Half Moon Street (14 page)

And all of those arguments were excuses, not reasons.

“Pictures of whom?” he asked, not expecting an honest answer, only to see something in her face.

Her eyes did not flicker. She was prepared for the question, he could see it unspoken in her.

“Artist’s models,” she replied. “No one you would know, I should think. They were just beautiful pictures. He used them as practice for when he was going to do a client . . . to get the costume and lighting right. But people like them . . . they’re so well done they’re worth a lot.” She sighed and glanced at the teapot again.

Should he ask her whom she had sold them to? And if she told him would he follow up to make sure it was the truth? Could he? It might have been the sort of cash transaction of which there was no written record, a quick profit in the works of a man now dead.

Or on the other hand, she might have sold them back to the people Cathcart had blackmailed, and any written record would be worthless.

Or she might simply have collected more blackmail money. Probably he would never be able to prove any of those possibilities.

“Miss Monderell,” he said gravely, “you were close to Cathcart, perhaps he trusted you with intimate knowledge of his business, even of his clients. He was murdered by someone who hated him in a very personal way and with an intensity beyond their ability to control.”

The color drained from her face.

“Be careful, Miss Monderell.” He lowered his voice even further. “If you have any knowledge about his death, any at all, you would be very unwise not to tell me what it is . . . as fully as you are able. I don’t want to be investigating your death next week . . . or the week after.”

She stared at him in silence, her bosom rising and falling as she strove to control her breathing.

He stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“I don’t know anything about his death.” She looked up at Pitt.

He would have liked to believe her, but he did not.

CHAPTER SIX

While Pitt was trying to learn more about Delbert Cathcart’s life, Caroline had invited Samuel Ellison to call again, and was delighted when he accepted. This much was obvious to Mariah as Caroline came into the room with Samuel almost at her heels. She looked pleased with herself.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Samuel said to the old lady, inclining his head a little. “I’m glad to see you looking well. It’s very kind of you to receive me again so soon.”

It was soon, far too soon, in the old lady’s opinion, although it would be unacceptable to say so. However, she could not let her displeasure go entirely unmarked.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ellison,” she replied coolly, looking him up and down with a flutter inside she could not suppress. He was so like her own son, Edward, it was almost as if his ghost had returned to her. Perhaps more disconcerting at the moment, he was also markedly like his father. He could not know that, but she did. It was as if parallel with this autumn afternoon in 1891 there were hundreds of other afternoons in other years when Edmund Ellison had walked in, courteous as this man, sounding as he did now, with heaven knew what going on in his mind.

“I daresay you wish to make the most of whatever time you have in London,” she continued. She must leave him in no doubt that he could not keep coming here. “There must be many calls upon it. And then you will go back to America. No doubt you have obligations there.”

“Not an obligation in the world,” he said airily.

“Please sit down,” Caroline invited. “Tea will be served in half an hour or so.”

He took the chair she indicated, crossing his legs comfortably and reclining. The old lady thought he looked offensively at ease.

“It is unfortunate you could not have come when Mr. Fielding was at home,” she said sharply. She wished to make Caroline sensible of a certain disloyalty to her husband in inviting Samuel, who was far nearer her own age and much too obviously found her attractive, at an hour when Joshua was out doing whatever it was he did. She did not know what he occupied his time with, and had never thought to ask. It was probably something she would prefer not to know. Men should keep their indiscretions to themselves, and a woman with the least sense did not ask. “I am sure he also would have liked to see you,” she added, to prevent its being obvious she was not pleased to see him. Criticizing Caroline was one thing; she did not wish to appear rude, if it could be avoided.

“I had hoped he would be,” Samuel replied with a quick smile. “I thought the afternoon quite a good time. It seems I misjudged.”

There was a slight flush on Caroline’s cheek. “Usually it is. He has gone to see a friend who is writing a play and wants his advice on stage directions.”

Samuel’s face lit up with interest. “What a fascinating thing to do! To know what instructions to give to create the perfect illusion and draw in people’s emotions and understanding, to form a world which lies open to observation and yet is perfectly contained within itself. Do you know the play?”

It seemed that Caroline did. She answered with a detailed description of the setting and the plot. Mariah sat back in her chair, still upright, but in a sense, by her posture, expressing her exclusion from the conversation. They were discussing the theatre again, and she did not approve. Certainly marrying an actor was a social catastrophe no decent woman would even consider. But now that Caroline had made her bed, she must lie in it. She owed Joshua some loyalty, and sitting there smiling and hanging on every word of Samuel Ellison was disloyal.

