Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [43]
“Is it really worth a lot?” Tellman asked.
“I think so. We’ll find out if he inherited it. And who inherits it now.” Pitt folded up the paper he had been writing on and put it in his pocket, along with the usual variety of things already there, and stood up. “We’ll go and find Mr. Dobson of Phipps, Barlow and Jones. He should be able to answer both questions for us.”
Mr. Dobson was a mild-mannered man with a long, distinguished face which fell very naturally into lines of the gravity appropriate to his calling.
“Police, you say?” He regarded Pitt’s untidy figure dubiously. Tellman, he seemed to have no doubt of.
Pitt produced his card and offered it.
“Ah!” Dobson let out a sigh, apparently satisfied. “Come in, gentlemen.” He indicated his office and followed after them, closing the door. “Please be seated. What can I do for you?”
“We are here regarding Mr. Delbert Cathcart. I believe he is a client of yours,” Pitt replied.
“Indeed he is,” Dobson agreed, sitting down and inviting him to do the same. “But of course his business is confidential, and to the very best of my knowledge, completely honest, and even praiseworthy.”
“You are not aware of his recent death?” Pitt asked him, watching the man’s face closely.
“Death?” Dobson was clearly taken aback. “Did you say death? Are you perfectly sure?”
“I am afraid so,” Pitt replied.
Dobson’s eyes narrowed. “And what brings you here, sir? Is there something questionable about the manner of it?”
Obviously the newspapers had not yet been informed that the body from Horseferry Stairs had been identified, but it could only be a matter of time. Briefly Pitt told him the essentials.
“Oh dear. How extremely distressing.” Dobson shook his head. “In what manner may I assist you? I knew nothing of it, nor do I know anything which would seem to be relevant. It must be some madman responsible. What is the world coming to?”
Pitt decided to be completely frank. “It happened in his house, Mr. Dobson, which would make it probable it was someone he knew.”
Dobson’s face expressed misgiving, but he did not interrupt.
“Did Mr. Cathcart inherit his house in Battersea?” Pitt asked.
Whatever Dobson had been expecting, his face betrayed that it was not this. “No. Good heavens, why do you ask?”
“He purchased it himself ?”
“Certainly. About, let me see, eight years ago, August of ’83, I think. Why? There was nothing irregular in it, I assure you. I handled the matter myself.”
“And the objects of art in it, the furnishings?”
“I have no idea. Are they . . . questionable?”
“Not so far as I know. Who inherits them, Mr. Dobson?”
“Various charities, sir. No individual.”
Pitt was surprised, although he had not seriously thought Cathcart had been killed for property, any more than Tellman did. But it cast a new light on Cathcart’s income that he had purchased both house and works of art himself. Pitt was aware that Tellman was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“Thank you.” He sighed, looking at Dobson. “Did he receive any bequests that you are aware of—from an appreciative client, perhaps? Or a deceased relative?”
“Not so far as I know. Why do you ask, sir?”
“To exclude certain possibilities as to why he may have been killed,” Pitt answered somewhat obliquely. He did not wish to tell Dobson his suspicions as to Cathcart’s sources of income.
There was little more to learn, and five minutes later they excused themselves and left.
“Do you think they could be stolen?” Tellman asked as soon as they were in the street. “If he goes into the houses of all those fancy people and talks to them before he takes their pictures, he’d be in an ideal position to know what they had and where it was kept.”
“And when they came to his studio to be photographed they’d be in an ideal