Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [66]
“Artist,” the constable said obviously. “Reckon to find anything here?”
“I hope so.” Pitt walked in. “Otherwise there’s nothing left but questioning the servants. You start over there.” He pointed and began to go through the canvases himself.
“Yes, sir,” the constable replied, dutifully climbing over the urn to begin and knocking the chair off its balance. It fell over and rolled onto its side with a clatter, carrying a vase of dried flowers with it.
Pitt refrained from comment. He already knew the constable’s opinion of art and artists.
The canvases were mostly primed but unused. There were only two with paint on, one with background and outline of a woman’s head, the other almost completed. He sat them up and stepped back to consider them. They were, as Vespasia had said, a little muddy in color, as if he had used too many pigments in the mixing, but the balance was good and the composition pleasing. He did not recognize the almost completed one, nor the one on the easel, but probably the butler would know who they were, and no doubt Jones himself kept a record, for financial purposes if nothing else.
The constable knocked over a piece of pillar and swore under his breath. Pitt ignored him and turned to the desk. It was locked, and he was obliged to fiddle for several minutes with a wire before getting it open. There were few papers inside, mostly bills for artist’s supplies. The household accounts must be kept somewhere else, probably by the cook or the butler.
“There’s nothing ’ere, sir,” the constable said hopelessly. “Couldn’t rightly tell if there’s been a struggle in among this lot or not, seein’ as it’s such a mess, anyway. I suppose it’s bein’ a hartist, like?” He did not approve of art; it was not an occupation for a man. Men should do a job of work, and women should keep house, a neat and tidy house, if they were any good at it. “They all live like this?” He eyed the room with disdain.
“I’ve no idea,” Pitt replied. “See if you can find any blood. There was a hell of a bruise on his head. Whatever he hit it on is bound to have traces.” And he resumed his search of the desk, picking up a bundle of letters. He read through them quickly; they were of no interest that he could see, all to do with commissions for portraits, detailing poses desired, colors of gowns, dates for sittings that might be convenient.
Next, he came to a small notebook with a series of figures which could have been anything, and after each figure a tiny drawing, either an insect or a small reptile. There was a lizard, a fly, two kinds of beetle, a toad, a caterpillar, and several small hairy things with legs. All of them were repeated at least half a dozen times, except the toad, which appeared only twice and toward the end. Perhaps if Jones had lived, the toad would have continued?
“Found something?” The constable climbed over the urn and the chair and came across, his voice lifting hopefully.
“I don’t know,” Pitt answered. “It doesn’t look like much, but maybe if I understood it—”
The constable tried to lean over his shoulder, found it too high, and peered over his elbow instead.
“Well, I dunno,” he said after a minute. “Was ’e interested in them kind o’ things? Some gentlemen is—who don’t ’ave anythin’ better to do wiv their time. Though why anybody