Half Moon Street (13 page)

Pitt was inclined to agree. They had already investigated the possibility of theft, using Cathcart’s knowledge of art and of the possessions of his clients. But none of the clients admitted to any losses.

“You must have talked to enough people.” He looked up at Tellman. “What did they say about him?”

Tellman reached for the teapot. “Spent a lot of money but paid his bills on time.” He sighed. “Liked good things—the best—but he wasn’t awkward to suit, like some folk. Always pleasant enough to the few that saw him, that is. Sent for a lot of things, or had them on regular order. Seems he worked pretty hard.”

“How hard?” Pitt asked, his mind turning over the clients he knew of from Cathcart’s list.

Tellman looked puzzled.

“Hours?” Pitt prompted. “He only took about one client a week, on average. Visited them maybe twice or three times, then had them to his studio for the actual photograph. That’s not ten hours a day, by any means.”

“No, it isn’t.” Tellman frowned. “Doesn’t exactly account for the time he seems to have been away, and people assumed he was working. Perhaps he wasn’t? Could have been doing anything. Wouldn’t be the first man that said he was working when he wasn’t.”

“Whatever he was doing, it made him money,” Pitt said grimly. “We need to know what it was.” He drank the last of his tea and stood up. “It’s about the only thing we’ve got.”

“Unless it was really the Frenchman and not Cathcart at all,” Tellman answered, standing as well. “That would explain everything.”

“Except where Cathcart is.” Pitt poured a little milk for Archie and Angus, and made sure they had food. Angus smelled the milk in his sleep and woke up, stretching and purring.

“Well, if it is Cathcart, where is the Frenchman?” Tellman continued. “He didn’t go on the boat from Dover, he came back on the train to London, but he’s not here now.”

“And as long as the people at the French Embassy maintain that they know where he is, that is not our problem.” Pitt made sure the back door was locked. “Let’s go and see Miss Monderell again. Maybe she knows where Cathcart spent the rest of his time.”

The door was opened to them by a startled maid who told them very firmly that Miss Monderell was not yet receiving visitors and if they cared to come back in an hour she would enquire whether Miss Monderell would see them then.

Tellman drew in his breath sharply, and only with difficulty waited for Pitt to speak. It was quarter to ten. In his opinion, plain already in his face, anyone who was not ill should have been out of bed long ago.

A flicker of humor hovered around Pitt’s mouth. “Will you please inform Miss Monderell that Superintendent Pitt would like to speak with her in the matter of Mr. Cathcart’s death, and unfortunately I cannot afford the time to wait upon her convenience.” His tone of voice made it clearly an order.

The maid looked startled; his mention of the police, and a death she now knew to be murder, robbed her of all argument. However, she left them to wait in the hall, not the withdrawing room.

Lily Monderell came down the stairs twenty minutes later, dressed in a beautiful morning gown of russet red trimmed with black braid, which showed off her extremely handsome figure to full advantage. The sleeves were barely exaggerated at all, and the skirt swept back to a slight bustle. It reminded Pitt of the fashions Charlotte had described in her letter. There was not the slightest crease or blemish in it, no sign of wear at all, and he wondered if it was new.

“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a dazzling smile. She looked at Tellman, to his renewed discomfort. “Morning, love. You look as if you’ve been rode hard an’ put away wet. Have a cup of tea and a sit-down. Cold outside, is it?”

In spite of himself, Pitt stifled a laugh at Tellman’s expression of conflicting fury and dismay. He plainly wanted to be outraged, and she had denied him the chance. She refused to be intimidated or offended, she refused to see his disapproval. Instead, she swept around the bottom of the stairs and led the way to the dining room with her back to him, her silk skirts rustling, a waft of perfume filling the air.

The dining room was quite small but extremely elegant. It was papered entirely in warm yellow with a golden wood floor and mahogany furniture which could have been original Adam, or else was an excellent copy. There were tawny bronze chrysanthemums in a vase on the sideboard, and the maid was already laying two extra places at the table.

