that the old lady had retired to her room, and she did not reappear all evening, or send further word.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the morning Pitt and Tellman returned to the area of Battersea near Cathcart’s house. It was a gray day with a fine mist swirling in from the river, and Pitt had turned his coat collar up against it. Tellman trudged along with his head down, his face set in lines of disapproval.

“I don’t know what you think we can find,” he said morosely. “It was probably some time in the middle of the night when all decent folk were asleep anyway.”

Actually Pitt agreed with him, but Tellman’s perversity was irritating and he refused to let him win.

“This is the neighborhood where Cathcart lived,” he replied. “Since we don’t know exactly when he was killed, and we certainly don’t know why or by whom, can you think of anything better?”

Tellman grunted. “How’s Mrs. Pitt getting on in Paris?” he asked in retaliation. He glanced sideways at Pitt’s face, then away again. He read him too well.

“Enjoying it,” Pitt answered. “Says it’s a beautiful city and very exciting. The women have a flair for dress and are extremely elegant. They look as if they achieve it without any effort at all. She says it’s infuriating.”

“Well, they’re French, aren’t they?” Tellman asked reasonably. “One would expect them to be infuriating,” he added.

In spite of himself Pitt grinned.

“If Cathcart was half as clever as that woman said he was,” Tellman said, returning to the subject at hand, “then he probably got above himself with someone, and maybe tried a touch of blackmail. I daresay photographers are like servants, and they get to see a lot of things. Maybe people think they don’t matter, and speak in front of them. He moved around in a lot of big houses, sort of there but not there, if you know what I mean? He might have found it out only by accident, but took his chance.”

The road was wet underfoot, heavy dew glistening in the hedges. The mournful sound of a foghorn drifted up from the water.

Pitt pushed his hands hard into his pockets. “That leaves us a pretty wide field,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d like to know how much he earned with his photography, and what he spent.”

Tellman did not bother to ask why.

“And how much of that house and its furnishings he inherited,” Pitt went on, thinking of the works of art he had seen and trying to make some mental assessment of their value.

Tellman was looking at him. “Worth a lot?” he asked. He knew forgery of banknotes and letters of credit, and the disposal of ordinary household goods and silver, but not art of that quality.

Pitt had not doubted that what he had seen in Cathcart’s house was genuine, probably even the vase which had been smashed, and almost certainly the once-beautiful rug that they had fished out of the river.

“Yes . . .”

“More than you’d earn taking photographs of the gentry?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Tellman’s chin came up a little. “Right!” he said more cheerfully. “Then we’d better see what we can find out about Mr. Cathcart.”

They parted company, Tellman going to the local shops and generally asking around. Pitt returned to Cathcart’s house and, with Mrs. Geddes looking on proprietarily, made what assessment he could of the value of the works of art he could see. Then he went through Cathcart’s desk, looking at such bills and receipts as were there. They covered approximately the last three months. It seemed Cathcart did not stint himself for anything that took his fancy. His tailor’s bills were enormous, but all receipted within days of being presented. His appointments diary noted several trips to various other cities within a comfortable train journey: Bath, Winchester, Tunbridge Wells, Brighton, Gloucester. There was no indication whether he was going on business or pleasure.

Pitt leaned back in the elegant chair and read the list of clients Cathcart had photographed in the previous six months. He made notes of those for the last five weeks. It seemed Cathcart worked hard on preparation before he finally made his portraits. He spent time to learn about his subjects and to suggest several possibilities to them.

Next he went through Cathcart’s professional receipts for photographic materials, which were surprisingly expensive. The margin for profit was not nearly as large as he had supposed. And then there were all the pieces of stage dressing he used, not to mention the generator for the lights.

He must find out if Cathcart had inherited this house and its beautiful carpets, pictures, furniture, vases and so on. Even if he had, it seemed he must live to the limit of his income, unless there was another source.

He should also find out if Cathcart had left a will. He certainly had much to bequeath. Pitt searched the desk again to find out who was his man of affairs, who would surely know.

He found it only just before Tellman returned, looking less than pleased.

