Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [44]
Tellman skipped up onto the curb on the far side and grunted acknowledgment. He had to stride to keep up with Pitt. He was used to it, but it still annoyed him. “I suppose those sort all know each other.”
“Probably,” Pitt agreed. “Couldn’t take a risk, anyway. But I suppose we should still check if there’ve been any robberies. I’ve got a list of his clients.”
But the enquiries produced nothing, as he had expected. Nor were there reports from anywhere else of objects of art or furniture missing which answered the descriptions of any of the pieces he had seen in Battersea. He was drawn back to the conclusion that Cathcart had a second, and probably larger, source of income other than his photography, excellent as that was.
He ate a good dinner at the nearest public house, but with little enjoyment, and went home to sit by the stove at the kitchen table for a while. There were no letters from Paris. He went to bed early and was surprised to sleep well.
He and Tellman spent the following two days further investigating Cathcart’s life and visiting his clients listed for the six weeks prior to his death.
Lady Jarvis, whom Pitt called on in the middle of the afternoon, was typical. She received them in a heavily ornate withdrawing room. Brocade curtains fell almost from ceiling to well below floor length, gathered up in the rich swathes that demonstrated wealth. Pitt thought with some envy that they would also be excellent at keeping out winter drafts, even if now they also excluded some of the golden autumn light. The furniture was massive, and where the wood showed it was deeply carved oak, darkened by generations of overpolishing. The surfaces were cluttered with small photographs of people of various ages, all posed solemnly to be immortalized in sepia tint. Several were gentlemen in stiff uniforms, staring earnestly into space.
Lady Jarvis herself was about thirty-five, handsome in a conventional way, although her eyebrows were well marked, like delicate wings, giving her face rather more imagination than a first glance betrayed. Her clothes were expensive and rigidly fashionable, with a very slight bustle, perfect tailoring, big sleeves full at the shoulder. Pitt would have dearly liked to buy Charlotte such a gown. And she would have looked better in it.
“You said it was about Mr. Cathcart, the photographer?” she began, obvious interest in her face. “Has somebody brought a complaint?”
“Do you know who might?” Pitt asked quickly.
The chance to savor a little of the spice of gossip was too pleasant for her to pass by, even if it was dangerous.
“It could be Lady Worlingham,” she said half questioningly. “She was very offended by the portrait he took of her younger daughter, Dorothea. Actually I thought it caught her rather well, and she herself was delighted with it. But I suppose it was a trifle improper.”
Pitt waited.
“All the flowers,” Lady Jarvis went on, waving her hand delicately. “A bit . . . lush, I suppose. Hid her dress until its existence was left to the imagination . . . in places.” She almost laughed, then remembered herself. “Has she complained? I wouldn’t have thought it was a police matter. There’s no law, is there?” She shrugged. “Anyway, even if there is, I don’t have any complaint.” A look of wistfulness crossed her face, just for an instant, as if she would like to have had, and Pitt glimpsed a life of unrelenting correctness where a photograph with too many flowers would have been exciting.
“No, there is no law, ma’am,” he replied quietly. “And so far as I know Lady Worlingham has not complained. Did Mr. Cathcart take your photograph?” He let his glance wander around the room to indicate that he did not see it.
“Yes.” There was no lift in her voice. Apparently this was not a matter of flowers. “It is in my husband’s study,” she answered. “Do you wish to see it?”
Pitt was curious. “I should like to very much.”
Without saying anything more she rose and led the way out across the chilly