Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [67]
“Oh yes, very good, he is; in fact, most talented.” He very nearly asked what Pitt wanted, and curbed his inquisitiveness only just in time. He inclined his head towards a young man with rather long fair hair who was still gazing with rapt attention at the light on the branches. “That’s Hathaway over there.”
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged, and strode off before he could be further drawn into enthusiasm for the photographic inventions of the future.
Hathaway looked up as Pitt’s shadow fell across his camera.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized. “Are you Peter Hathaway?”
“Yes. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Superintendent Pitt, from the Bow Street station,” Pitt explained, handing him his card.
“Oh!” Hathaway looked serious. He swallowed hard. “Is it about that report I made to the local police? Look, could we discuss it a little farther off ?” He gestured rather wildly with his free arm. “Would you mind fearfully pretending it is a business matter or something? It is sort of . . . well . . . delicate. I don’t want people to think I’m some kind of busybody who goes around repeating everything he knows. It’s just that . . . well . . . with Cathcart dead, and all that . . . you know?” A flicker of distress crossed his face. “He was a damn decent photographer. Almost the best, I’d say. Can’t let him be killed and do nothing about it . . . not when I saw the quarrel.”
“Tell me exactly what you did see, Mr. Hathaway,” Pitt encouraged him. “First of all, where did this happen? Set the scene for me, if you like.”
“Ah . . . yes. Well, it was the Tuesday before he was killed, as I said.” Hathaway thought hard, re-creating it in his mind, his eyes almost closed. “We were by the Serpentine, trying to catch the early light on the water, so we were there about eight o’clock. A bit inconvenient, certainly, but one has to follow nature, you can’t lead it. We did some excellent work, really excellent.” He looked away quickly. “You’ve no idea how blind one can be to the glories of light and shade, the intricacies of form, until you see them through a lens. You really do see the world through a new eye. Pardon the obvious, but it’s true. You should take up photography, sir, you really should! Bit expensive, I suppose, but most pleasures are, and without the artistic merit or the truly spiritual uplift of catching a moment of nature’s glory and immortalizing it to share with all mankind.” His voice increased in enthusiasm. “It’s a window in time, sir. A kind of immortality.”
Pitt could not help catching a glimpse of what Hathaway meant. It was true, a photograph far more than any painting caught the moment and made it, if not eternal, at least of unimaginable duration. But Delbert Cathcart had been a great photographer, and an ordinary, mortal man, and he was dead. It was Pitt’s duty to find out how and why, and by whose hand. There might be time for thoughts of capturing beauty later on.
“It is marvelous,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose you took any photographs of Mr. Cathcart and Mr. Antrim while they were there?”
For a moment Hathaway’s face fell with disappointment that Pitt should think of something so mundane, but he was too much of an enthusiast to miss the point. Interest flared up in his eyes and his face brightened. “Oh, if only I had! What a wonderful thing that would be, wouldn’t it? Unarguable evidence. It will come, sir! It will come. The camera is a witness whose testimony no one can doubt. Oh, the future is full of wonders we can barely imagine. Just think of—”
“What was Mr. Cathcart doing at the Serpentine?” Pitt interrupted. Speculation on the marvels of the future could go on indefinitely, and fascinating as it was, it was a luxury he could not afford now.
“Er . . . I don’t know.” Hathaway sounded surprised. “Actually, when I think of it,