Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [65]
They were right. It was not empty. The man lying in it was slight, with thick red hair. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, and there was paint on his fingers, thin, watercolor paint, such as an artist uses.
But it was the face that held Pitt. His eyes were closed, but the skin was bloated and puffy, the lips blue. Under the surface of the skin were dozens of tiny pinprick red marks where the capillaries had burst. But the most obvious of all were the dark bruises on the throat.
Here at last was the one who had been murdered.
8
SO MUCH HAD already centered on Gadstone Park it did not take Pitt long to discover the identity of the man buried in Albert Wilson’s grave. There had been only one artist mentioned—Godolphin Jones. It was but a short step to see if this was his body.
Pitt put down the lid again and stood up. He called over the constable waiting at the end of the path and told him to have the body taken immediately to the morgue; he himself would repair to Gadstone Park and fetch a butler or footman to look at it. He thanked the gravediggers and left them angry and confused, staring at the earth-stained coffin, while he tied his muffler still tighter, pulled his hat forward to keep the drizzle off his face, and went out into the street.
It was a short, grim business. It was a distinctive face, even under the puffing and the marks, and the butler needed only one look.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “That is Mr. Jones.” Then he hesitated. “Sir—he”—He swallowed hard—” he does not look as if he met with a natural death, sir?”
“No,” Pitt said gently. “He was strangled.”
The man was very pale, indeed. The morgue attendant reached for the glass of water.
“Does that mean he was murdered, sir? And there will be an investigation?”
“Yes,” Pitt answered. “I’m afraid it does.
“Oh, dear.” The man sat down on the chair provided. “How very unpleasant.”
Pitt waited for a few minutes while the man collected his composure again; then they both went back to the hansom that was waiting and returned to Gadstone Park. There was a great deal to be done. No other event so far had included Godolphin Jones in any way. He had had no apparent relationship with Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond, or with Alicia or Dominic. In fact, he did not figure in anything that had been mentioned, not even the bill that Aunt Vespasia was so concerned with. No one had claimed any acquaintance with him beyond professional, or the merest sort that one has with any person who lives in the immediate neighborhood.
Charlotte had said Aunt Vespasia thought his paintings a little muddy and highly priced, but that was no cause for personal dislike, far less murder. If one did not like paintings, one simply did not purchase them. And yet he had been popular and, if his house was anything to judge by, of very considerable means.
The house was the place to begin. Possibly it was where he had been murdered, and if that could be established, it was a point from which to pursue time and witnesses. At the very least he would discover the last occasion Godolphin Jones was there, if he was seen leaving, who had called upon him, and when. Servants frequent knew a great deal more about their masters than their masters would have chosen to believe. Discreet and well-judged questioning might elicit all sorts of information.
And, of course, a thorough search must be made of his belongings.
Pitt, in company with a constable, began the long task.
The bedroom yielded nothing. It was orderly, a little consciously dramatic for Pitt’s taste, but clean and unremarkable in every other way. It held all the usual effects: washstand, mirror, chests of drawers for underwear and socks. Suits and shirts were kept in a separate dressing room. There were several guest bedrooms, unoccupied and out of use.
Nor did any of the downstairs rooms offer anything unusual until they came to the studio. Pitt opened