Half Moon Street (34 page)

“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.”

“I’m sure he didn’t. I don’t believe at that point he even knew his name. Where did you direct him, Mr. Lyneham?”

Lyneham looked at him very steadily, his eyes troubled, his mouth pinched a little.

“To the exhibition in Warwick Square,” he replied. “Prints, but very good. I thought there he would get the chance to see some of the best uses of water, light and so on. Did I . . . contribute to the . . . crime, sir? I regret that profoundly.”

“No,” Pitt assured him. “If he had not learned from you, then he would have from somebody else. Don’t chastise yourself for ordinary civility.”

“Oh dear.” Lyneham shook his head. “Oh dear. He seemed such an agreeable young man. I’m so sorry!”

Pitt and Tellman arrived at the exhibition in Warwick Square just before it closed for the night. It took them only twenty minutes to walk around the half dozen rooms used and see the array of photographs. Those which mattered were the pictures of women, stretches of water and the use of symbols and romanticism.

“That’s like what’s-his-name’s paintings, isn’t it?” Tellman said presently, nodding towards one photograph of a girl sitting in a rowing boat, her long hair loose about her shoulders, flowers drifting in the water.

“Millais,” Pitt supplied. “Yes, it is.”

“Except she’s alive, and sitting up,” Tellman added.

“Same flavor.” Pitt walked away. It would not be difficult for Orlando Antrim to have found Cathcart’s name here. It was written out on a neat placard under half a dozen of the photographs, with his address underneath it, in case anyone should wish to purchase his professional skills. All the pictures were powerful, characteristic, and one of them even used the same velvet gown with its unique embroidery, but untorn, and on a slender girl with long, dark hair.

Pitt tried to imagine how Orlando had felt when he knew at last not only who had taken the photograph, but exactly where he lived. Seeing that same dress he can have had no doubts left. What would he do then?

“It’s it, isn’t it?” Tellman made it a statement, not a question. “Poor devil.” His voice was thick with pity.

“Yes,” Pitt agreed quietly.

“Do we need to ask if anyone saw him?”

Pitt pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Yes.”

There was a guard on duty, to make sure no one damaged any of the exhibits, and perhaps that they did not steal them. He remembered Orlando Antrim, although of course he did not know his name. It was sufficient.

Outside in the cold, walking to find a hansom and go home for the night, Pitt tried to put himself in Orlando’s place. What would he do? His mind would be in turmoil; the wound would hurt intolerably, the sense of betrayal. He might not blame Cecily. He would still be fighting to excuse her. She must have been frightened or coerced into such a thing. It could not be her fault. It had to be Cathcart’s.

He knew where to find him. Now he would have to resolve in his mind what he meant to do about it. He intended to harm him, perhaps already to kill him. He would be careful.

He would find out all he could about Cathcart—but discreetly now. He might have searched for what was more or less public knowledge from newspapers, advertisements for photographic skills. He might even have made an appointment to be certain of finding Cathcart at home. If he had, he had destroyed the record of it.

“Tomorrow we’ll have to find if he asked anyone local about Cathcart and his habits,” Pitt said aloud.

“And where he got the weapon,” Tellman added. “Someone may have seen him. I suppose it’s just a matter of being thorough.”

“Yes . . . I suppose it is.” There was no pleasure in it, no satisfaction in the solution, only a sense of tragedy.

Tellman did not bother to reply.

Pitt spent a restless and unhappy night. The house seemed cold without Charlotte and the children, even though he had kept the kitchen stove alight. It was a sense of darkness, and he expected no more letters from her because in a couple of days she would be home, the weather across the Channel permitting. He had not actually put words to it in his mind until now, but he would be glad when she was safely on land again in England. And Gracie would be back with the children two days after that. The house would be bright and warm again, full of the sounds of voices and footsteps, laughter, chattering, the smells of wax polish, baking, clean laundry.