Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [72]
St. Jermyn’s face was still very pale, nostrils flared gently as he breathed in and out. “Oh? And what may that be?”
“It would be irresponsible of me to speak before I have proof.” Pitt evaded it with a slight smile. “I might wrong someone, and suspicion once voiced is seldom forgotten, no matter how false it proves to be later.”
St. Jermyn hesitated as if about to ask something further, then thought better of it. “Yes—yes, of course,” he agreed. “What are you going to do now?”
“Question the people who knew him best, both professionally and socially,” Pitt replied, taking the opening offered. “I believe you were one of his patrons?”
St. Jermyn gave an answering smile, no more than a slight relaxation of the face. “What a curious word, Inspector. Hardly a patron. I commissioned one picture, of my wife.”
“And were you satisfied with it?”
“It is acceptable. My wife liked it well enough, which was what mattered. Why do you ask?
“No particular reason. May I see it?”
“If you wish, although I doubt you will learn anything from it. It is very ordinary.” He turned and walked out of the door into the hallway, leaving Pitt to follow. The picture was in an inconspicuous place on the stair wall, and, looking at the quality of it compared with the other family portraits, Pitt was not surprised. His eye scanned the face briefly, then went to the left-hand corner. The insect was there, this time a spider.
“Well?” St. Jermyn inquired with a touch of irony in his voice.
“Thank you, sir.” Pitt came down the stairs again to stand level with him. “Do you mind telling me, sir, how much you paid for it?”
“Probably more than it’s worth,” St. Jermyn said casually. “But my wife likes it. Personally, I don’t think it does her justice, do you? But then you wouldn’t know; you haven’t met her.”
“How much, sir?” Pitt repeated.
“About four hundred and fifty pounds, as far as I can remember. Do you want the precise figure? It would take me some time to find it. Hardly a major transaction!”
The vast financial difference between them was not lost on Pitt.
“Thank you, that will be near enough.” He dismissed it without comment.
St. Jermyn smiled fully for the first time. “Does that further your investigations, Inspector?”
“It may do, when compared with other information.” Pitt walked on to the front door. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
When he got home, cold and tired, Pitt was welcomed by the fragrance of steaming soup and dry laundry hanging from the ceiling. Jemima was already asleep, and the house was silent. He took his wet boots off and sat down, letting the calm wash over him, almost as capable of being felt with body as was the heat. For several minutes Charlotte said no more than a welcome, an acknowledgment of his presence.
When at last he was ready to talk, he put down the soup bowl she had given him and looked across at her.
“I’m making noises as if I knew what I was doing, but honestly, I can’t see sense in any of it,” he said with a gesture of helplessness.
“Whom have you questioned?” she asked, wiping her hands carefully and picking up an oven cloth before opening the door and reaching in for a pie. She pulled it out and put it quickly on the table. The crust was crisp and pale gold, a little darker in one corner, in fact, perilously close to burnt.
He looked at it with the beginning of a smile.
She saw him. “I’ll eat that corner!” she said instantly.
He laughed. “Why does it do that? Scorch one corner!”
She gave him a withering look. “If I knew that, I would prevent it!” She turned out the vegetables smartly and watched the steam rise with appreciation. “Whom have you seen about this artist?”
“Everyone in the Park who has portraits by him—why?”
“I just wondered.” She lifted the carving knife and held it in the air, suspended over the pie while she thought. “We had an artist paint a picture of Mama once, and another for Sarah. They were both full of compliments, told Sarah she was beautiful, made all sorts of outrageously flattering remarks;