Half Moon Street (29 page)

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 learning 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?”

“Well . . . I . . .” He was obviously acutely uncomfortable. He looked everywhere but at her. A moment ago she had been a friend; now, overwhelmingly, she was a woman.

“You already know,” she concluded, then wished she had not. Perhaps he did not know? Perhaps it was his burning imagination which had driven him to buy such pictures? Then, seeing his agonized face, she was certain he did not know. He was confused, hideously embarrassed by his ignorance and his curiosity, and so self-conscious he was crimson to the tips of his ears.

“I think you should speak to your father yourself,” she said gently. “What you feel is common to all of us. He’ll understand exactly.” She hoped to heaven that was true. She was far less certain of Ralph Marchand now than she had been even an hour ago. She stood up and left the room without saying anything more.

She had dealt as well as possible with the issue of the photographs. She would send the address of the dealer to Bow Street for Pitt, then she would have to face Mrs. Ellison again. This could not go unresolved indefinitely.

But the damage was so deep, how did she reach it? It had years ago become part of the old lady’s character, the anger was consumed into her view of everything. She had hated herself and everyone else for so long she did not know how to stop. If the hatred was removed, would there be anything left?

It was a cool, clear autumn day, the streets full of hazy sunlight, traffic moving swiftly apart from the occasional crushes at corners, where everyone seemed to be a rule to themselves. At a glance she could see a score of people walking, as she was, simply for the pleasure of it. She was not yet ready to look for a cab. Perhaps that was as much because she dreaded returning home as anything to do with the weather.

The situation could not continue like this, day after day. Emily would be home in just over a week. It must be dealt with before then. Which raised another question she had been avoiding. What should she tell Emily, or Charlotte?

She smiled and nodded to two women passing her. She was sure she had met them somewhere but could not think where. They had the same polite, slightly confused looks on their faces. Presumably they were thinking exactly the same.

She could hardly tell Emily nothing. She had to offer some explanation for the change in the old lady. And whatever she told Emily she would have to tell Charlotte also.

She pictured Edmund Ellison as she remembered him. He was her father-in-law, a relation by marriage, but to her daughters he was Grandfather, a relation by blood, in a sense part of who they were. That made it different. They would find it far harder to bear.

And what thoughts would it awaken about Edward also? It had disturbed Caroline herself, made her view certain memories differently, and she had known him intimately. She had all the knowledge with which to dismiss all doubts, see them for the slander they were.

Honesty was not the only thing that mattered, surely?

She wished there was someone else she could speak to, someone whose advice she could ask, without laying upon that person a burden it was unfair to ask someone to carry. She certainly could not ask Joshua, especially not now, with a new play just beginning. Even at any time it would not be right. He had not been warned before. He had no experience of this kind of family problem in all its complicated ugliness and ever-widening circles of pain.

She could not even ask Charlotte, and certainly not Pitt. It was really not a problem she wished to discuss with a man at all, let alone one a generation younger than herself and with whom she had a continuing family relationship.

A hansom carriage and four swept by with a crest on the door, liveried coachman on the box and footman behind. It was a pleasure to watch them.

Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould—that was the answer. Of course she might not be in. She might consider this something of an impertinence, a familiarity not warranted by their very slight acquaintance. But on the other hand, she might help Caroline as she had helped Charlotte so many times.

She hailed the next hansom and gave the driver Vespasia’s address. It was quite an acceptable hour for afternoon calls.

Vespasia received Caroline with both interest and pleasure, and did not indulge the pretense that it was merely a usual courtesy call.

“I am sure you did not come to discuss society or the weather. You are plainly concerned about something,” she said when they were seated alone in the light, furnished sitting room looking into the garden. It was one of the most restful rooms Caroline had been in, the sense of space and air and the cool tones were calming, and she found herself sitting more comfortably in the chair. “I hope nothing is going badly with Charlotte?”

“No, far from it,” Caroline assured her. “I believe she is enjoying herself enormously.”

