Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [137]
Tellman said nothing.
Pitt looked carefully at the other pictures until he had found several more showing water, two with small boats, one with a garden and half a dozen using artificial flowers, and one with a long velvet gown.
“Who took these?” Tellman asked.
“According to the card there, Geoffrey Lyneham.”
“Wonder if Antrim went to see him?” Tellman thought aloud. “Or if he went to Cathcart first? If he did it will be harder to prove, seeing as he can’t tell us anything, and Mrs. Geddes doesn’t know or she’d have said so.”
“He went to Lyneham first,” Pitt assumed. “And probably somewhere else as well. It took him two days to find Cathcart. I don’t think he waited any longer than he had to.”
“I wouldn’t!” Tellman said with narrowed lips. “Where do we find this Lyneham?”
It was late afternoon and already growing dusk, the gas lamps coming on in the streets and the air crisp and cold when they went up the stairs of Geoffrey Lyneham’s house in Greenwich. Wood smoke drifted on the damp air from a bonfire in someone’s garden nearby, and the smell of earth and leaves was sweet.
Lyneham was a small man with a sharp, intelligent face. He was at least fifty, probably more, his hair white at the temples. He was startled when Pitt told him who they were.
“Police? Why? As far as I know I haven’t infringed any laws.”
Pitt forced himself to smile. None of the horror was Lyneham’s fault, and he would very much sooner discuss the matter in the warmth of Mr. Lyneham’s sitting room by the fire than out there on the step.
“It is a matter of importance, sir,” he replied. “About photography.”
“Ah!” Lyneham’s face lit with instant enthusiasm. He pulled the door wide and stood back. “Come in, gentlemen, come in! Anything I can tell you. I should be delighted. What is it you would like to know?” He led the way inside, to the sitting room, still waving his hands energetically, leaving Tellman to close the front door and follow behind.
“I saw several of your photographs in the Kensington exhibition,” Pitt began courteously.
“Oh yes . . . yes?” Lyneham nodded, waiting for the inevitable comments.
“Excellent use of light on water,” Pitt said.
Lyneham looked startled. “You like that? I find it most interesting to work with. Gives the whole thing an extra dimension, don’t you think?”
“Yes . . .”
“Funny you should say that,” Lyneham went on, standing with his back to the fire. “Young fellow here a couple of weeks ago, said almost exactly the same.”
Pitt felt his stomach tighten. He tried to keep his face blank.
“Really? Who was it? Maybe someone I know.”
“Said his name was Harris.”
“Tall, fair young man, about twenty-five?” Pitt asked. “Very dark blue eyes?”
“Yes, that’s right! You do know him,” Lyneham said eagerly. “Most interested, he was. Keen photographer himself. Very good eye, judging by his remarks. Amateur, of course.” He waved a deprecating hand. “But very keen. Wished to know what localities I thought best, and that kind of thing. Asked about the use of boats. Bit tricky, actually. They tend to move about. Any wind and you’re sunk, so to speak. Essence of good photography, light, focus, and position.”
“Yes, I see. And what localities did you recommend? Or is it a secret of your profession?”
“Oh no, not at all! Norfolk Broads, myself. Lovely light in East Anglia. Don’t have so many painters there for no reason, you know?”
“Always the Broads?” Pitt asked, although he was certain he had the answer.
“Personally, yes,” Lyneham replied. “Got a house up there. Makes it easy, convenient for taking advantage of the weather. Moment’s notice, and there you are. Damned nuisance if you have to go a distance from home and trust to chance. Can get rained on just as you arrive. Carting tripods and things around, very heavy . . . awkward. Much better to have it right there to hand. I’ve got some lovely shots of swans. Beautiful creatures. Light on white wings.”
“I can imagine,” Pitt agreed. “Never on the Thames?”
Lyneham pushed out his lip and shook his head. “No, not personally. Some people have—very well too.