contorted. It was obviously still difficult for him to say to her what it was that filled his mind. She thought of herself this morning trying to find words to tell Samuel about Mrs. Ellison, and she waited.
The fire flickered pleasantly in the grate. There was no other noise in the room except the clock.
“I found photographs of Cecily Antrim in a postcard shop,” he said at last. “We didn’t tell the newspapers how Cathcart was found, except that it was in a boat.” He avoided her eyes and there was a faint color in his cheeks. “Actually, he was wearing a green velvet dress. . pretty badly torn. . and he was manacled by the wrists and ankles. . into a sort of obscene parody of Millais’s painting of Ophelia. Flowers thrown around. . artificial ones.” He stopped.
She controlled her amazement with difficulty, and an idiotic desire to laugh.
“What has that to do with Cecily Antrim?”
“There were several obscene or blasphemous pictures of her in the shop,” he replied. “One of them was almost exactly like that. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It was the same dress, the same garlands of flowers. It looked to be even the same boat. He was killed, and then placed in exactly that pose. Whoever did it had to have seen the photograph.”
A cold prickle ran through her. “You think she was involved?” She thought how it would hurt Joshua. He admired her so much, her courage, her passion, her integrity. How could such a woman lend herself to pornography? It could not be for something as paltry as more money. Surely it had to be a willingness in the mind?
Pitt was looking at her, watching her face, her eyes, the hands now closed tightly in her lap.
“Were there a lot of these pictures?” she asked. “I mean, could they have been sold to many people or used for blackmail?”
“Some of the activities portrayed were. . illegal.” He did not elaborate, but she guessed his meaning.
“The shop’s owner gave me a list of his customers,” he went on. “But there is nothing to say it is a complete list. We’ll investigate it.” His face was sad and tired in the gaslight. “Some of them will be dealers who sell them on. God knows where they’ll end.”
She felt tired herself, a little beaten by the cruelty and the squalor that she had quite suddenly encountered, invading her warm, bright world with dirt she could not dismiss. Most of all it was in the old lady’s wounds, so deep they had become woven into her nature. But this that Pitt told her of was part of the same thing, the same sickness of the mind and heart that took pleasure in pain.
“The trouble is,” Pitt went on quietly, “they could end up in anyone’s hands-young people, boys keen to learn a little about women. . knowing nothing. .”
Caroline could see in his eyes that he was thinking of himself long ago, remembering his own first stirrings of curiosity and excitement, and crippling ignorance. How appalling it would be for a boy to see something like the brutality Mrs. Ellison had described, or the pictures Cecily Antrim had posed for. Young men would grow up seeing women like that. . willingly chained-just as young Lewis Marchand would have thought of her, twisted and repellent in her desire for pain, her acceptance of humiliation.
Was that blush in his face for anything he had conjured out of
“You must stop it, if you can,” she said aloud. “Thomas, you really must!”
“I know,” he replied. “We’ve taken all the pictures, of course. But that won’t prevent him from buying more. You can’t ever prevent it. A man with a camera can photograph anything he pleases. A man with a pencil or a paintbrush can draw whatever he likes.” His voice was dark, his lips delicate with revulsion. “Almost all we can do is see he doesn’t display them publicly. Unless the people photographed are abused, then of course we could act on that.” There was no lift in his voice, and she knew he felt beaten.
She thought of Daniel and Jemima, their innocent faces still looking at the world with no idea of cruelty, no knowledge of the ravages of physical appetite or how it could become so depraved that it consumed all honor or pity, or in the end even preservation of self.
She thought of Edmund Ellison, and Mariah in her youth, terrified, crouching in the dark, waiting for the pain which would come, if not tonight, then tomorrow or the next night, and the next, as long as he was alive.
If anyone had done that to one of her own daughters she would have killed him. If someone did it to Jemima, or Daniel, she would now, and answer even to God, without regret.
She did not know what connection the pictures had to the act, whether they prompted it, excused it, excited it-or replaced it. She was confused and tired, and uncertain how to help. She was sure only that, above all things, she needed to help.
She sat in the silence with Pitt. There was no sound in the room but the fire and the clock, and neither of them felt compelled to break the understanding with words that were unnecessary. It was a long time before they at last spoke of Charlotte in Paris, her ecstatic account of her visit to the Latin Quarter, breakfast at Saint-Germain, poets in pink shirts and another day of a leisurely walk under the horse chestnut trees along the Champs- Elysees.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The old lady did not come down to breakfast the following morning either. Caroline lost her taste for toast and preserves, even though the apricots were delicious.
Joshua looked up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She had told him nothing so far. He was absorbed in his own work. She knew by now how exhausting the first few nights of a new play were. Everyone worried how it would be received, how the audience would react, what the critics would say, whether the theatre bookings would remain good, even what others in the profession would think. And if all those things went well, then they worried about their own performances, and always about health, most especially the voice. A sore throat, which was merely unpleasant to most people, to an actor was ruinous. His voice was the instrument of his art.
At first she had found it difficult to understand and know how to help. She had experienced nothing like it in her life with Edward. Now she knew at least when to remain silent, when encouragement was appropriate and when it was not, and what to say that was intelligent. It was the one area in which Joshua had no patience with less than honesty. He could not bear to think he was being patronized. It was at those moments she caught a rare glimpse not only of his temper but of his vulnerability.
“Thomas was here yesterday evening. Of course he is missing Charlotte. . and the case he is on is giving him concern.”
“Doesn’t it always?” He took another slice of toast. “What good would he be if it didn’t worry him? I’m sorry about Cathcart, he was a brilliant photographer. I suppose Thomas is no nearer finding out what happened?”
How much of the truth did he want to know? Not all of it-not until he had to.
“I don’t think so. You didn’t know him, did you?”
He was surprised. “Cathcart? No. Just by repute. But I know his work. Everyone does. . well, I suppose people in the theatre do more than most.” He looked at her narrowly. “Why?”
She was not as good at deceiving him as she intended. He sensed she was telling him less than she knew, though he did not know what it was. She hated the feeling of concealment, the barrier she was creating between them, but to have told him would be a small selfishness, exposing him to unhappiness just for her own peace of mind. And he had already been hurt so deeply by Samuel Ellison, even if it was healed now.
She made her smile more spontaneous, more direct.
“Poor Thomas is trying hard to learn about him because it seems such a personal crime, a matter of hate or ridicule. If you know anything about him other than reputation it might help.” That sounded reasonable, like herself.
He smiled back and resumed his breakfast.
She made her excuses and went upstairs. The matter of Lewis Marchand had to be addressed, but not until that afternoon. Mrs. Ellison should be seen now.