Vespasia smiled. The light was silver on her hair and warm on her face, which was beautiful as much because of her age as in spite of it. All the lines were upward, the faint prints of time left by courage and laughter, and an inner certainty no one had seen waver.

“Then you had better tell me what it is,” she offered. “I have instructed my maid that I am not at home to anyone else, but I have no taste to play games with words. I have reached the age when life seems too short as it is; I do not wish to spend any of it uselessly . . . unless it is fun? And from your face, this is not so.”

“No, I am afraid it is not. But I should greatly appreciate your advice,” Caroline admitted. “I am not sure what I should do for the best.”

Vespasia looked at her steadily. “What have you done so far?”

As succinctly as possible, Caroline told her of meeting Samuel Ellison at the theatre and of his visits to the house and Mrs. Ellison’s increasing tension.

Vespasia listened without interruption until Caroline reached the point where she had retrieved the letter and confronted Mrs. Ellison and demanded to know the truth. Then she found it unexpectedly difficult to repeat the obscenity of what the old lady had finally recounted.

“I think you had better tell me,” Vespasia said quietly. “I presume it was extremely unpleasant, or she would hardly have gone to such lengths to keep it concealed.”

Caroline looked down at her hands, locked together in her lap.

“I did not know people behaved in such ways. I have always disliked my mother-in-law. I have never admitted that before, but it is true.” She was embarrassed to confess it. “She is a bitter and cruel woman. All my married life I have watched her look for ways to hurt people. Now I find myself sorry for her . . . and angry with myself because I can’t think of any way to help. She is dying of rage and humiliation, and I can’t touch her. She won’t let me, and I can’t break the barrier.” She looked up. “I ought to be able to! I’m not the one who has been abused and degraded!”

Vespasia sat silently for so long Caroline began to think she was not going to reply. Perhaps Vespasia was too old to deal with such things and she should not have trespassed.

“My dear,” Vespasia said at last, “wounds such as you imply can sometimes be healed, if they are reached soon enough. A gentle man, a tender man, might have taught her differently, and she would have learned what love can be. In time she might have put the past to the back of her mind, where it could do no more harm. I think for your mother-in-law it is far too late. She has hated herself so long she can find no way back.”

Caroline felt herself go cold, her hands stiff. It was not what she wanted to hear.

“It is pointless to blame yourself for not being able to ease her pain,” Vespasia went on. “It is not your fault, but more to the point, self-blame will help neither of you. I do not mean to be harsh, but it is a kind of self-indulgence. The most you can do for her is to treat her with some nature of respect, and not allow your new knowledge of her to destroy what little dignity she has left.”

“That’s not very much!” Caroline said angrily. “That sounds like self-preservation.”

“My dear,” Vespasia said gently, “I have found that when something very dreadful happens, and has to be faced, it is wisest to consider the matter in the most practical terms. What is fair or unfair no longer really matters, only what is or is not. It is a waste of energy you will desperately need to expend anger on injustice you cannot alter. Concentrate your attention on the pain you can reach, and weigh very carefully what is the most likely result of your actions and if it is what you wish for. When you have made the wisest judgment you can, then do it. Let the rest take care of itself.”

Caroline knew Vespasia was right, and yet she could not help a last protest. “Is that really all? I feel so . . . there ought to be . . .”

Vespasia shook her head very slightly. “You cannot heal her, but you can allow her time and room to heal herself . . . a little . . . if she wants to. After these years of anger it would take a miracle . . . but miracles do happen from time to time.” She gave a very slight smile. “I have seen a few. Never give up hope. If she can believe that you have hope, she may learn to have it herself.”

“It doesn’t sound a great deal,” Caroline said reluctantly.

Vespasia moved very slightly, the light silver on her hair.

“The damage done by that kind of abuse is very, very deep. The physical is nothing, in comparison. It is the wound to the faith, to what one believes of oneself, that may be irrevocable. If you cannot love yourself, and believe you are worth loving, then it is impossible to love anyone else.” She gave a tiny shrug, the sun shimmering on the silk of her gown. “When Christ commanded us to love our neighbor as ourselves, the ‘self’ part was just as important. We forget that at a terrible price.”