Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [115]
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