Lily Monderell invited them to sit down. Tellman accepted gingerly, Pitt with interest.

The maid came in with an exquisite Georgian silver teapot, gently steaming at the spout. She set it down admiringly, and Pitt had the strong impression that it also was new.

“There now,” Lily Monderell said with satisfaction. “Looks real good, doesn’t it!”

Pitt realized that one of the pictures he had noticed while waiting in the hall was new since they had been there before, or else moved from a different room. But did one keep pictures of that quality in a room not seen by guests? Lily Monderell was doing very well for herself since Cathcart’s death. And yet she had not been mentioned in the will. Did she know that? Was she spending on credit and expectation? It was ridiculous to feel sorry for her, and yet he did.

He looked at the teapot. “It’s very handsome. Is it new?” He watched her face closely to see the shadow of a lie before it reached her lips.

She hesitated so slightly he was not sure if he saw it or not. “Yes.” She smiled, reaching for it to pour.

“A gift?” He kept his eyes on hers.

She had already decided what to say. “No. Unless you count a gift to myself ?”

Should he say something, rather than allow her to buy herself into debt on false hopes? It was none of his business. And yet where she obtained her money might very well be his business. If Cathcart had blackmailed his clients, or anybody else, then perhaps she knew of it. She might even have shared the information and have taken over since his death. It was Pitt’s duty to prevent a crime, whether it was continued blackmail or another murder. And the thought of Lily Monderell’s lying grotesquely, half naked, in a punt drifting down the cold Thames in the morning mist was peculiarly repellent. Whatever she had done, or was doing, to provoke it. She was so vital it would be a denial of life itself to destroy her.

He sipped the tea she had given him. It was fragrant and very hot. “I have been to see Mr. Cathcart’s man of affairs,” he said almost casually.

“To find out when he bought the house?” she asked.

“Among other things,” he replied. “Also to see how he had bequeathed it, and his works of art, and whatever money he had.”

She lifted her cup and drank delicately. Hers too was very hot. “Charity,” she said after a moment. “At least that’s what he always said he would do.”

He felt a wave of surprise, and then relief. He should have been disappointed. Her spending was not based on any expectation of profit from Cathcart’s death, at least not by inheritance. There was still blackmail.

She was watching him now, waiting.

“Yes, exactly,” he replied. He let his gaze rest on the teapot. “That’s a nice new watercolor of cows that you have in the hall. I’ve always liked pictures of cows. They seem so supremely restful.”

Did he imagine the tightening of her shoulders under the silk?

“Thank you,” she answered. “I am pleased you like it, love. Would you care for some toast? Have you had any breakfast, or have you been walking around the streets asking questions all morning?” Her voice was warm, rich, as if she was really concerned for them.

Tellman cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was almost certainly hungry, and equally certainly did not want to accept her hospitality. He would find it confusing to be obliged to her, even for so small a thing.

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, because he would like it, but primarily because it would give him an easy excuse to remain here talking to her.

She rang a small crystal bell on the table, and when the maid came, she requested toast, butter and marmalade for all of them. Tellman’s discomfort amused her, it was there in the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. By the standards of the day, she was not beautiful, her features were too large, especially her mouth. There was nothing modest or fragile about her. But she was one of the most attractive women Pitt had ever met, full of laughter and vitality. He admired Cathcart for his taste with regard to her even more than for the beauty of his house.

“We haven’t learned very much,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve spent several days asking questions and discovered almost nothing . . . except that Mr. Cathcart spent a great deal more money than he earned in his art.” He was watching her eyes for the smallest flicker, and even so he was not certain whether he saw it or not. And then he did not know how to interpret it. Had she loved him? Was her emotion grief, or only a decent distaste for the violence and waste of his death? Surely she had been fond of him. She had liked him, whether she had loved him or not.

She lowered her eyes. “He was very clever. He wasn’t just a photographer, you know, he was a real artist.”

“Yes, I do know.” He meant that every bit as much as she did. “I’ve seen several of his portraits. I don’t think
genius
would be too powerful a word.”