“Didn’t shop much around here,” he said, sitting down gingerly on a Sheraton chair as if he were afraid he might break its beautiful legs. “Mrs. Geddes seems to have bought most of the household necessities. Sent his stuff out to be laundered, linens, clothes, all of it. Expensive.” He grunted. “Still, I suppose keeping a staff would cost a bit too, and it may be he preferred not to have anyone around too much.”

“What’s the gossip?” Pitt leaned back in the desk chair.

“Not a lot,” Tellman replied. “Beyond the impression that he’s got money and is a bit odd. Some have a less-charitable word for it, but it comes to the same thing. Local chap comes in twice a week and does the garden, but seems Cathcart liked it all overgrown and artistic, like. Can’t bear rows of things, and can’t be bothered with vegetables or anything useful.”

“Perhaps in his profession flowers are more use?” Pitt suggested. “Roses on the arches and pergolas, the willow trailing over the water.”

Tellman refrained from comment. “You find anything?” He had always resented calling Pitt “sir,” and for some time now had abandoned it altogether, except when he was being sarcastic.

“He went through a lot of money,” Pitt replied. “More than he earned as a photographer, unless his books are fiddled. But I need to know if he inherited the house and the things in it . . . which are probably worth more than it is.”

Tellman looked around, his brows drawn together. “Reckon he was killed for it? People have killed for a lot less, but not dressed them up and chained them like that. That’s . . . personal.”

“Yes, I know,” Pitt said quietly. “But we need to find out all the same.”

“Now what?” Tellman asked, his eyes going surreptitiously to the Chinese vase on the mantelpiece and then across to a blue plaque with raised white figures of dancing children on it, which Pitt guessed to be Italian Renaissance, either Della Robbia or a good copy. He had seen something like it once recovered from a burglary.

“Is it really worth a lot?” Tellman asked.

“I think so. We’ll find out if he inherited it. And who inherits it now.” Pitt folded up the paper he had been writing on and put it in his pocket, along with the usual variety of things already there, and stood up. “We’ll go and find Mr. Dobson of Phipps, Barlow and Jones. He should be able to answer both questions for us.”

Mr. Dobson was a mild-mannered man with a long, distinguished face which fell very naturally into lines of the gravity appropriate to his calling.

“Police, you say?” He regarded Pitt’s untidy figure dubiously. Tellman, he seemed to have no doubt of.

Pitt produced his card and offered it.

“Ah!” Dobson let out a sigh, apparently satisfied. “Come in, gentlemen.” He indicated his office and followed after them, closing the door. “Please be seated. What can I do for you?”

“We are here regarding Mr. Delbert Cathcart. I believe he is a client of yours,” Pitt replied.

“Indeed he is,” Dobson agreed, sitting down and inviting him to do the same. “But of course his business is confidential, and to the very best of my knowledge, completely honest, and even praiseworthy.”

“You are not aware of his recent death?” Pitt asked him, watching the man’s face closely.

“Death?” Dobson was clearly taken aback. “Did you say death? Are you perfectly sure?”

“I am afraid so,” Pitt replied.

Dobson’s eyes narrowed. “And what brings you here, sir? Is there something questionable about the manner of it?”

Obviously the newspapers had not yet been informed that the body from Horseferry Stairs had been identified, but it could only be a matter of time. Briefly Pitt told him the essentials.

“Oh dear. How extremely distressing.” Dobson shook his head. “In what manner may I assist you? I knew nothing of it, nor do I know anything which would seem to be relevant. It must be some madman responsible. What is the world coming to?”

Pitt decided to be completely frank. “It happened in his house, Mr. Dobson, which would make it probable it was someone he knew.”

Dobson’s face expressed misgiving, but he did not interrupt.

“Did Mr. Cathcart inherit his house in Battersea?” Pitt asked.

Whatever Dobson had been expecting, his face betrayed that it was not this. “No. Good heavens, why do you ask?”

“He purchased it himself ?”

“Certainly. About, let me see, eight years ago, August of ’83, I think. Why? There was nothing irregular in it, I assure you. I handled the matter myself.”

“And the objects of art in it, the furnishings?”

“I have no idea. Are they . . . questionable?”

