Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [71]
“I cannot arrest you until after you have done it, Miss Antrim,” he pointed out, trying to hide his amusement. It was not a time for it, and yet it rose unbidden within him.
She understood far too quickly. Her face broke into a lovely smile. “How very kind of you. Thank you so much!”
Bellmaine stepped between them. “You have come for something, sir. Pray what is it? We cannot afford to stop for long. This may not appear much to you, but it is our living, and far harder than it seems.”
Pitt turned to him. “It seems extremely hard, Mr. Bellmaine,” he said honestly. “I have to speak to Mr. Antrim. I shall keep it as brief as possible. Is there a scene you can rehearse without him?”
“Hamlet without the Prince? You jest, sir? Ah . . . I suppose so. A little. Laertes, Ophelia! Come! We have no time to idle. Scene three. From the top, if you please. Begin . . . ‘My necessaries are embarked’ . . . pay attention!”
Pitt walked across the boards towards Orlando, his footsteps loud and solitary for a moment until the arrival of Laertes and Ophelia muffled them, and the drama began instantly with well-schooled voices and passion lit as if the whole story leading to it were barely dismissed the moment before.
“What is it?” Orlando asked with a frown. “Is it to do with the censorship thing? I protested, but quite peacefully.”
“No, Mr. Antrim, it has nothing to do with censorship at all. As far as I know, you have broken no laws in this matter.” He walked beside Orlando farther into the wings and behind the stage, where bare brick walls stretched up into the darkness out of sight and huge painted backdrops for a dozen different worlds hung or were stacked in layers.
“Then what?” Orlando faced him, standing with grace so deeply learned he did it without thought.
“Do you belong to a gentlemen’s camera club near Hampstead?” Pitt asked.
“What?”
Pitt began to repeat the question.
“Yes!” Orlando interrupted. “Yes, I do . . . at least, I go there occasionally, not very often, but I do belong. Why?”
“Did you join them near the Serpentine last Tuesday quite early in the morning?” He watched Orlando’s face, and was not sure in the uncertain light whether he saw him pale or not.
“Yes . . .” Orlando said guardedly. He swallowed and coughed. “Yes, I did. Why? Nothing unusual happened, so far as I am aware.”
“You met a Mr. Delbert Cathcart there, and had a heated disagreement with him.”
“No.” He looked startled, as if the question had taken him completely by surprise. “You—you mean the photographer who was killed? If he was there I certainly didn’t see him.”
“But you were there?”
“Yes, of course I was there. It was an excellent morning, clear early light with a sort of whiteness to it, and not many people about. I didn’t have to rehearse and I hadn’t been too late the night before. Who told you Cathcart was there?”
“Do you know him?”
“No.” The answer was very quick. Orlando’s eyes did not leave Pitt’s and they were unnaturally steady. But then he knew Cathcart had been murdered. Any normal man would be nervous. “No, I don’t,” he repeated. “He was a professional, one of the best, so everyone says. I am completely amateur. I just enjoy it. But I think I’ll have to give it up. I haven’t time.”
Pitt could believe that without the slightest difficulty. He could not even imagine the amount of mental and emotional energy needed to play a role like Hamlet, let alone the physical endurance.
“You quarreled with someone that morning and left in some heat. If it was not Cathcart, who was it?” he asked.
Orlando flushed. He hesitated several moments before replying, and when he did so he looked away first.
“A friend,” he said a touch defiantly. “A fellow I