Samuel was talking about Oscar Wilde, of all people. Caroline was listening intently, her eyes alight. Mariah’s mind raced over what she could do to get rid of Samuel before he said something which woke Caroline’s suspicion and she started to think, to ask.

She had already tried hints so direct any decent man would have taken them. It was perfectly obvious to anyone, except a fool, that he was attracted to Caroline, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. It was intolerable.

“I’ve just read
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
and I was fascinated,” Samuel said with enthusiasm. “The man is truly brilliant. But of course meeting him would be the real thing.”

“Really?” Mrs. Ellison said icily. She had not meant to join the conversation, but this was too much to allow to pass. “I would not have thought he was the sort of person any respectable man, and any woman at all, would care to associate with. I believe ‘decadent’ is the term applied to him and his like.”

“I believe it is,” Samuel agreed, turning away from Caroline to face her. “I’m afraid my desire to experience as much of life as I can has led me to some very questionable places, and most certainly into some company you would not approve of, Mrs. Ellison. And yet I have found honor, courage and compassion in some places you would swear there was nothing good to see . . . maybe not even any redemption to hope for. It’s a great thing to see beauty in the darkness of what seems to be lost.”

There was a kind of light in his face which defied her to go on disapproving. He was so like Edward it was deeply disturbing, and also unlike him, and that disturbed her as well, because it was inappropriate, and yet it was also kind. She wished with a fierceness that nearly choked her that he had never come.

Caroline saved her the necessity of replying.

“Please tell us the sort of thing you mean,” she asked eagerly. “I shall never go to America myself, and certainly even if I did I would never go westwards. Is New York like London . . . I mean now? Do you have theatres and operas and concerts? Do people care about society and fashion, who is being seen with whom? Or are they beyond that sort of silly concern?”

He laughed outright, then proceeded to tell her about New York society. “The original ‘four hundred’ is superb,” he said with a laugh. “Although the word is now that there are at least fifteen hundred, if one were to believe all those who claim to be descendants.”

“I don’t see how that bears any resemblance to us,” Mariah said acidly. “I don’t know anyone at all who claims to have arrived on a ship from anywhere. I cannot imagine why they should wish to.” She fervently desired him to change the subject away from America and ships altogether. If she could freeze him out of it she would.

“William the conqueror!” Caroline said instantly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Or, I suppose, if you want to be even grander and older still, Julius Caesar,” Caroline explained.

Had they been alone, the old lady could have disclaimed all knowledge of what she was talking about, and indeed of the conversation at all. But ignorance was not a satisfactory riposte to Samuel Ellison. He would only believe her, and then she would have to explain, probably at length.

“I have no idea whether my ancestors came over with William the Conqueror, or Julius Caesar, or were here before either of them,” she replied, drawing in a deep breath. “Half a dozen generations should be sufficient for anyone.”

“I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Samuel said with great feeling, leaning towards her a little. “It is who a man is that matters, not who his father was. Good men have had bad sons, and bad men good ones.”

Mariah wanted to say something to end this subject before it became catastrophic, but suddenly her throat was too dry to speak.

Caroline was regarding Samuel with gentleness and concern. She had caught a deeper note of meaning in what he said, or else she had imagined it. Mariah shivered. This was appalling. What did he know? How much was possible? Anything! Everything! What would a woman tell her son? A decent woman, nothing at all. How could she? It was unspeakable—literally—beyond the power of being put into speech. She must get rid of him! Out of the house forever. Caroline must be made to see the unsuitability of this—immediately.

But for now, she must make her heart calm down, cease choking her. This was all unnecessary. His choice of words was unfortunate, but it was accidental, no more. Face him down.

Caroline was talking again. “Bicycles!” she said with delight. “How interesting! Have you ridden on one?”

“Of course! They’re wonderful, and incredibly fast,” he enthused. “Naturally I’m speaking of gentlemen’s machines.”

“I’m sure ladies’ could be very fast as well, if we wore the correct clothing,” she countered. “I believe they are known as bloomers.”

“Bloomers are hardly ‘correct clothing’ for anything at all!” the old lady said. “Really! What will you think of next? As if your theatrical antics are not sufficient, you want to dress like a man and career around the streets on wheels? Even Joshua would not allow that!” Her voice rose sharp and high. “Presuming you care what Joshua likes? You used to be besotted enough upon him, I think you would have jumped off Brighton Pier into the sea if you thought he wished it.”

