Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [25]
“Well, make a note of it, Leven,” Pitt said impatiently. “There’s not a great deal we can do about it. Tell Inspector Brown, if you think it’s serious enough.”
Leven stood his ground. “No sir, that in’t the point. Point is, she told us what ’e looks like. Matches the poor soul as yer found at ’Orseferry Stairs just about exact. I were reckoning yer’d want ter talk to ’er, an’ mebbe even take ’er ter see the poor feller.”
Pitt was annoyed with himself for not having understood.
“Yes I would, Leven. Thank you. Bring her up, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
“And Leven . . .”
“Yes sir?”
“That was well thought of. I’ll tell you if it’s him.”
“Thank you, sir.” Leven went out beaming with satisfaction, closing the door very gently behind him.
He was back in five minutes with a small, sturdy woman, her face puckered with anxiety. The moment she saw Pitt she started to speak.
“Are you the gentleman what I should talk ter? Yer see ’e’s bin gorn two days now . . . least this is the second . . . an’ I got messages askin’ w’ere ’e is.” She was shaking her head. “An’ I in’t got the faintest, ’ave I?” I jus’ know it in’t like ’im, all the years I bin doin’ the ’ouse fer ’im, ’e never let nothing get in the way of ’is work. That partic’lar, ’e is. I seen ’im make time fer folks w’en ’e’s bin ’alf out on ’is feet. Always oblige. That’s ’ow ’e got where ’e is.”
“Where is that, Mrs. . . . ?” Pitt asked.
“That’s wot I’m sayin’. Nobody knows where ’e is! Vanished. That’s why I come ter the po-liss. Summink’s ’appened, sure as eggs is eggs.”
Pitt tried again. “Please sit down, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Geddes . . . I’m Mrs. Geddes.” She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Ta.” She rearranged her skirts. “Yer see, I bin cleanin’ an’ doin’ fer ’im fer near ten years now, an’ I knows ’is ways. There’s summink not right.”
“What is his name, Mrs. Geddes?”
“Cathcart . . . Delbert Cathcart.”
“Could you describe Mr. Cathcart for me, please?” Pitt requested. “By the way, where does he live?”
“Battersea,” she replied. “Right down on the river. Lovely ’ouse, ’e ’as. Nicest one as I does for. What’s that got ter do wif ’im not bein’ there?”
“Perhaps nothing, Mrs. Geddes. What does Mr. Cathcart look like, if you please?”
“Sort o’ ordinary ’eight,” she replied gravely. “Not very tall, not very short. Not ’eavy. Sort o’ . . .” She thought for a moment. “Sort o’ neat-lookin’. Got fair ’air an’ a mustache, but not wot yer’d call real whiskers. Always dressed very well. Sort o’ good-lookin’, I suppose yer’d say. But ’ow will yer know ’im from that?”
“I’m not sure that we will, Mrs. Geddes.” Pitt had had to tell people about deaths countless times before, but it never became any easier or pleasanter. At least this was not a relative. “I am afraid there was a man found dead in a small boat on the river yesterday morning. We don’t know who he is, but he looks very much as you describe Mr. Cathcart. I’m sorry to ask this, Mrs. Geddes, but would you come and look at this man and see if you know him?”
“Oh! Well . . .” She stared at him for several moments. “Well, I s’pose I better ’ad, ’adn’t I? Better me than one o’ them society ladies as ’e knows.”
“Does he know a lot of society ladies?” Pitt asked. He did not even know if the man in the punt was Cathcart, but he was interested to learn what he could about him before Mrs. Geddes saw the body, in case she was so shocked she found herself unable to think coherently afterward.
“O’course ’e does!” she said with wide eyes. “ ’E’s the best photographer in London, in’t ’e?”
Pitt knew nothing of photographers except the odd bit he had heard in passing conversation. Someone had referred to it as the new form of portraiture.
“I didn’t know that,” he admitted. “I should like to learn more about him.”
“Real beautiful, they are. Yer never seen anyfink like it. People was that thrilled wif ’em.”
“I see.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Geddes, but there’s no alternative to going to the morgue and seeing