Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [51]
“Over what?” she asked, measuring her words. “What makes you think he knew anything about . . . anyone?”
“Did he?”
“If he did—he certainly didn’t tell me. . . .”
“Would he have?”
She was definitely uncomfortable now. It was very well hidden, only a tightening of her hand on the delicate porcelain of the cup, a very slight shaking so the tea in it dimpled on the surface. She must know he was working his way towards asking if she knew the secret which had cost Cathcart his life, and if she was also using it the same way, which might in the end cost her her life also.
“I don’t know.” She made herself smile. “He didn’t. But then I don’t know for sure if there was anything to tell.”
Was that true? Where had his money come from? Where had she suddenly found sufficient to purchase the painting in the hall and the silver teapot? It was a great deal of money to spend in the space of one week. Had she acquired a new and extremely generous lover?
Or had she been back to Cathcart’s house and abstracted a few keepsakes, with or without Mrs. Geddes’s knowledge? It could even be that with no heir to be particular, Mrs. Geddes had collaborated, keeping a few small things herself. Would anyone know? Probably not, unless Cathcart kept a list of his possessions somewhere, and from what Pitt had seen of his life, that was unlikely. Certainly there had been no such list among his papers.
He did not wish to think of Lily Monderell’s going in among Cathcart’s possessions and taking what she fancied. He could understand it well enough, but it was still not a pleasant thought.
His silence bothered her.
“Like some more tea, love?” she asked, reaching for the beautiful pot.
“Thank you,” he accepted, looking at the light gleam on the pot’s satin surface. It was almost as if she were provoking him into the very questions she least wanted.
“Have you been back to his house since he was killed?” he asked.
Her hand clenched, and she had to reach up the other hand to steady the pot.
He waited. Even Tellman sat motionless, toast and marmalade halfway to his mouth.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“What for?”
She poured his tea, and some more for Tellman also, and lastly for herself, until she had delayed all she could. She looked up again and met Pitt’s eyes.
“He promised me some of his pictures that he was going to sell. I went to get them. That’s where the money came from.”
“You sold them already?”
“Why not? They were good. I know where to go.”
She was nervous. He did not know why. He was not sure if she was telling the truth, but her story was reasonable enough. She had been Cathcart’s mistress. Men gave gifts to their mistresses, often very expensive ones. Pitt had been surprised that Cathcart had not bequeathed her anything in a more formal way. He had no dependents, so there was no reason, legal or moral, why he should not have. It would be logical enough that the pictures in question would be her legacy.
Why was she nervous? What were the pictures? The means of his blackmail? Had she sold them back to the victims? Or kept them as further source of income? Most people would do the latter. It was an ugly thought.
But Lily Monderell needed to survive, and her looks would not last indefinitely. She had no husband to care for her, probably no skills but those of a mistress, certainly none which would keep her in the manner she now enjoyed and had become accustomed to.
And all of those arguments were excuses, not reasons.
“Pictures of whom?” he asked, not expecting an honest answer, only to see something in her face.
Her eyes did not flicker. She was prepared for the question, he could see it unspoken in her.
“Artist’s models,” she replied. “No one you would know, I should think. They were just beautiful pictures. He used them as practice for when he was going to do a client . . . to get the costume and lighting right. But people like them . . . they’re so well done they’re worth a lot.” She sighed and glanced at the teapot again.
Should he ask her whom she had sold them to? And if she told him would he follow up to make