Caroline looked at her with wide eyes, perfectly steady and unblinking. For a moment the old lady was quite alarmed at the boldness of them.

“I think that might be a pleasant thought on a hot summer afternoon—a tedious one when everybody is gossiping and talking essentially nonsense,” Caroline replied deliberately. “Not to please Joshua, to please myself.”

That was so outrageous, so perfectly idiotic, that for a moment the old lady was robbed of a reply adequate to the occasion.

Samuel was only too apparently entertained by the notion, and that Caroline should not only think it but say it. But then he did not have to live with her.

Then the perfect answer sprang to her tongue.

“If you act to please yourself, Caroline”—she glared at her former daughter-in-law—“then you may very well end up pleasing no one else. And that, for a woman in your situation, would be catastrophic.” She pronounced the last word with relish.

She was rewarded by a look of startling vulnerability in Caroline’s face, almost as if she had seen an abyss of loneliness opening in front of her, yet the old lady did not feel the satisfaction she had expected to feel. This was nearly victory, and yet isolation, inadequacy, guilt and the burning sense of shame were too familiar, and she wanted to put them behind her forever, so far behind she would never see them or think of them again, not in Caroline, not in anyone. It was intolerable that Caroline, of all people, should remind her.

“It is vulgar to speak so much of oneself,” she said quickly. She turned to Samuel. “How long do you intend to remain in London? You will surely wish to see the rest of the country. I believe Bath is still very attractive. It used to be. And highly fashionable. Anyone who had the slightest aspirations to be anyone would take the waters, in the right season.”

“Oh yes.” He must have been aware it was dismissal, but he refused to go. “Roman baths, aren’t they?”

“They were, yes. Now they are entirely English, if anything can be said to be.”

“Please tell us more of your own country.” Caroline poured more tea and offered the sandwiches again. She seemed oblivious to decency. “How far west did you go? Did you really see Indians?”

A sadness came into his face. “Indeed I did. How far west? All the way to California and the Barbary Coast. I met men who panned for gold in the Rush of ’49, men who saw the great buffalo herds that darkened the plains and made the earth tremble when they stampeded.” His eyes were very far away, his face marked with deep emotion. “I know men who made the desert blossom, and men who murdered the old inhabitants and tore up what was wild and beautiful and can’t ever be replaced. Sometimes it was done in ignorance, and sometimes it was done in greed. I watched the white man strengthen and the red man die.”

Caroline drew breath to say something, then changed her mind. She sat silently, watching him, knowing it was not a time to intrude.

He turned and smiled at her.

The understanding between them was tangible in the quiet room.

“Caroline, will you pour me more tea!” Mariah demanded. How could she make him leave? If she claimed a headache she would have to retire, and he might well be gauche enough to remain even so— alone with Caroline. And she was stupid enough to let him. Couldn’t see a foot beyond the end of her own nose. Ever since poor Edward died it had been one disaster after another.

“Of course,” Caroline said willingly, reaching for the pot and obeying. “Samuel, would you care for another sandwich?”

He accepted, although he was doing far more talking than eating or drinking. He was showing off, and enjoying it thoroughly. Could Caroline not see that? He probably did the same to every woman who was fool enough to listen. And there was Caroline, simpering and hanging on his every word as if he were courting her. Joshua would be disgusted—and then she would lose even what little she had, which now she had let the world know about it by marrying him, was at least better than nothing. Then where would she be? A disgraced woman! Put out for immorality—at her age—with no means and no reputation.

Caroline was looking at Samuel again.

“The way you speak of it makes me feel as if there is much tragedy attached. I had always heard of it as brave and exciting, filled with hardship and sacrifice, but not dishonor.” She sensed in him a real wound, and she wished to understand, even to share a fraction of it. There was an emotion driving her she did not realize, but there was a need for reassurance, to find her own balance and certainties, and she was drawn to Samuel’s pain. If one could not gain comfort, one could at least give it. And she could not remember when she had liked anyone so quickly and easily before, except perhaps Joshua, and that was not something she wished to think about just at the moment.

She watched his face for an answer, avoiding Mariah’s eyes. The old lady was in a strange frame of mind, even for her. If Caroline did not know such a thing was impossible, she would have said she was afraid. Certainly she was angry, but then Caroline had never known her when there was not an underlying emotion in her which she realized now was a kind of fury. She had always been quick to find fault, to criticize, to strike out, as if hurting another person released something within her.