Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [138]
“Yes, I am afraid it has,” Pitt admitted. He produced a theatre bill with Orlando’s picture on it, and showed it to Lyneham.
Lyneham looked at it only a moment, then up again at Pitt. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That is the young man. I hope he is not seriously involved. He was such a . . . a decent-seeming fellow.”
“What was his mood? Please think carefully.”
“Upset. Very upset,” Lyneham said unhesitatingly. “Oh, he hid it well, but there was obviously something that troubled him. Didn’t say what, of course. But I really can’t imagine anyone killing another man over photography—even passionate about it as some of us are. He just wanted to know about styles, that kind of thing . . . nothing else. And he never mentioned Cathcart.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. I don’t believe at that point he even knew his name. Where did you direct him, Mr. Lyneham?”
Lyneham looked at him very steadily, his eyes troubled, his mouth pinched a little.
“To the exhibition in Warwick Square,” he replied. “Prints, but very good. I thought there he would get the chance to see some of the best uses of water, light and so on. Did I . . . contribute to the . . . crime, sir? I regret that profoundly.”
“No,” Pitt assured him. “If he had not learned from you, then he would have from somebody else. Don’t chastise yourself for ordinary civility.”
“Oh dear.” Lyneham shook his head. “Oh dear. He seemed such an agreeable young man. I’m so sorry!”
Pitt and Tellman arrived at the exhibition in Warwick Square just before it closed for the night. It took them only twenty minutes to walk around the half dozen rooms used and see the array of photographs. Those which mattered were the pictures of women, stretches of water and the use of symbols and romanticism.
“That’s like what’s-his-name’s paintings, isn’t it?” Tellman said presently, nodding towards one photograph of a girl sitting in a rowing boat, her long hair loose about her shoulders, flowers drifting in the water.
“Millais,” Pitt supplied. “Yes, it is.”
“Except she’s alive, and sitting up,” Tellman added.
“Same flavor.” Pitt walked away. It would not be difficult for Orlando Antrim to have found Cathcart’s name here. It was written out on a neat placard under half a dozen of the photographs, with his address underneath it, in case anyone should wish to purchase his professional skills. All the pictures were powerful, characteristic, and one of them even used the same velvet gown with its unique embroidery, but untorn, and on a slender girl with long, dark hair.
Pitt tried to imagine how Orlando had felt when he knew at last not only who had taken the photograph, but exactly where he lived. Seeing that same dress he can have had no doubts left. What would he do then?
“It’s it, isn’t it?” Tellman made it a statement, not a question. “Poor devil.” His voice was thick with pity.
“Yes,” Pitt agreed quietly.
“Do we need to ask if anyone saw him?”
Pitt pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Yes.”
There was a guard on duty, to make sure no one damaged any of the exhibits, and perhaps that they did not steal them. He remembered Orlando Antrim, although of course he did not know his name. It was sufficient.
Outside in the cold, walking to find a hansom and go home for the night, Pitt tried to put himself in Orlando’s place. What would he do? His mind would be in turmoil; the wound would hurt intolerably, the sense of betrayal. He might not blame Cecily. He would still be fighting to excuse her. She must have been frightened or coerced into such a thing. It could not be her fault. It had to be Cathcart’s.
He knew where to find him. Now he would have to resolve in his mind what he meant to do about it. He intended to harm him, perhaps already to kill him.