Half Moon Street (7 page)

Or should she tell the truth, that it was disturbing, intrusive, that it raised questions she thought were perhaps better not asked? That it would hurt, maybe waken unhappiness best left sleeping because there was no cure for it? The play had ended in tragedy. Was it good for life to follow the same path? No one could bring the curtain down on it and go home to something else.

What would Joshua expect her to say? What would he want? She must not look at him as if she were expecting a cue. She did not want to hurt or embarrass him. She was suddenly overwhelmed by how much she cared and how inadequate she was to match up to these people. Cecily Antrim was radiant, so absolutely certain of what she thought and felt. The power of her feeling lent an incandescence to her beauty. It was at least half the reason the entire audience had watched her.

Cecily laughed. “My dear, are you afraid to speak, in case you hurt my feelings? I assure you, I can bear it!”

Caroline found her tongue at last, and smiled back. “I’m sure you can, Miss Antrim. But it is not an easy play to sum up in a few words and be even remotely honest, and I don’t believe you are looking for an easy reply. Even if you are, the work does not deserve one—”

“Bravo!” Orlando said from the background, holding his hands up in silent applause. “Please tell us what you really think, Mrs. Fielding. Perhaps we need to hear an honest opinion from outside the profession.”

There was complete silence.

Caroline felt her throat tighten. She swallowed. They were all staring at her. She had to speak.

“I think it asks a great many questions,” she said through dry lips. “Some of the answers we may need to know, but there are others I think perhaps we don’t. There are griefs one has to live with, and the thought that they were borne in private is all that makes them endurable.”

Cecily looked startled. “Oh dear. A cry from the heart, Joshua?” Her meaning was plain, even as it was also plain she was only teasing.

Joshua blushed slightly. “By heaven, I hope not!”

Everyone else laughed, except Pitt.

Caroline felt her face flame. She should have been able to laugh too, but she could not. She felt clumsy, unsophisticated, conscious of her hands and feet as if she were a schoolgirl again. And yet she was older than anyone else here. Was that what was wrong? Another three or four years older and she could have been Cecily Antrim’s mother. For that matter, she was seventeen years older than Joshua. Standing as he was beside Cecily, he must be aware of that.

How could she retain a shred of dignity and not look ridiculous and make him ashamed of her? They must wonder why on earth he had chosen to marry a woman like her anyway, so staid by comparison with them, so unimaginative, a stranger in their world, unable even to pass a clever or witty comment, let alone behave with an air of glamour and a magic as they did.

They were waiting for her to say something. She must not let them down. She had no wit to invent. There was nothing for it but to say what she thought.

She looked straight at Cecily, as if there were no one else in the crowded room.

“I am sure as an actress you are used to speaking for many people and feeling the emotions of women quite unlike yourself.” She phrased it as a certainty, but left it half a question by her intonation.

“Ah!” Orlando said instantly. “How perceptive, Mrs. Fielding. She has you there, Mama. How often do you think of the vulnerable as well as the passionate, those afflicted with doubts or wounds that are better hidden? Perhaps they have a right to privacy?”

The man named Harris looked shocked. “What are you suggesting, Orlando? Censorship?” He said the word in the tone of voice he would have used if he had said “treason.”

“Of course not!” Cecily retorted sharply. “That’s absurd! Orlando has no more love of censorship than I have. We’ll both fight to the last breath for the freedom to speak the truth, to ask questions, to suggest new ideas or restate old ones nobody wants to hear.” She shook her head. “For God’s sake, Harris, you know better than that. One man’s blasphemy is another man’s religion. Take that far enough and we’ll end up back burning people at the stake because they worship different gods from us—or even the same God—but in different words.” She lifted her shoulders exaggeratedly. “We’ll be back to the dark ages and the Inquisition.”

“There has to be some censorship, darling,” Warriner said, speaking for the first time. “Shouldn’t shout ‘Fire’ in a crowded theatre— especially if there isn’t one. And even if there is, panic doesn’t help. Gets more people crushed in the stampede than burned by the flames.” He looked slightly amused as he said it, but the smile did not go as far as his eyes.

Cecily’s mood changed abruptly. “Of course!” she said with a laugh. “Shout ‘Fire’ in church if you must, but never, never in the theatre—at least not while there’s a performance on.”

Everyone else laughed as well.

Caroline was looking at Joshua.

It was Pitt who spoke.

“And perhaps we should be careful about libel? Unless, of course, one is a theatre critic. . . .”

