Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [134]
Pitt had seen it before, but it took him a moment or two to remember where. Then it came to him. He had passed by it as he had gone from Cecily Antrim’s dressing room to the back door.
“Where did you buy these pictures?” he said aloud.
Hadfield did not even look up from the list he was writing. “What’s the matter now?” he said wearily. “What crime are you trying to tie them up with?”
“Where did you get them?” Pitt repeated. “Who brought them to you?”
Hadfield put down his pen, splattering ink over the page, and swore. He came over to Pitt irritably and stared over his shoulder at the photographs.
“I dunno. Some young photographer who thinks he can make a few bob. Why?” His voice was laden with sarcasm. “What terrible offense ter ’umanity and civilization can yer see in these? Got a dirty mind, you ’ave. Looks as innocent as a cup o’ tea ter me.”
“Who brought them to you?” Pitt repeated, a steel edge of anger to his voice, although it was misery he was feeling inside. He did not want the answer he was almost certain would come.
“I dunno! Do you think I ask the name and address of every young amateur who comes here with an ’andful o’ pictures? They’re good pictures. Nothin’ wrong wif ’em. I bought ’em. Fair sale. Nothin’ more ter say.”
“Describe him!”
“Describe ’im! Yer crazy, or summink?” He was thoroughly aggrieved. “ ’E was a young man wot fancies ’isself as a photographer, an’ ’e in’t bad.”
“Tall or short? Dark or fair? Describe him!” Pitt said between closed teeth.
“Tall! Fair! But there’s nothin’ wrong wif ’em! You can find pictures like this all over London . . . all over England. Wot’s the matter wif yer?”
“Did he see your other pictures? Like the one of Ophelia chained up in the boat?”
The man hesitated. In that instant Pitt knew that it was Orlando who had brought the photographs, and that he had seen Cathcart’s picture of his mother. Until then Pitt had been clinging to the hope that it had been Bellmaine, or even, by some obscure chance, Ralph Marchand, pursuing his crusade against pornography.
“Sergeant Tellman!” Pitt turned sideways, his voice sharp.
Tellman stood up, letting the postcards fall onto the floor.
“Yes sir?”
“Go and find the nearest constable to stand guard here. I think we should continue this discussion at Bow Street.”
“All right!” Hadfield snapped. “ ’E could ’ave! I dunno!”
What was his name?”
“I’ll ’ave ter look at me records.”
“Then do it!”
Muttering under his breath, Hadfield went back to his desk, and it was several silent, painful minutes before he returned, waving a piece of paper. There was no name on it, simply the amount of money, a brief description of the photograph, and the date—two days before Cathcart’s death.
“Thank you,” Pitt said quietly.
Hadfield’s face conveyed the words he did not dare to say.
Pitt wrote him a receipt in exchange for the photographs he was sure were taken by Orlando Antrim, also the sales receipt with its date.
Outside the air seemed cold.
Tellman looked at him questioningly.
“Orlando Antrim,” Pitt answered. “He was here two days before Cathcart’s death. If he saw that picture of his mother, and perhaps some of the others, how do you suppose he felt?”
Tellman’s face was pinched with misery, and there was an emotional conflict in him that was painfully apparent. “I don’t know,” he said, stumbling a little as he stepped off the pavement onto the road to cross. “I don’t know.”
Pitt tried to imagine himself in Orlando’s place. Cecily was an actress. It was her profession to portray 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