Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [104]
There were others more skilled, with subtler uses of light and shade, effects less obviously contrived. These were taken by enthusiasts with more practice and considerably more ability.
“I like the round ones,” Tellman observed, fingering through the cards. “I mean I like the shape of the picture. But it does waste space, and on the whole I’d say the square ones were better, in a way. Sort of different, not like the girl you might meet in the street, more like . . . I don’t know—”
“Square ones?” Pitt interrupted.
“Yes, here. There’s half a dozen or so.” Tellman passed over four of them.
Pitt looked. The first was well done but ordinary enough. The second was very good indeed. The girl had dark, curly hair blowing untidily around her face and she was laughing. In the background was a distant scene of the river, with light on the water and figures out of focus, no more than suggestions. She looked happy, and as if she was ready for anything that might be fun, the sort of girl most men would love to spend a day with, or longer. The photographer had caught her at the perfect moment.
The next was equally good but extremely different. This girl was fair, almost ethereal. She gazed away from the camera; the light made an aureole of her hair, and her pale shoulders gleamed like satin where her gown had slipped a little low. It was a brilliant mixture of innocence and eroticism. She was leaning a little on a pedestal, either of stone or plaster, and there was a vine growing around it.
It stirred a memory in Pitt, but he could not place it.
The last picture was of a very formal beauty reclining on a chaise longue. He had seen a photograph of Lillie Langtry in a similar pose. Only this girl was looking directly at the camera and there was a slight smile on her lips, as if she was aware of a hidden irony. The longer he looked at it the more attractive it became, because of the intelligence in her face.
Then he remembered where he had seen the pillars in the photograph before, because the chaise longue came from the same place. They belonged to Delbert Cathcart; Pitt had seen them in his studio.
“These are very good,” he said thoughtfully.
“You like them?” the dealer asked with interest, scenting a possible sale. “I’ll make you a fair price.”
“Did you buy them legitimately?” Pitt said, frowning a little.
The man was indignant. “Of course I did! Do all my business fair and legal.”
“Good. Then you can tell me where you bought these. Was it from Miss Monderell?”
“Never ’eard of ’er. Bought ’em from the artist ’isself.”
“Did you? That would be Mr. Delbert Cathcart.”
“Well . . .” He regarded Pitt nervously.
Pitt smiled. “Actually, it is Mr. Cathcart’s murder I am investigating.”
The man blanched visibly and swallowed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh? Yeah?”
Pitt continued to smile. “I’m sure you would be eager to help as much as possible, Mr. Unsworth. I think if you have these pictures of Mr. Cathcart’s then you may have others as well, worth more money, perhaps. And before you make an error by denying that, I must advise you that I can very easily remain here to talk to you about the matter while Sergeant Tellman goes to fetch a warrant to search your premises. Or I could call the local constable to wait, and Sergeant Tellman and I could both go—”
“No . . . no!” The thought of a constable in uniform was enough to settle Unsworth’s mind completely. It would be very bad for custom, particularly among those gentlemen who had rather private tastes. “I’ll show you the rest meself. ’Course I will. A bit o’ color in life is one