“Oh!” Cecily drew in her breath sharply and swung around to face him. “My goodness! I didn’t realize you had been listening so carefully. I should have paid you more attention. You’re not a critic, are you?”

He smiled. “No ma’am, I’m a policeman.”

Her eyes widened. “Good God! Are you really?”

Pitt nodded.

“How perfectly grim. Do you arrest people for picking pockets or causing an affray?” She tossed the idea away.

“I’m afraid more often it is something as serious as murder,” he replied, the light gone from his voice.

Orlando stood up. “Which is probably exactly what Mrs. Fielding meant about questions we shouldn’t ask because we don’t want the answers,” he said in the silence which had followed. “Freedom of speech has to include the freedom not to listen. I never thought of that until these last few days.” He walked to the door. “I’m fearfully hungry. I’m going to find something to eat. Good night everyone.”

“A good idea,” Cecily said quickly. It was the first time she seemed in the slightest out of composure. “Champagne supper, everyone?”

Joshua declined politely, excusing them, and after repeating their congratulations, they withdrew.

Pitt offered his thanks again and wished them good night. Caroline and Joshua rode home making polite and rather stiff conversation about the play, speaking of the characters, not once mentioning Cecily Antrim herself. Caroline was filled with an increasing sense of being an outsider.

The following morning Joshua left early to see a playwright, and Caroline took a late breakfast alone. She was sitting staring at her second cup of tea, which she had allowed to go cold, when Mariah Ellison came in, leaning heavily on her stick. She had been handsome in her youth, but age and ill-temper had marked her features now, and her sharp eyes were almost black as she stared at Caroline with disfavor.

“Well, you look as if you lost sixpence and found nothing,” she said tartly. “Face like a jar of vinegar.” She glanced at the teapot. “Is that fresh? I don’t suppose it is.”

“You are quite right,” Caroline replied, looking up.

“Not much use admitting I’m right,” the old lady said, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her. “Do something about it! No man likes a wife with a sour expression, particularly if she’s older than he is in the first place. Ill-temper is displeasing enough in the young and pretty. In those past their best it is intolerable.”

Caroline had spent her adult life curbing her tongue in order to be civil to her mother-in-law. This latest rudeness was beyond bearing, because it was so close to the truth. Her self-control snapped.

“Thank you for giving me the benefit of your experience,” she retorted. “I am sure you are in a position to know.”

The old lady was surprised. Caroline had never been so blunt before.

“I presume it was a bad play,” she said deliberately.

“It was a very good play,” Caroline contradicted. “In fact, it was brilliant.”

Mrs. Ellison scowled at the teapot. “Then why are you sitting here by yourself over a cup of cold tea, and with an expression like a bad egg?” she demanded. “I suppose you have a servant of some sort you can ring for to get a fresh pot? I know this is not Ashworth House, but I assume that the young actor you have elected to live with earns sufficient to afford the basic amenities?”

Caroline was so angry and her sense of hurt so deep she said the first thing that came into her head.

“I met a most interesting and charming gentleman yesterday evening.” She stared at the old lady unflinchingly. “From America, over here on a visit and hoping to trace his family.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?” Mrs. Ellison asked.

“If you want some more tea, ring the bell and the maid will come,” Caroline replied. “Tell her what you wish. I did not explain that to you because I thought you could work it out for yourself. I mentioned Mr. Ellison because I thought you would wish to know. After all, he is more closely related to you than to me.”

The old woman froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Ellison is more closely related to you than to me,” Caroline repeated distinctly.

“Does this”— she opened her eyes very wide—“person—claim that he is part of my family? You are no longer an Ellison. You have chosen to become a . . . a . . .whatever he is!”

“A Fielding,” Caroline said for the umpteenth time. It was part of the old woman’s offense that she pretended to forget Joshua’s name. “And yes, he does claim it. And his likeness to Edward is so remarkable I could not doubt him.”

The old lady sat very still. Even the bell for the maid was forgotten.

“Really? And what manner of man is he? Who does he claim to be, exactly?”

Now Caroline was not so certain how much she enjoyed the revelation. It had not had quite the effect she had expected. However, there was no alternative now but to go on.

“Apparently Papa-in-law was married before . . . before he met you.”

The old woman’s face remained like stone.

“Samuel is his son,” Caroline finished.

“Is he indeed?” the old woman replied. “Well . . . we’ll see. You did not answer my question . . . what manner of man is he?”

