Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [47]
“Do you think that is possible?” Pitt asked.
Kilgour’s eyebrows rose sharply. “I’ve never heard of photographers murdering each other because one was better than the rest. But it would certainly cut down the competition. I suppose anyone who wants a portrait in future will have to go to Hampton, or Windrush, or anybody else they like. Certainly they cannot go to Cathcart, poor devil.”
“Was he the best?” Pitt was curious as to Kilgour’s opinion.
There was no hesitation. “Oh, undoubtedly. He had a knack of seeing you in a particular way.” He shrugged, and the humor was back in his face. “No doubt as you would most like to see yourself—whether you had realized it or not. He had an eye for the hidden truths. Not always flattering, of course.” He looked at Pitt quizzically, assessing how much he understood.
Having seen Cathcart’s portrait of Lady Jarvis, Pitt understood exactly. He allowed Kilgour to perceive as much.
“Would you like to see his picture of me?” Kilgour asked, his eyes bright.
“Very much,” Pitt answered.
Kilgour led the way from the withdrawing room to his own study, threw open the door, and invited Pitt to view.
Immediately Pitt saw why the portrait was hung there and not in one of the reception rooms. It was superb, but bitingly perceptive. Kilgour was in fancy dress, if one could call it such. He wore the uniform and robes of an Austrian emperor of the middle of the century. The uniform was ornate, magnificent, almost overpowering his slender face and fair coloring. The crown sat on a table to his right and half behind him. One side of it was resting on an open book, so it sat at a tilt and looked as if it might slide off altogether onto the floor. On the wall beyond it was a long looking glass, reflecting a blurred suggestion of Kilgour, and the light and shadows of the room behind him, invisible in the picture. There was an illusory quality to the whole, as if he were surrounded by the unknown. Kilgour himself was facing the camera, his eyes sharp and clear, a half smile on his lips, as if he understood precisely where he was and could both laugh and weep at it. As a photographic work it was brilliant, as portraiture it was a master-piece. Words to describe it were both inadequate and superfluous.
“Yes, I see,” Pitt said quietly. “An artist to inspire passionate feelings.”
“Oh, quite,” Kilgour agreed. “I could name you half a dozen others he did just as fine as this. Some people were thrilled, but then they were not the sort who would have done him any harm were they not. I suppose that is self-evident, isn’t it? It is the ones with flawed characters who would think of killing him for his revelations, not the charming or the brave, the funny or the kind.”
Pitt smiled. “And his rivals?” he pressed.
“Oh, I’m sure they hated him.” Kilgour moved back out of the study into the hallway and closed the door. “I keep that picture where I work. I have enough sense of the absurd to enjoy it, and when I get delusions of my own importance it is a very salutary reminder. My wife likes it because she does not see my weaknesses and has not a very quick eye to understand what Cathcart was saying. But my sister understands, and advised me to keep it out of general sight.” He shrugged ruefully. “As if I couldn’t see it for myself ! But then she is my elder sister—so what may one expect?”
They returned to the withdrawing room and spoke a little longer. Pitt finally left with several names written on a list, both clients and rivals of Cathcart.