Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [68]
“Who was your master painting when he left?” he asked straightaway.
“No one, sir. He had just finished a portrait of Sir Albert Galsworth.”
That was a disappointment; not only someone Pitt had never heard of, but also a man.
“What about the picture on the floor?” he asked. “That’s a woman.”
The butler walked over and looked at it.
“I don’t know, sir. She appears to be a lady of quality by her clothes, but as you see, the face has not yet been filled in, so I cannot say who it may be.”
“Has no one been coming here for sittings?”
“No, sir, not that I am aware of. Perhaps she was due and had put it off until a more convenient time?”
“What about this one?” Pitt showed him the other, more nearly completed canvas.
“Oh, yes, sir. That is Mrs. Woodford. She did not care for the picture; she said it made her look lumpish. Mr. Jones never finished it.”
“Was there ill feeling?”
“Not on Mr. Jones’s part, sir. He is used to—certain persons’—vanity. An artist has to be.”
“He wasn’t prepared to alter it to suit the lady?”
“Apparently not, sir. I believe he had already made considerable adjustments to suit the lady’s view of herself. If he went too far, he would compromise his reputation.”
Pitt did not argue; it was academic now.
“Have you seen this before?” He pulled out the notebook and let it fall open.
The butler glanced at it, and his face went blank. “No, sir. Is it of importance?”
“I don’t know. Was Mr. Jones a photographer?”
The butler’s eyebrows shot up. “A photographer? Oh, no, sir, he was an artist. Sometimes watercolors and sometimes oil, but certainly not photographs!”
“Then whose camera is that?”
The butler looked startled. He had not noticed the contraption. “I really have no idea, sir. I have never seen it before.”
“Could someone else have borrowed his studio?”
“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Jones was most particular. Beside, if they had, I should have known. There have been no strangers here; in fact no caller has been inside this house since Mr. Jones—left.”
“I see.” Pitt was confused. The thing was becoming ridiculous. He wanted a mystery, something to investigate, but this was nonsensical. The camera had to have come from somewhere and belong to someone. “Thank you,” he said, standing up again. “Will you make me a list of all the people you can remember who came here to have their pictures painted, starting with the latest and going back as far as you can remember, with the best recollection you have as to dates?”
“Yes, sir. Has Mr. Jones no accounts you can check?”
“If he has, they are not here.”
The butler forbore from comment and retired to send in the next servant. Pitt interviewed them all, one by one, and learned nothing that seemed important. It was early afternoon when he had finished, and still time to visit at least one of the other houses in the Park. He chose the latest on the butler’s list of portraits—Lady Gwendoline Cantlay.
Obviously she had not heard the news. She received him with surprise and a hint of irritation.
“Really, Inspector, I see no purpose to be served by pursuing this unfortunate subject. Augustus is buried, and there has been no further vandalism. I suggest you now leave his family to recover as well as they may and do not refer to the matter again. Haven’t they been through enough?”
“I have no intention of raising the matter again, ma’am,” he said patiently. “Unless it should become necessary. I’m afraid I am here over something quite different. You were acquainted with the artist, Mr. Godolphin Jones, I believe?”
Did he imagine it, or was there a tightening of her fingers in her lap, a faint flush across her cheeks?
“He painted my picture,” she agreed, watching him. “He has painted many pictures and came highly recommended to me. He is a well-known artist, you know, and very much praised.”
“You think highly of him, ma’am?”
“I—” she drew in her breath—“I don’t really know sufficient to say. I am obliged to rest upon other people’s opinions.” She looked