“Charming, intelligent, articulate, and, to judge by his clothes, very comfortably situated,” Caroline answered. “I found him most agreeable. I hope he will call upon us.” She took a deep breath. “In fact I shall invite him to.”

Mrs. Ellison said nothing, but reached across for the bell and rang it furiously.

CHAPTER THREE

Pitt was in his office in Bow Street early the morning after the play. There was little pleasure in staying at home alone, and there had been no letter from Charlotte in the first post. As soon as he had eaten breakfast and fed the cats he was happy to leave Keppel Street and be on his way.

It was too early to hear from Tellman in Dover, but Pitt did not expect him to find anything conclusive. Was the grotesquely placed body at Horseferry Stairs that of the French diplomat or some other unfortunate eccentric who had indulged one taste too many? He profoundly hoped it was the latter. A scandal with the French Embassy would be most unpleasant, and possibly not one which could be contained so it did not strain relations between the two countries.

The play the previous night had left him disturbed by the power of its emotions. He was not made as uncomfortable as Caroline had obviously been by the portrayal of the hungers of a woman married to a man who did not satisfy her passions or her dreams. He was a generation younger than she, and he was of a different social class, one which felt freer to express their feelings. And he had also grown up in the country, far closer to nature.

Even so, the nakedness of the emotions he had seen on the stage had provoked deep thought in him, and a new perception of what lies behind even the most outwardly serene faces. He wished intensely that Charlotte were home so he could have discussed it with her. The emptiness of the house was like an ache inside him, and he was pleased to return to the problem of the body in the punt.

In the middle of the morning, while he was combing through reports of missing persons, there was a knock on his door and a sergeant came in looking pleased with himself.

“What is it, Leven?” Pitt asked.

“Woman come to the desk, sir, sayin’ as ’er employer is missin’. Ain’t bin ’ome fer a couple o’ days, like. She says it’s not like ’im at all. Most partic’lar, ’e is, bein’ a professional gent, an’ all. Never misses an appointment. ’Is reputation dependin’ on it, dealin’ with the gentry an’ so on. Can’t keep lords and ladies waitin’, or they won’t come again.”

“Well, make a note of it, Leven,” Pitt said impatiently. “There’s not a great deal we can do about it. Tell Inspector Brown, if you think it’s serious enough.”

Leven stood his ground. “No sir, that in’t the point. Point is, she told us what ’e looks like. Matches the poor soul as yer found at ’Orseferry Stairs just about exact. I were reckoning yer’d want ter talk to ’er, an’ mebbe even take ’er ter see the poor feller.”

Pitt was annoyed with himself for not having understood.

“Yes I would, Leven. Thank you. Bring her up, will you?”

“Yes sir.”

“And Leven . . .”

“Yes sir?”

“That was well thought of. I’ll tell you if it’s him.”

“Thank you, sir.” Leven went out beaming with satisfaction, closing the door very gently behind him.

He was back in five minutes with a small, sturdy woman, her face puckered with anxiety. The moment she saw Pitt she started to speak.

“Are you the gentleman what I should talk ter? Yer see ’e’s bin gorn two days now . . . least this is the second . . . an’ I got messages askin’ w’ere ’e is.” She was shaking her head. “An’ I in’t got the faintest, ’ave I?” I jus’ know it in’t like ’im, all the years I bin doin’ the ’ouse fer ’im, ’e never let nothing get in the way of ’is work. That partic’lar, ’e is. I seen ’im make time fer folks w’en ’e’s bin ’alf out on ’is feet. Always oblige. That’s ’ow ’e got where ’e is.”

“Where is that, Mrs. . . . ?” Pitt asked.

“That’s wot I’m sayin’. Nobody knows where ’e is! Vanished. That’s why I come ter the po-liss. Summink’s ’appened, sure as eggs is eggs.”

Pitt tried again. “Please sit down, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Geddes . . . I’m Mrs. Geddes.” She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Ta.” She rearranged her skirts. “Yer see, I bin cleanin’ an’ doin’ fer ’im fer near ten years now, an’ I knows ’is ways. There’s summink not right.”

“What is his name, Mrs. Geddes?”

“Cathcart . . . Delbert Cathcart.”

“Could you describe Mr. Cathcart for me, please?” Pitt requested. “By the way, where does he live?”

“Battersea,” she replied. “Right down on the river. Lovely ’ouse, ’e ’as. Nicest one as I does for. What’s that got ter do wif ’im not bein’ there?”

“Perhaps nothing, Mrs. Geddes. What does Mr. Cathcart look like, if you please?”

