“Well, make a note of it, Leven,” Pitt said impatiently. “There’s not a great deal we can do about it. Tell Inspector Brown, if you think it’s serious enough.”
Leven stood his ground. “No sir, that in’t the point. Point is, she told us what ’e looks like. Matches the poor soul as yer found at ’Orseferry Stairs just about exact. I were reckoning yer’d want ter talk to ’er, an’ mebbe even take ’er ter see the poor feller.”
Pitt was annoyed with himself for not having understood.
“Yes I would, Leven. Thank you. Bring her up, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
“And Leven. .”
“Yes sir?”
“That was well thought of. I’ll tell you if it’s him.”
“Thank you, sir.” Leven went out beaming with satisfaction, closing the door very gently behind him.
He was back in five minutes with a small, sturdy woman, her face puckered with anxiety. The moment she saw Pitt she started to speak.
“Are you the gentleman what I should talk ter? Yer see ’e’s bin gorn two days now. . least this is the second. . an’ I got messages askin’ w’ere ’e is.” She was shaking her head. “An’ I in’t got the faintest, ’ave I?” I jus’ know it in’t like ’im, all the years I bin doin’ the ’ouse fer ’im, ’e never let nothing get in the way of ’is work. That partic’lar, ’e is. I seen ’im make time fer folks w’en ’e’s bin ’alf out on ’is feet. Always oblige. That’s ’ow ’e got where ’e is.”
“Where is that, Mrs. . ?” Pitt asked.
“That’s wot I’m sayin’. Nobody knows where ’e is! Vanished. That’s why I come ter the po-liss. Summink’s ’appened, sure as eggs is eggs.”
Pitt tried again. “Please sit down, Mrs. . ?”
“Geddes. . I’m Mrs. Geddes.” She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Ta.” She rearranged her skirts. “Yer see, I bin cleanin’ an’ doin’ fer ’im fer near ten years now, an’ I knows ’is ways. There’s summink not right.”
“What is his name, Mrs. Geddes?”
“Cathcart. . Delbert Cathcart.”
“Could you describe Mr. Cathcart for me, please?” Pitt requested. “By the way, where does he live?”
“Battersea,” she replied. “Right down on the river. Lovely ’ouse, ’e ’as. Nicest one as I does for. What’s that got ter do wif ’im not bein’ there?”
“Perhaps nothing, Mrs. Geddes. What does Mr. Cathcart look like, if you please?”
“Sort o’ ordinary ’eight,” she replied gravely. “Not very tall, not very short. Not ’eavy. Sort o’. .” She thought for a moment. “Sort o’ neat-lookin’. Got fair ’air an’ a mustache, but not wot yer’d call real whiskers. Always dressed very well. Sort o’ good-lookin’, I suppose yer’d say. But ’ow will yer know ’im from that?”
“I’m not sure that we will, Mrs. Geddes.” Pitt had had to tell people about deaths countless times before, but it never became any easier or pleasanter. At least this was not a relative. “I am afraid there was a man found dead in a small boat on the river yesterday morning. We don’t know who he is, but he looks very much as you describe Mr. Cathcart. I’m sorry to ask this, Mrs. Geddes, but would you come and look at this man and see if you know him?”
“Oh! Well. .” She stared at him for several moments. “Well, I s’pose I better ’ad, ’adn’t I? Better me than one o’ them society ladies as ’e knows.”
“Does he know a lot of society ladies?” Pitt asked. He did not even know if the man in the punt was Cathcart, but he was interested to learn what he could about him before Mrs. Geddes saw the body, in case she was so shocked she found herself unable to think coherently afterward.
“O’course ’e does!” she said with wide eyes. “ ’E’s the best photographer in London, in’t ’e?”
Pitt knew nothing of photographers except the odd bit he had heard in passing conversation. Someone had referred to it as the new form of portraiture.
“I didn’t know that,” he admitted. “I should like to learn more about him.”
