“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. Professional duty. Have some more tea?”
Pitt went to the Dunns’ and learned the name of the church, but there was no use going to look for graves in the dark. It was the following morning when he found the grave of Albert Wilson, butler deceased, and obtained permission to open it. By eleven o’clock he was standing beside the gravediggers, watching as they took out the last of the black earth from the coffin lid. He passed the ropes down, waited as they poked them under the box and tied them, then stood back as they climbed out and began to haul. It was an expert job, a matter of balance and leverage. They seemed to find it heavy, finally laying it on the wet earth beside the cavity with a sigh of relief.
“That were rotten ’eavy, guv,” one of them said soberly. “It didn’t ’ardly feel like it were empty to me.”
“Not me.” The other shook his head and stared at Pitt accusingly.
Pitt did not reply but bent and looked at the fastenings on the lid. After a moment he fished in his pocket and pulled out a screwdriver. Silently, he started to work, moving round the coffin till he had all the screws in his hands. He put them in the other pocket, then inserted the blade between the lid and the box and lifted it up.
They were right. It was not empty. The man lying in it was slight, with thick red hair. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, and there was paint on his fingers, thin, watercolor paint, such as an artist uses.
But it was the face that held Pitt. His eyes were closed, but the skin was bloated and puffy, the lips blue. Under the surface of the skin were dozens of tiny pinprick red marks where the capillaries had burst. But the most obvious of all were the dark bruises on the throat.
Here at last was the one who had been murdered.
8
So much had already centered on Gadstone Park it did not take Pitt long to discover the identity of the man buried in Albert Wilson’s grave. There had been only one artist mentioned-Godolphin Jones. It was but a short step to see if this was his body.
Pitt put down the lid again and stood up. He called over the constable waiting at the end of the path and told him to have the body taken immediately to the morgue; he himself would repair to Gadstone Park and fetch a butler or footman to look at it. He thanked the gravediggers and left them angry and confused, staring at the earth-stained coffin, while he tied his muffler still tighter, pulled his hat forward to keep the drizzle off his face, and went out into the street.
It was a short, grim business. It was a distinctive face, even under the puffing and the marks, and the butler needed only one look.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “That is Mr. Jones.” Then he hesitated. “Sir-he”-He swallowed hard-” he does not look as if he met with a natural death, sir?”
“No,” Pitt said gently. “He was strangled.”
The man was very pale, indeed. The morgue attendant reached for the glass of water.
“Does that mean he was murdered, sir? And there will be an investigation?”
“Yes,” Pitt answered. “I’m afraid it does.
“Oh, dear.” The man sat down on the chair provided. “How very unpleasant.”
Pitt waited for a few minutes while the man collected his composure again; then they both went back to the hansom that was waiting and returned to Gadstone Park. There was a great deal to be done. No other event so far had included Godolphin Jones in any way. He had had no apparent relationship with Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond, or with Alicia or Dominic. In fact, he did not figure in anything that had been mentioned, not even the bill that Aunt Vespasia was so concerned with. No one had claimed any acquaintance with him beyond professional, or the merest sort that one has with any person who lives in the immediate neighborhood.
Charlotte had said Aunt Vespasia thought his paintings a little muddy and highly priced, but that was no cause for personal dislike, far less murder. If one did not like paintings, one simply did not purchase them. And yet he had been popular and, if his house was anything to judge by, of very considerable means.
The house was the place to begin. Possibly it was where he had been murdered, and if that could be established, it was a point from which to pursue time and witnesses. At the very least he would discover the last occasion Godolphin Jones was there, if he was seen leaving, who had called upon him, and when. Servants frequent knew a great deal more about their masters than their masters would have chosen to believe. Discreet and well- judged questioning might elicit all sorts of information.
And, of course, a thorough search must be made of his belongings.
Pitt, in company with a constable, began the long task.
The bedroom yielded nothing. It was orderly, a little consciously dramatic for Pitt’s taste, but clean and unremarkable in every other way. It held all the usual effects: washstand, mirror, chests of drawers for underwear and socks. Suits and shirts were kept in a separate dressing room. There were several guest bedrooms, unoccupied and out of use.
Nor did any of the downstairs rooms offer anything unusual until they came to the studio. Pitt opened the door and stared inside. There was nothing posed or indulgent about this room; the floor was uncarpeted, the windows enormous and taking up the most part of two walls. There was a clutter of odd pieces of statuary in one corner, and what looked like a white garden chair. A Louis Quinze chair was half draped with a length of pink velvet, and an urn lay on its side on the floor. On the wall beside the door were shelves stacked with brushes, pigments, chemicals, linseed oil, spirits, and several bundles of rags. On the floor underneath were a number of canvases, and in the center of the room an easel with two palettes beside it and a half-worked canvas propped on the pegs. There was nothing else immediately visible, except a shabby rolltop desk and a hard-backed kitchen chair beside it.
“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.
