emotion in public and behave in such a way as to stir any of a score of passions. He must be used to it. But could anything make this acceptable to him?
Pitt could see the grotesque picture of Ophelia in his mind’s eye so clearly there was no need to pull it out of his pocket to remind himself. It was a woman bound by literal, physical chains, but appearing to be in a paroxysm of sexual ecstasy, as if the bondage she experienced excited her as no freedom could. It suggested that she hungered to be overpowered, forced into submission. It was lust that lit her face as she lay there, knees apart, skirts raised. There was nothing of tenderness in it, certainly nothing that could be thought of as love.
If Pitt had seen his own mother like that, for any reason at all, it would have revolted him beyond measure. Even now, striding along the footpath at an increasing speed, he could not allow his mind to touch such an idea. It polluted the very wellspring of his own life. His mother was not that kind of woman. His intelligence told him she had loved his father. He had heard them laughing together often enough, long ago, and seen them kiss, seen the way they looked at each other. He knew the nature and the acts of love.
But that picture had nothing to do with love, or the things men and women do in private in generosity, hunger and intimacy. It was a mockery of them all.
Of course the world was full of people whose ideas were different, whose acts he would have found offensive if he had considered them. But within one’s own family it was different.
Had he seen Charlotte portrayed that way. . he felt the blood rise in his face and his muscles lock, his fists clench. If any man were ever to speak coarsely to her he would be tempted to violence. If anyone actually touched her Pitt would probably strike him and consider the consequences afterwards.
For anyone to think of Jemima in that way, and then use her so, would break his heart.
Cecily Antrim had such profound understanding of so many different kinds and conditions of people, how could she fail to grasp the distress any man must feel to see his own mother in such a way? Had she no conception of the grief and the confusion that had to follow?
He thought of Orlando. If he had seen that picture, or any of them, he would have walked away from the shop like a blind man; the world of footpath and stones and sky, soot in the air, clatter of people, smell of smoke and drains and horses would make no mark on him at all. He would be consumed by the inner pain, and perhaps hatred.
And above all, he would be asking the same question Pitt was- Why? Was any cause worth fighting in such a way? Pitt could ask it, and still be hurt by the disillusion over a woman whose glorious talent he had admired, who had made him think, and above all, care about her on the stage. How infinitely more must Orlando have felt?
Pitt had been convinced from the beginning that Cathcart’s death was a crime of passion, not simply escape, even from the life-draining clutches of blackmail. That would induce hatred and fear, but there was more than either of those in the way Cathcart had been laid in the mockery of Millais, the exact replica, a soul-deep injury that could not be undone.
“D’you think he knew who took that picture?” Tellman’s voice, which cut across Pitt’s thoughts, was harsh, yet so quiet he barely heard it.
“No,” Pitt replied as they both stopped at the next curb while a heavy wagon rolled past, horses leaning forward into the harness, the wheels rumbling over the cobbles. “No. He saw it two days before Cathcart’s death. I think it took him that long to find out.” He started forward across the street. He did not even know where he was going; at the moment he simply needed to put in a physical effort because he could not bear to keep still.
“How could he do that?” Tellman asked, running a couple of steps to keep up. “Where would he begin? He can’t have asked her. In fact, if I were in his place I couldn’t even have spoken to her.”
“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
