Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [50]
She lifted her cup and drank delicately. Hers too was very hot. “Charity,” she said after a moment. “At least that’s what he always said he would do.”
He felt a wave of surprise, and then relief. He should have been disappointed. Her spending was not based on any expectation of profit from Cathcart’s death, at least not by inheritance. There was still blackmail.
She was watching him now, waiting.
“Yes, exactly,” he replied. He let his gaze rest on the teapot. “That’s a nice new watercolor of cows that you have in the hall. I’ve always liked pictures of cows. They seem so supremely restful.”
Did he imagine the tightening of her shoulders under the silk?
“Thank you,” she answered. “I am pleased you like it, love. Would you care for some toast? Have you had any breakfast, or have you been walking around the streets asking questions all morning?” Her voice was warm, rich, as if she was really concerned for them.
Tellman cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was almost certainly hungry, and equally certainly did not want to accept her hospitality. He would find it confusing to be obliged to her, even for so small a thing.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, because he would like it, but primarily because it would give him an easy excuse to remain here talking to her.
She rang a small crystal bell on the table, and when the maid came, she requested toast, butter and marmalade for all of them. Tellman’s discomfort amused her, it was there in the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. By the standards of the day, she was not beautiful, her features were too large, especially her mouth. There was nothing modest or fragile about her. But she was one of the most attractive women Pitt had ever met, full of laughter and vitality. He admired Cathcart for his taste with regard to her even more than for the beauty of his house.
“We haven’t learned very much,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve spent several days asking questions and discovered almost nothing . . . except that Mr. Cathcart spent a great deal more money than he earned in his art.” He was watching her eyes for the smallest flicker, and even so he was not certain whether he saw it or not. And then he did not know how to interpret it. Had she loved him? Was her emotion grief, or only a decent distaste for the violence and waste of his death? Surely she had been fond of him. She had liked him, whether she had loved him or not.
She lowered her eyes. “He was very clever. He wasn’t just a photographer, you know, he was a real artist.”
“Yes, I do know.” He meant that every bit as much as she did. “I’ve seen several of his portraits. I don’t think genius would be too powerful a word.”
She looked up quickly, smiling again. “He was, wasn’t he?” There were tears in her eyes.
Neither like nor dislike should overrule his judgment.
“He had a gift I’ve never seen equaled for catching the essence of a person and symbolizing it in an image,” he continued. “Not only what they would like to have seen in themselves, but a great deal they could not have wished shown so clearly. I saw not only faces portrayed, but the vanity or emptiness inside them, the weaknesses as much as the beauty or the strength.”
“That’s portraiture,” she said softly.
“Perhaps it’s also dangerous,” Pitt observed. “Not everyone wishes to have their character stripped so naked to the eyes of strangers, and perhaps still less to the eyes of those they love or to whom they are vulnerable.”
“You think he was killed by a client?” She seemed startled.
“I’m sure he was killed by someone who knew him,” Pitt answered. “And who felt passionately about him.”
She said nothing.
“Had you thought it was a crime of greed?” he asked her. “It was hardly self-defense. Unless he was blackmailing someone . . .” He stopped, waiting to see her reaction.
Her eyes widened so little, the moment after he was not sure he had seen it at all. Why? She should have been startled, even offended. He had just suggested her friend was guilty of one of the