boys. Her own brothers had been older than she, and their adolescence had been an impenetrable mystery to her. But there was no retreat now, except complete failure. . cowardice. She could hardly send Pitt to do this, although he would certainly have been better at it. He was not the one who had heard Lewis’s remarks about Ophelia or seen the look in his eyes.
She must somehow continue to be direct enough to allow no misunderstanding, and yet spare him as much embarrassment as possible. She had no desire to humiliate him, and no need to. It might even destroy the very purpose for which she had come. Looking into his earnest young face, polite, not really interested, smooth-cheeked still, guileless, she had no words ready that would be subtle.
“Lewis, I did not tell your mother the whole truth; that is up to you, if you wish. The matter my son-in-law is investigating is very serious indeed. . it is murder.”
“Is it?” He was not shocked or alarmed. There was a quick flare of interest in his blue eyes. But then he almost certainly had no conception of what that word meant in reality. He would know the facts, not the loss, the horror, the fear that it brought, the sense of pervading darkness.
“I’m afraid so.”
He straightened up a little, and his voice lifted. “What can I do to help, Mrs. Fielding?”
She felt a twinge of guilt for what she was about to do, and also the certainty that she must destroy in him the illusion of adventure that filled him at the present.
“When I was here a few days ago and we were speaking, you made a remark from which I now believe you might know something of use,” she said.
He nodded to indicate he was listening.
“In order for you to help,” she went on, “I need to tell you something about this crime. . something which is not known to anyone except the police and the person who committed the murder. . and to me, because I was told by the police. It is confidential, do you understand?”
He nodded more eagerly. “Yes, yes, of course I do. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
“Thank you. I am afraid this is very distressing. . ”
“That’s all right!” he assured her, taking a deep breath and sitting very stiffly. “Please don’t worry about it.”
She wanted to smile, but it would have been too easily misunderstood. He was so very young, and unaware.
“The murdered man was struck on the head,” she began solemnly, watching his face. “Then he was dressed in a green velvet gown. . a woman’s gown. .” She saw him flinch and a look of incomprehension fill his eyes. “Then he was laid in a small, flat-bottomed boat, a punt, and his wrists and ankles were chained to the boat.”
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?
