Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [41]
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The old lady swiveled around to glare at her. “Mr. Ellison has called upon us, which is all we could possibly expect of him. We cannot suppose that a man who has fought in a war and ridden with savages will find himself entertained taking tea with old women in a withdrawing room.”
“I do not judge people by their age, Mrs. Ellison,” he replied immediately. “Some of the most interesting people I have ever met have been on the upper side of seventy, and have learned wisdom far greater than mine. It is a mistake of the young to assume that only they have passion or beauty, and I am far too old myself to fall into that error anymore. I hope I shall be invited to call again.” He glanced at Caroline, then away. His meaning did not need elaboration.
Mrs. Ellison’s face pinched, her lips tightened, and she said nothing.
Caroline rose also and moved towards the door to accompany him at least as far as the hall when he had bidden them farewell. “And as for being invited,” she said warmly, “please consider that you are always welcome.”
He accepted instantly, and after wishing each of the ladies good-bye, he took his leave.
When Caroline returned to the withdrawing room her maid informed her that the old lady had retired to her room, and she did not reappear all evening, or send further word.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the morning Pitt and Tellman returned to the area of Battersea near Cathcart’s house. It was a gray day with a fine mist swirling in from the river, and Pitt had turned his coat collar up against it. Tellman trudged along with his head down, his face set in lines of disapproval.
“I don’t know what you think we can find,” he said morosely. “It was probably some time in the middle of the night when all decent folk were asleep anyway.”
Actually Pitt agreed with him, but Tellman’s perversity was irritating and he refused to let him win.
“This is the neighborhood where Cathcart lived,” he replied. “Since we don’t know exactly when he was killed, and we certainly don’t know why or by whom, can you think of anything better?”
Tellman grunted. “How’s Mrs. Pitt getting on in Paris?” he asked in retaliation. He glanced sideways at Pitt’s face, then away again. He read him too well.
“Enjoying it,” Pitt answered. “Says it’s a beautiful city and very exciting. The women have a flair for dress and are extremely elegant. They look as if they achieve it without any effort at all. She says it’s infuriating.”
“Well, they’re French, aren’t they?” Tellman asked reasonably. “One would expect them to be infuriating,” he added.
In spite of himself Pitt grinned.
“If Cathcart was half as clever as that woman said he was,” Tellman said, returning to the subject at hand, “then he probably got above himself with someone, and maybe tried a touch of blackmail. I daresay photographers are like servants, and they get to see a lot of things. Maybe people think they don’t matter, and speak in front of them. He moved around in a lot of big houses, sort of there but not there, if you know what I mean? He might have found it out only by accident, but took his chance.”
The road was wet underfoot, heavy dew glistening in the hedges. The mournful sound of a foghorn drifted up from the water.
Pitt pushed his hands hard into his pockets. “That leaves us a pretty wide field,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d like to know how much he earned with his photography, and what he spent.”
Tellman did not bother to ask why.
“And how much of that house and its furnishings he inherited,” Pitt went on, thinking of the works of art he had seen and trying to make some mental assessment of their value.
Tellman was looking at him. “Worth a lot?” he asked. He knew forgery of banknotes