Resurrection Row

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; said she had a quality of delicacy about her like a Bourbon rose. She floated round insufferably with her head in the air, looking sideways at herself in all the mirrors for weeks.”

“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 charge so much, and get it?” he asked frankly.

“Ah.” She leaned back a little, and a very small smile curved her mouth. “Portrait artists who paint society women have to be courtiers as well, in fact, possibly even courtiers first. The best of them can afford to paint as they please, but the others must paint to suit whoever holds the purse strings. If they have the skill, they flatter with the brush; if not, they must do it with the tongue. Some even do both.”

“And Godolphin Jones?”

Her eyes flickered with amusement. “You have seen his work yourself-and you must know it was with his tongue.”

“Do you suppose it went further than flattery?” He was not sure if she would be affronted by his assuming such a possibility and asking it so bluntly. But, on the other hand, there was no point in being evasive with her, and he was too weary of the case and confused to be subtle.

She was silent for so long he began to be anxious she was offended. Then at last she spoke, choosing her words.

“You are asking me if I know of anyone having an affaire with Godolphin Jones. I suppose if I do not tell you, you will have to pursue it yourself? I had rather tell you; I imagine that will be the least painful. Yes, Gwendoline Cantlay had an affaire. It was nothing serious, a relief from boredom of a pleasant but growingly uninterested husband; certainly not a grand passion. And she was extremely discreet about it.”

“Do you know if Sir Desmond knew of it?”

She considered for a moment before replying.

“I should think he guessed but was tactful enough to look the other way,” she said at length. “I find it very hard indeed to believe he would have killed the wretched little man over it. One does not react in such a way, unless one is completely unhinged.”

Pitt had no understanding; he simply had to accept that she knew. He could not conceive of what his own behavior might have been had he discovered Charlotte in such a squalid involvement. It would shatter everything he cared about, desecrate and overturn all that was precious within him and held him islanded against daily wretchedness he saw. It was not beyond his imagination that he would strangle the man: the more so if it were merely part of his professional repertoire, and she were one of any number.