Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [29]
There were also a number of arc lights on the floor. There was no gas supply to them, but heavy cables.
“Electric,” Mrs. Geddes said with pride. “Got ’is own machine wot drives ’em. Dynamo, it’s called. ’E says as yer can’t get proper light fer pictures ’ceptin’ in the summer, not inside the ’ouse, like.”
Pitt regarded the lights with interest. It was increasingly apparent that Cathcart had taken great thought and trouble to make an art of his work. Neither time nor expense had been spared.
“ ’E does ’em all ’isself, o’ course,” Mrs. Geddes said. “Special room ’e ’as fer it, in the basement, like. Full o’ chemicals. Smells ’orrible. But ’e never lets me in there, case I ’urts meself wif anyfink. Spill some o’ them things an’ yer’ll never be the same again.”
“Did he keep any of the pictures here?” he asked, looking around curiously. “Recent or current ones?”
“In them drawers.” She pointed to a large cabinet a little to his left.
“Thank you.” He opened it and studied the prints inside, going through them one by one. The first was of a very striking woman dressed in a highly exotic gown with ropes of beads around her neck. By her feet was a beautifully wrought raffia basket, out of which trailed a very live-looking snake. It was an arresting image, not principally for its suggestions of classical Egypt, which was presumably what the subject had intended, but for the lighting of the face, showing its power and sensuality.
In a second picture was a young man posed as whom Pitt took to be Saint George. He was complete with polished armor, sword, and shield. The helmet was balanced on a table beside him. The light caught the sheen on the points and curves of the metal breastplate and reflected in his pale eyes and through his fair hair, making an aureole of it. It was the portrait not of a knight at war but of a dreamer who fights battles of the soul.
A third photograph caught the essential vanity of a face, a fourth the sweetness, a fifth the self-indulgence, although they were so disguised by the trappings of fantasy or wealth as to be hidden from the less-perceptive eye. Pitt had a far deeper respect for the photographer than he had begun with, and a realization that such skill in judging the human character and portraying it so tellingly might earn him enemies as well as friends.
He closed the drawer and turned back to Mrs. Geddes. As he did so he heard the front doorbell ring.
“S’pose I’d better go an’ answer that,” Mrs. Geddes said, looking at him as if for permission. “Do I tell ’oever it is as Mr. Cathcart’s dead, or not?”
“No, please don’t do that yet,” he said quickly. “But I hope it is a constable from the local station. At least as a matter of courtesy I have to inform them what has happened, and if the murder actually happened here, then it is in their jurisdiction.” If he was fortunate, local police would insist on taking over the case. It now seemed quite certain the French Embassy was in no way involved, and there was no reason why Pitt should remain in charge.
It was indeed the local constable, a plain-faced, agreeable man of middle years named Buckler. Pitt explained to him briefly what had occurred so far. Even the more lurid details were necessary, although he excused Mrs. Geddes before describing them. If Buckler were to assist in the further search, he must know what might be relevant.
“Well I’m very surprised, sir, an’ that’s a fact,” he said when Pitt had finished. “Mr. Cathcart was an artist, an’ a bit eccentric, like, but we always found ’im a very decent gentleman. Not what you’d call the best standards, no churchman or the like, but good as most gentlemen, an’ better’n many. It’s a very ugly business, an’ that’s no mistake.”
“Indeed,” Pitt agreed, not yet sure whether he believed Buckler as to Cathcart’s character. “Mrs. Geddes has shown me through the house and says there is nothing out of place and no signs of any other presence here, except Miss Lily Monderell, whom I believe is Cathcart’s mistress.”
“Well ’e was an artist o’ sorts,