“Not so far as I know. Who inherits them, Mr. Dobson?”

“Various charities, sir. No individual.”

Pitt was surprised, although he had not seriously thought Cathcart had been killed for property, any more than Tellman did. But it cast a new light on Cathcart’s income that he had purchased both house and works of art himself. Pitt was aware that Tellman was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Thank you.” He sighed, looking at Dobson. “Did he receive any bequests that you are aware of—from an appreciative client, perhaps? Or a deceased relative?”

“Not so far as I know. Why do you ask, sir?”

“To exclude certain possibilities as to why he may have been killed,” Pitt answered somewhat obliquely. He did not wish to tell Dobson his suspicions as to Cathcart’s sources of income.

There was little more to learn, and five minutes later they excused themselves and left.

“Do you think they could be stolen?” Tellman asked as soon as they were in the street. “If he goes into the houses of all those fancy people and talks to them before he takes their pictures, he’d be in an ideal position to know what they had and where it was kept.”

“And when they came to his studio to be photographed they’d be in an ideal position to see it again,” Pitt pointed out, stepping around a pile of manure as they crossed the road.

Tellman skipped up onto the curb on the far side and grunted acknowledgment. He had to stride to keep up with Pitt. He was used to it, but it still annoyed him. “I suppose those sort all know each other.”

“Probably,” Pitt agreed. “Couldn’t take a risk, anyway. But I suppose we should still check if there’ve been any robberies. I’ve got a list of his clients.”

But the enquiries produced nothing, as he had expected. Nor were there reports from anywhere else of objects of art or furniture missing which answered the descriptions of any of the pieces he had seen in Battersea. He was drawn back to the conclusion that Cathcart had a second, and probably larger, source of income other than his photography, excellent as that was.

He ate a good dinner at the nearest public house, but with little enjoyment, and went home to sit by the stove at the kitchen table for a while. There were no letters from Paris. He went to bed early and was surprised to sleep well.

He and Tellman spent the following two days further investigating Cathcart’s life and visiting his clients listed for the six weeks prior to his death.

Lady Jarvis, whom Pitt called on in the middle of the afternoon, was typical. She received them in a heavily ornate withdrawing room. Brocade curtains fell almost from ceiling to well below floor length, gathered up in the rich swathes that demonstrated wealth. Pitt thought with some envy that they would also be excellent at keeping out winter drafts, even if now they also excluded some of the golden autumn light. The furniture was massive, and where the wood showed it was deeply carved oak, darkened by generations of overpolishing. The surfaces were cluttered with small photographs of people of various ages, all posed solemnly to be immortalized in sepia tint. Several were gentlemen in stiff uniforms, staring earnestly into space.

Lady Jarvis herself was about thirty-five, handsome in a conventional way, although her eyebrows were well marked, like delicate wings, giving her face rather more imagination than a first glance betrayed. Her clothes were expensive and rigidly fashionable, with a very slight bustle, perfect tailoring, big sleeves full at the shoulder. Pitt would have dearly liked to buy Charlotte such a gown. And she would have looked better in it.

“You said it was about Mr. Cathcart, the photographer?” she began, obvious interest in her face. “Has somebody brought a complaint?”

“Do you know who might?” Pitt asked quickly.

The chance to savor a little of the spice of gossip was too pleasant for her to pass by, even if it was dangerous.

“It could be Lady Worlingham,” she said half questioningly. “She was very offended by the portrait he took of her younger daughter, Dorothea. Actually I thought it caught her rather well, and she herself was delighted with it. But I suppose it was a trifle improper.”

Pitt waited.

“All the flowers,” Lady Jarvis went on, waving her hand delicately. “A bit . . . lush, I suppose. Hid her dress until its existence was left to the imagination . . . in places.” She almost laughed, then remembered herself. “Has she complained? I wouldn’t have thought it was a police matter. There’s no law, is there?” She shrugged. “Anyway, even if there is, I don’t have any complaint.” A look of wistfulness crossed her face, just for an instant, as if she would like to have had, and Pitt glimpsed a life of unrelenting correctness where a photograph with too many flowers would have been exciting.