Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [68]
“But you did see him?”
“Oh yes, quite clearly.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. No, it would have been . . . intrusive. He is a—was a—very great man . . . something of an idol to an amateur like me.” He flushed slightly as he said it. “It is a most awful thing that he should have been killed, an act of barbarism. That’s what makes it so hard to understand. But great artists can be volatile. Perhaps it was over a woman?”
“Maybe. What was Orlando Antrim doing here? Is he an amateur photographer?”
“Oh yes, really quite good, you know. Of course he also prefers figures, but one would expect that. After all, drama is his art.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw, Mr. Hathaway.”
A couple of young men walked past them carrying their cameras and tripods and talking to each other excitedly, their voices raised, trying to gesticulate with arms weighed down by their equipment. The bowler hat of one of them had been knocked to a rakish angle, but he seemed quite unaware of it. They disappeared into the shade of a tree, propped their tripods and began looking at the area with interest.
“I saw them arguing,” Hathaway answered, frowning. “Antrim seemed to be pleading with Cathcart, trying to persuade him of something. He appeared very emphatic about it, waving his hands around.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“No.” His eyes widened. “No, that’s the odd thing. Neither of them raised their voices at all. I knew they were quarreling because of the furious gestures and the anger in their faces. Antrim was trying to persuade Cathcart to do something, and Cathcart kept refusing more and more vehemently, until finally Antrim stormed off in a rage.”
“But Cathcart remained?”
“Only for a few moments. Then he picked up his camera and snapped his tripod closed and went off as well.”
“In the same direction?”
“More or less. But then they would. It was towards the road and the natural way out.”
“Did anyone else observe this exchange.”
“I don’t know. One does tend to get rather absorbed in what one is doing. I’m afraid I have lost a few friends because of my obsession. I noticed them because I was at that moment casting my eye around for a particular pattern against which to take a picture of one of my friends, a young lady with fair hair. I imagined clothing her in white and having her stand looking—”
Pitt smiled, but interrupted his explanation.
“Yes, I understand. You have been very helpful, Mr. Hathaway. Is there anything else you can tell me about this encounter? Have you seen the two together on any other occasion? Do you know either of them personally—as members of the club, perhaps?”
Hathaway lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m so sorry. I’ve only been a member a short time. I know perhaps three or four of the other fellows: Crabtree, Worthing, Ullinshaw, Dobbs, that’s about all. Dobbs has the most wonderful knack with light on stones and fences and things, and he’s so good with birds.” His voice rose again with excitement. “He’s the first one who showed me film on a roll, rather than plates. It was absolutely marvelous. You have no idea! A Mr. Eastman in America invented it. Twenty feet long.” He gestured with his hands. “All wound up so you can take a hundred pictures one after the other. Imagine it! One after the other . . . just like that. They are round, almost two and a half inches in diameter.”
“Round?” Pitt said quickly. All the pictures he had seen in Cathcart’s house had been rectangular, as had been the portraits in the houses of his clients.
“Yes.” Hathaway smiled. “Of course that’s amateurs. I know the professionals use the square ones, but these are pretty good, you know. When they are all done you send the whole camera back to them and they process the film and return you the camera reloaded. It all costs about five guineas.” He looked a trifle uncomfortable.