Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [73]
“She was good-looking,” he replied. “Although a Bourbon rose is a little extravagant. But what is the point you are making?”
“Well, Godolphin Jones made his money by painting pictures of people, which in a way is the ultimate vanity, isn’t it, having your face immortalized? Maybe he flattered them all like that? And if he did, I would imagine a fair few of them responded, wouldn’t you?
Suddenly he perceived. “You mean an affaire, or several affaires? A jealous woman who imagined she was something unique in his life and discovered she was merely one of many, and that the sweet images were just part of his professional equipment? Or a jealous husband?”
“It’s possible.” She lowered her knife at last and cut into the pie. Thick gravy bubbled through, and Pitt totally forgot about the scorched piece.
“I’m hungry,” he said hopefully.
She smiled up at him with satisfaction. “Good. Ask Aunt Vespasia. If it was anyone in the Park, I’ll bet she knows, and if she doesn’t, she will find out for you.”
“I will,” he promised. “Now, please get on with that and forget about Godolphin Jones.”
But the first person he saw the following day was Somerset Carlisle. By now, of course, everyone in the Park knew of the discovery of the body, and he no longer had any element of surprise.
“I didn’t know him very well,” Carlisle said mildly. “Not much in common, as I dare say you know? And I certainly had no desire to have my portrait done.”
“If you had,” Pitt said slowly, watching Carlisle’s face, “would you have gone to Godolphin Jones?”
Carlisle’s expression dropped a little in surprise. “Why on earth does it matter? I’m a bit late now, anyway.”
“Would you?”
Carlisle hesitated, considering. “No,” he said at length. “No, I wouldn’t.”
Pitt had expected that. Charlotte had said Carlisle had spoken slightingly of Jones as an artist. He would have contradicted himself had he praised him now.
Pitt pursued it. “Overrated, would you say?”
Carlisle looked levelly at him; his eyes were dark gray and very clear. “As a painter, yes, Inspector, I would say so. As an admirer and companion, possibly not. He was quite a wit, very even-tempered, and had learned the not inconsiderable art of suffering fools graciously. It is difficult to command more than you are worth for long.”
“Isn’t art something of a fashion?” Pitt inquired.
Carlisle smiled, still meeting his eyes without a flicker.
“Certainly. But fashions are frequently manufactured. Price feeds upon itself, you know. Sell one thing expensively, and you can sell the next even more so.”
Pitt took the point, but it did not answer the question as to why anyone should strangle Godolphin Jones.
“You mentioned other forms of worth,” he said carefully. “Did you mean purely as a companion, or perhaps more—as a lover in an affaire—or even several?”
Carlisle’s face remained impassive, amused. “It might be worth your while to investigate the possibility. Discreetly, of course, or you will rouse a lot of ill feeling that will rebound upon yourself.”
“Naturally,” Pitt agreed. “Thank you, sir.”
Discretion began with Aunt Vespasia.
“I was expecting you yesterday,” she said with slight surprise in her voice. “Where can you start? Is there anything you know about this wretched man? So far as I have heard, he had nothing to do with Augustus, and Alicia was one of the few beauties, or imagined beauties, around the Park that he did not paint. For goodness’ sake, man, sit down; you give me a crick in my neck looking at you!”
Pitt obeyed. He still did not care to take the liberty of making himself comfortable before he was invited. “Was he a good artist?” he asked. He would value her opinion.
“No,” she said baldly,. “Why?”
“Charlotte said as much.”
She looked at him a little sideways, her eyes narrowed. “Indeed. And what do you draw from that? You are trying to say something—what is it?”
“Why do you think he was able to