“Real beautiful, they are. Yer never seen anyfink like it. People was that thrilled wif ’em.”
“I see.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Geddes, but there’s no alternative to going to the morgue and seeing if it is Mr. Cathcart we have. I hope it’s not.” He said it as a matter of sympathy for her, but he realized immediately that it was less than true. The case would be a great deal easier if the body proved to be an English society photographer rather than a French diplomat.
“Yes,” Mrs. Geddes said quietly. She stood up and smoothed her jacket. “Yes, o’ course. I’m comin’.”
The morgue was close enough to walk to, and there was so much noise in the street that conversation would have been difficult. Hansom cabs, omnibuses, wagons and brewers’ drays clattered past them. Street peddlers shouted, men and women argued, and a costermonger roared with laughter at an old man’s joke.
It was utterly different inside the morgue. The silence and the clinging, damp smell closed over them, and suddenly the world of the living seemed far away.
They were conducted through to the icehouse where bodies were stored. The sheet was taken off the face of the man from Horseferry Stairs.
Mrs. Geddes looked at it and drew in her breath in a little gasp.
“Yes,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Oh dear. . that’s Mr. Cathcart, poor soul.”
“Are you quite sure?” Pitt pressed.
“Oh yes, that’s ’im.” She turned away and put her hand up to her face. “Whatever ’appened to ’im?”
There was no need to tell her about the green velvet dress or the chains, at least not yet, perhaps not at all.
“I am afraid he was struck on the head,” he answered.
Her eyes widened. “Yer mean on purpose, like? ’E were murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d anyone wanna murder Mr. Cathcart? Were ’e robbed?”
“It seems very unlikely. Do you know of anyone who might have quarreled with him?”
“No,” she said straightaway. “ ’E weren’t that sort.” She kept her face averted. “It must be someb’dy very wicked wot done it.”
Pitt nodded to the morgue attendant, who covered the body again.
“Thank you, Mrs. Geddes. Now I would appreciate it very much if you would take me to his house and allow me to find out whatever I can there. We’ll get a hansom.” He waited a moment while she composed herself, then walked beside her out of the morgue and into the sunlight again. “Are you all right?” he asked, seeing her ashen face. “Would you like to stop for a drink, or find a place to sit down?”
“No thank you,” she said stoically. “Very nice o’ yer, I’m sure, but I’ll make us a proper cup o’ tea w’en we get there. No time ter be sittin’ down. Yer gotta find them as done this an’ see ’em on the end of a rope.”
He did not reply, but continued beside her until he saw a hansom and hailed it. He asked her for the address and gave it to the cabbie, then settled down for the ride. He would have liked to question her further about Cathcart, but she sat with her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed, every now and then giving a little sigh. She needed time to absorb what had happened and come to terms with it in her own way.
The hansom rumbled across the Battersea Bridge and down the other side, turning left along George Street, and stopped outside an extremely handsome house whose long garden backed onto the water. Pitt alighted, helping Mrs. Geddes out. He paid the driver and gave him a message to take to the local police station requesting a constable to come.
Mrs. Geddes sniffed hard, and with a little shake of her head, walked up the long driveway and, taking a key from her pocket, opened the front door. She did it without hesitation. It was obviously a regular thing for her.
The moment he was inside Pitt stared around him. The entrance hall was long and light, with stairs down one side. It was excellently lit from a very large window extending the length of the stairwell. On one wall were several photographs of groups of people-half a dozen ragged urchins playing in the street; beside them society ladies at Ascot, lovely faces under a sea of hats.
“I told you ’e were good,” Mrs. Geddes said sadly. “Pour soul. I dunno wot yer wanter see ’ere. There in’t nuffink missin’, nuffink stole, so far as I can see. ’E must ’a bin set on in the street. ’E didn’t never ’ave them sort o’ people ’ere!”
“What sort of people did he have?” Pitt asked, following her through to the sitting room, which was
