Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [42]
Pitt had not doubted that what he had seen in Cathcart’s house was genuine, probably even the vase which had been smashed, and almost certainly the once-beautiful rug that they had fished out of the river.
“Yes . . .”
“More than you’d earn taking photographs of the gentry?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Tellman’s chin came up a little. “Right!” he said more cheerfully. “Then we’d better see what we can find out about Mr. Cathcart.”
They parted company, Tellman going to the local shops and generally asking around. Pitt returned to Cathcart’s house and, with Mrs. Geddes looking on proprietarily, made what assessment he could of the value of the works of art he could see. Then he went through Cathcart’s desk, looking at such bills and receipts as were there. They covered approximately the last three months. It seemed Cathcart did not stint himself for anything that took his fancy. His tailor’s bills were enormous, but all receipted within days of being presented. His appointments diary noted several trips to various other cities within a comfortable train journey: Bath, Winchester, Tunbridge Wells, Brighton, Gloucester. There was no indication whether he was going on business or pleasure.
Pitt leaned back in the elegant chair and read the list of clients Cathcart had photographed in the previous six months. He made notes of those for the last five weeks. It seemed Cathcart worked hard on preparation before he finally made his portraits. He spent time to learn about his subjects and to suggest several possibilities to them.
Next he went through Cathcart’s professional receipts for photographic materials, which were surprisingly expensive. The margin for profit was not nearly as large as he had supposed. And then there were all the pieces of stage dressing he used, not to mention the generator for the lights.
He must find out if Cathcart had inherited this house and its beautiful carpets, pictures, furniture, vases and so on. Even if he had, it seemed he must live to the limit of his income, unless there was another source.
He should also find out if Cathcart had left a will. He certainly had much to bequeath. Pitt searched the desk again to find out who was his man of affairs, who would surely know.
He found it only just before Tellman returned, looking less than pleased.
“Didn’t shop much around here,” he said, sitting down gingerly on a Sheraton chair as if he were afraid he might break its beautiful legs. “Mrs. Geddes seems to have bought most of the household necessities. Sent his stuff out to be laundered, linens, clothes, all of it. Expensive.” He grunted. “Still, I suppose keeping a staff would cost a bit too, and it may be he preferred not to have anyone around too much.”
“What’s the gossip?” Pitt leaned back in the desk chair.
“Not a lot,” Tellman replied. “Beyond the impression that he’s got money and is a bit odd. Some have a less-charitable word for it, but it comes to the same thing. Local chap comes in twice a week and does the garden, but seems Cathcart liked it all overgrown and artistic, like. Can’t bear rows of things, and can’t be bothered with vegetables or anything useful.”
“Perhaps in his profession flowers are more use?” Pitt suggested. “Roses on the arches and pergolas, the willow trailing over the water.”
Tellman refrained from comment. “You find anything?” He had always resented calling Pitt “sir,” and for some time now had abandoned it altogether, except when he was being sarcastic.
“He went through a lot of money,” Pitt replied. “More than he earned as a photographer, unless his books are fiddled. But I need to know if he inherited the house and the things in it . . . which are probably worth more than it is.”
Tellman looked around, his brows drawn together. “Reckon he was killed for it? People have killed for a lot less, but not dressed them up and chained them like that. That’s . . . personal.”
“Yes, I know,” Pitt said quietly. “But we need to find out all the same.”
“Now