“Sort o’ ordinary ’eight,” she replied gravely. “Not very tall, not very short. Not ’eavy. Sort o’ . . .” She thought for a moment. “Sort o’ neat-lookin’. Got fair ’air an’ a mustache, but not wot yer’d call real whiskers. Always dressed very well. Sort o’ good-lookin’, I suppose yer’d say. But ’ow will yer know ’im from that?”

“I’m not sure that we will, Mrs. Geddes.” Pitt had had to tell people about deaths countless times before, but it never became any easier or pleasanter. At least this was not a relative. “I am afraid there was a man found dead in a small boat on the river yesterday morning. We don’t know who he is, but he looks very much as you describe Mr. Cathcart. I’m sorry to ask this, Mrs. Geddes, but would you come and look at this man and see if you know him?”

“Oh! Well . . .” She stared at him for several moments. “Well, I s’pose I better ’ad, ’adn’t I? Better me than one o’ them society ladies as ’e knows.”

“Does he know a lot of society ladies?” Pitt asked. He did not even know if the man in the punt was Cathcart, but he was interested to learn what he could about him before Mrs. Geddes saw the body, in case she was so shocked she found herself unable to think coherently afterward.

“O’course ’e does!” she said with wide eyes. “ ’E’s the best photographer in London, in’t ’e?”

Pitt knew nothing of photographers except the odd bit he had heard in passing conversation. Someone had referred to it as the new form of portraiture.

“I didn’t know that,” he admitted. “I should like to learn more about him.”

“Real beautiful, they are. Yer never seen anyfink like it. People was that thrilled wif ’em.”

“I see.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Geddes, but there’s no alternative to going to the morgue and seeing if it is Mr. Cathcart we have. I hope it’s not.” He said it as a matter of sympathy for her, but he realized immediately that it was less than true. The case would be a great deal easier if the body proved to be an English society photographer rather than a French diplomat.

“Yes,” Mrs. Geddes said quietly. She stood up and smoothed her jacket. “Yes, o’ course. I’m comin’.”

The morgue was close enough to walk to, and there was so much noise in the street that conversation would have been difficult. Hansom cabs, omnibuses, wagons and brewers’ drays clattered past them. Street peddlers shouted, men and women argued, and a costermonger roared with laughter at an old man’s joke.

It was utterly different inside the morgue. The silence and the clinging, damp smell closed over them, and suddenly the world of the living seemed far away.

They were conducted through to the icehouse where bodies were stored. The sheet was taken off the face of the man from Horseferry Stairs.

Mrs. Geddes looked at it and drew in her breath in a little gasp.

“Yes,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Oh dear . . . that’s Mr. Cathcart, poor soul.”

“Are you quite sure?” Pitt pressed.

“Oh yes, that’s ’im.” She turned away and put her hand up to her face. “Whatever ’appened to ’im?”

There was no need to tell her about the green velvet dress or the chains, at least not yet, perhaps not at all.

“I am afraid he was struck on the head,” he answered.

Her eyes widened. “Yer mean on purpose, like? ’E were murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d anyone wanna murder Mr. Cathcart? Were ’e robbed?”

“It seems very unlikely. Do you know of anyone who might have quarreled with him?”

“No,” she said straightaway. “ ’E weren’t that sort.” She kept her face averted. “It must be someb’dy very wicked wot done it.”

Pitt nodded to the morgue attendant, who covered the body again.

“Thank you, Mrs. Geddes. Now I would appreciate it very much if you would take me to his house and allow me to find out whatever I can there. We’ll get a hansom.” He waited a moment while she composed herself, then walked beside her out of the morgue and into the sunlight again. “Are you all right?” he asked, seeing her ashen face. “Would you like to stop for a drink, or find a place to sit down?”

“No thank you,” she said stoically. “Very nice o’ yer, I’m sure, but I’ll make us a proper cup o’ tea w’en we get there. No time ter be sittin’ down. Yer gotta find them as done this an’ see ’em on the end of a rope.”

He did not reply, but continued beside her until he saw a hansom and hailed it. He asked her for the address and gave it to the cabbie, then settled down for the ride. He would have liked to question her further about Cathcart, but she sat with her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed, every now and then giving a little sigh. She needed time to absorb what had happened and come to terms with it in her own way.

The hansom rumbled across the Battersea Bridge and down the other side, turning left along George Street, and stopped outside an extremely handsome house whose long garden backed onto the water. Pitt alighted, helping Mrs. Geddes out. He paid the driver and gave him a message to take to the local police station requesting a constable to come.

