Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [45]
On the wall opposite the desk hung a large photographic portrait of Lady Jarvis dressed in a formal afternoon gown. Her features were lit softly from the window she was facing, her eyes clear and wide, her winged brows accentuated. There was no furniture visible, no ornaments, and the shadow of the Georgian panes fell in a pattern of bars across her.
Pitt felt a sudden chill inside him, an awareness of Cathcart’s brilliance which was both frightening and sad. The picture was superb, beautiful, fragile, full of emptiness, a creature just beginning to realize it was imprisoned. And yet it was also no more than the portrait of a lovely woman in a manner which might be intended only to strengthen the awareness of the character in her face. One might see the deeper meaning or miss it. There were no grounds for complaint, only a matter of taste.
He felt a pervading, quite personal sense of loss that Cathcart was dead and could no longer practice his art.
Lady Jarvis was watching him, her face puckered in curiosity.
What should he say? The truth? It would be intrusive and serve no purpose. Could she and Cathcart have been lovers? The murder definitely sprang from some form of passion. He turned to the portrait again. It was not the picture a man created of a woman he loved. The perception was too sharp, the compassion impersonal.
“It’s remarkable,” he said tactfully. “It is unique, and very beautiful. He was an artist of genius.”
Her face lit with pleasure. She was about to reply when they both heard the front door close and footsteps across the hall. The door opened behind them. Automatically they turned.
The man standing there was slight, of medium height, and at this moment his pleasant, rather bland face was filled with alarm.
“Is something wrong?” he demanded, turning from one to the other of them. “My butler says you are from the police! Is that true?”
“Yes sir,” Pitt answered him. “I am here regarding the death of Delbert Cathcart.”
“Cathcart?” Jarvis’s face was blank. Certainly there was no guilt or dismay in it, no anger, not even comprehension. “Who is Cathcart?”
“The photographer,” Lady Jarvis supplied.
“Oh!” Enlightenment came in a word. “Is he dead? Pity.” He shook his head sadly. “Clever fellow. Quite young. How can we help you?” His face darkened again. He did not understand.
“He was murdered,” Pitt said boldly.
“Was he? Good heavens. Why? Why would anyone murder a photographer?” He shook his head. “Are you sure?”
“Certain.” Pitt did not know whether to bother pursuing the matter. He had never seen anyone look less guilty than Jarvis. Yet if he did not, there would always be the faint, prickling knowledge that he had left something undone. “You didn’t happen to see him last Tuesday evening, did you?”
“Tuesday? No, I’m afraid not. I was at my club. Stayed rather late, I’m afraid. Got into a game of . . . well, a game.” He stared at Pitt with wide eyes. “Was playing, you see, and suddenly looked up and realized it was gone two in the morning. Freddie Barbour. Too damned good. Certainly didn’t see Cathcart. Not a member, actually. Old club. A trifle particular.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“Not at all. Sorry to be of no use.”
Pitt thanked him and left. It would be easy enough to check, if he ever needed to, but there was no doubt in his mind that Jarvis had neither cause nor passion to have murdered Cathcart.
It was growing late, and Pitt was happy to return home and leave the rest of the client list until the following day. He was tired, he did not really believe that he would learn anything of value, and there might be another letter from Paris waiting for him.
He opened the door trying not to expect too much, squashing down the hope inside himself in case there was nothing. It was only two days