She looked up quickly, smiling again. “He was, wasn’t he?” There were tears in her eyes.

Neither like nor dislike should overrule his judgment.

“He had a gift I’ve never seen equaled for catching the essence of a person and symbolizing it in an image,” he continued. “Not only what they would like to have seen in themselves, but a great deal they could not have wished shown so clearly. I saw not only faces portrayed, but the vanity or emptiness inside them, the weaknesses as much as the beauty or the strength.”

“That’s portraiture,” she said softly.

“Perhaps it’s also dangerous,” Pitt observed. “Not everyone wishes to have their character stripped so naked to the eyes of strangers, and perhaps still less to the eyes of those they love or to whom they are vulnerable.”

“You think he was killed by a client?” She seemed startled.

“I’m sure he was killed by someone who knew him,” Pitt answered. “And who felt passionately about him.”

She said nothing.

“Had you thought it was a crime of greed?” he asked her. “It was hardly self-defense. Unless he was blackmailing someone . . .” He stopped, waiting to see her reaction.

Her eyes widened so little, the moment after he was not sure he had seen it at all. Why? She should have been startled, even offended. He had just suggested her friend was guilty of one of the ugliest of crimes.

“Over what?” she asked, measuring her words. “What makes you think he knew anything about . . . anyone?”

“Did he?”

“If he did—he certainly didn’t tell me. . . .”

“Would he have?”

She was definitely uncomfortable now. It was very well hidden, only a tightening of her hand on the delicate porcelain of the cup, a very slight shaking so the tea in it dimpled on the surface. She must know he was working his way towards asking if she knew the secret which had cost Cathcart his life, and if she was also using it the same way, which might in the end cost her her life also.

“I don’t know.” She made herself smile. “He didn’t. But then I don’t know for sure if there was anything to tell.”

Was that true? Where had his money come from? Where had she suddenly found sufficient to purchase the painting in the hall and the silver teapot? It was a great deal of money to spend in the space of one week. Had she acquired a new and extremely generous lover?

Or had she been back to Cathcart’s house and abstracted a few keepsakes, with or without Mrs. Geddes’s knowledge? It could even be that with no heir to be particular, Mrs. Geddes had collaborated, keeping a few small things herself. Would anyone know? Probably not, unless Cathcart kept a list of his possessions somewhere, and from what Pitt had seen of his life, that was unlikely. Certainly there had been no such list among his papers.

He did not wish to think of Lily Monderell’s going in among Cathcart’s possessions and taking what she fancied. He could understand it well enough, but it was still not a pleasant thought.

His silence bothered her.

“Like some more tea, love?” she asked, reaching for the beautiful pot.

“Thank you,” he accepted, looking at the light gleam on the pot’s satin surface. It was almost as if she were provoking him into the very questions she least wanted.

“Have you been back to his house since he was killed?” he asked.

Her hand clenched, and she had to reach up the other hand to steady the pot.

He waited. Even Tellman sat motionless, toast and marmalade halfway to his mouth.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“What for?”

She poured his tea, and some more for Tellman also, and lastly for herself, until she had delayed all she could. She looked up again and met Pitt’s eyes.

“He promised me some of his pictures that he was going to sell. I went to get them. That’s where the money came from.”

“You sold them already?”

“Why not? They were good. I know where to go.”

She was nervous. He did not know why. He was not sure if she was telling the truth, but her story was reasonable enough. She had been Cathcart’s mistress. Men gave gifts to their mistresses, often very expensive ones. Pitt had been surprised that Cathcart had not bequeathed her anything in a more formal way. He had no dependents, so there was no reason, legal or moral, why he should not have. It would be logical enough that the pictures in question would be her legacy.

Why was she nervous? What were the pictures? The means of his blackmail? Had she sold them back to the victims? Or kept them as further source of income? Most people would do the latter. It was an ugly thought.

But Lily Monderell needed to survive, and her looks would not last indefinitely. She had no husband to care for her, probably no skills but those of a mistress, certainly none which would keep her in the manner she now enjoyed and had become accustomed to.