Mrs. Geddes sniffed hard, and with a little shake of her head, walked up the long driveway and, taking a key from her pocket, opened the front door. She did it without hesitation. It was obviously a regular thing for her.

The moment he was inside Pitt stared around him. The entrance hall was long and light, with stairs down one side. It was excellently lit from a very large window extending the length of the stairwell. On one wall were several photographs of groups of people—half a dozen ragged urchins playing in the street; beside them society ladies at Ascot, lovely faces under a sea of hats.

“I told you ’e were good,” Mrs. Geddes said sadly. “Pour soul. I dunno wot yer wanter see ’ere. There in’t nuffink missin’, nuffink stole, so far as I can see. ’E must ’a bin set on in the street. ’E didn’t never ’ave them sort o’ people ’ere!”

“What sort of people did he have?” Pitt asked, following her through to the sitting room, which was surprisingly small for such a house. It was very elegant, with a Sheraton table and chairs in gleaming wood, and a Bokhara rug which would have cost Pitt at least a year’s wages.

The windows looked onto a long lawn set with trees, sloping down to the water beyond. A willow made a cavern of green and reflected like lace on the barely moving current. A pergola was covered in roses, its latticed arches white through the leaves.

Mrs. Geddes was watching him.

“Used that a lot, ’e did.” She sighed. “Folks like ter ’ave their pictures took in beautiful places. ’Specially ladies. Makes ’em look good . . . kind o’ romantic. Gentlemen prefer summink grand. Like ter dress up in uniforms, they do.” Her tone of voice conveyed her opinion of people who wore clothes that made them look more important than they were. “ ’Ad one daft ’aporth as dressed ’isself up as Julius Caesar!” she sniffed vigorously. “I ask yer!”

“But Mr. Cathcart had no objection?” Pitt tried to imagine it.

“O’ course ’e didn’t. ’Elped ’im, an all. Then that’s ’is job, in’t it? Take pictures o’ people so they looks like they wanter see ’emselves. Daft, I call it. But that don’t matter. I dunno wot yer wanter see ’ere, but this is all there is.”

Pitt looked around, uncertain himself what he wanted to ask. Had Cathcart been killed here? The answer to that might matter a great deal. This house was in an excellent place for a punt to float from down as far as Horseferry Stairs. But then so were scores of other houses that backed onto the river.

“Did he entertain here?” he asked. “Have parties?”

She stared at him with total incomprehension.

“Did he?” he repeated. Although the neatness of the rooms in the house he had seen so far made a party in which clothes such as the green velvet dress might be worn seem unlikely, certainly not before Mrs. Geddes had very thoroughly cleaned and tidied up.

“Not as I know of.” She shook her head, still puzzled.

“You never had anything to clear up, a lot of dishes to wash?”

“No, I never did, not as yer’d call a lot. Not more’n three or four people’d use. Why yer askin’, Mr. Pitt? Yer said as ’e were murdered. That don’t ’appen at parties. Wot yer on about?”

He decided to tell her a half-truth. “He was dressed for a party . . . fancy dress. It seems unlikely he was out in the street in such clothes.”

“ ’Is clients dressed daft,” she responded hotly. “ ’E never did! More sense, even if ’e catered ter some as ’adn’t.”

There was probably a great deal Mrs. Geddes did not know about Mr. Cathcart, but Pitt forbore from saying so.

“Does he have a boat, perhaps moored on the river at the bottom of the garden?” he asked instead.

“I dunno.” A look of misery filled her face. “You said summink about a boat before. ’E were found in a boat, were ’e?”

“Yes, he was. Did you do any tidying yesterday when you came?”

“There weren’t nuffink ter do. Just cleaned as usual. Did a bit o’ laundry, like. Same as always . . . ’ceptin’ the bed weren’t slept in, which was unusual, but not like it never ’appened before.” She narrowed her lips a trifle.

Pitt read the gesture as one of disapproval.

“He occasionally spent the night elsewhere? He has a lover, perhaps?” Remembering the green dress, he was careful not to attribute a gender.

“Well, I can’t see as she murdered ’im,” Mrs. Geddes said angrily. “That’s not ter say I approve o’ carryin’s on, ’cos I don’t! But she in’t a bad sort, that excepted. Not greedy, and not too flashy, if yer know what I mean.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Well, I s’pose as she’ll ’ave ter be told an’ all. ’Er name’s Lily Monderell. Don’ ask me ’ow she spells it, as I got no idea.”