face, then away again. He read him too well.
“Enjoying it,” Pitt answered. “Says it’s a beautiful city and very exciting. The women have a flair for dress and are extremely elegant. They look as if they achieve it without any effort at all. She says it’s infuriating.”
“Well, they’re French, aren’t they?” Tellman asked reasonably. “One would expect them to be infuriating,” he added.
In spite of himself Pitt grinned.
“If Cathcart was half as clever as that woman said he was,” Tellman said, returning to the subject at hand, “then he probably got above himself with someone, and maybe tried a touch of blackmail. I daresay photographers are like servants, and they get to see a lot of things. Maybe people think they don’t matter, and speak in front of them. He moved around in a lot of big houses, sort of there but not there, if you know what I mean? He might have found it out only by accident, but took his chance.”
The road was wet underfoot, heavy dew glistening in the hedges. The mournful sound of a foghorn drifted up from the water.
Pitt pushed his hands hard into his pockets. “That leaves us a pretty wide field,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d like to know how much he earned with his photography, and what he spent.”
Tellman did not bother to ask why.
“And how much of that house and its furnishings he inherited,” Pitt went on, thinking of the works of art he had seen and trying to make some mental assessment of their value.
Tellman was looking at him. “Worth a lot?” he asked. He knew forgery of banknotes and letters of credit, and the disposal of ordinary household goods and silver, but not art of that quality.
Pitt had not doubted that what he had seen in Cathcart’s house was genuine, probably even the vase which had been smashed, and almost certainly the once-beautiful rug that they had fished out of the river.
“Yes. .”
“More than you’d earn taking photographs of the gentry?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Tellman’s chin came up a little. “Right!” he said more cheerfully. “Then we’d better see what we can find out about Mr. Cathcart.”
They parted company, Tellman going to the local shops and generally asking around. Pitt returned to Cathcart’s house and, with Mrs. Geddes looking on proprietarily, made what assessment he could of the value of the works of art he could see. Then he went through Cathcart’s desk, looking at such bills and receipts as were there. They covered approximately the last three months. It seemed Cathcart did not stint himself for anything that took his fancy. His tailor’s bills were enormous, but all receipted within days of being presented. His appointments diary noted several trips to various other cities within a comfortable train journey: Bath, Winchester, Tunbridge Wells, Brighton, Gloucester. There was no indication whether he was going on business or pleasure.
Pitt leaned back in the elegant chair and read the list of clients Cathcart had photographed in the previous six months. He made notes of those for the last five weeks. It seemed Cathcart worked hard on preparation before he finally made his portraits. He spent time to learn about his subjects and to suggest several possibilities to them.
Next he went through Cathcart’s professional receipts for photographic materials, which were surprisingly expensive. The margin for profit was not nearly as large as he had supposed. And then there were all the pieces of stage dressing he used, not to mention the generator for the lights.
He must find out if Cathcart had inherited this house and its beautiful carpets, pictures, furniture, vases and so on. Even if he had, it seemed he must live to the limit of his income, unless there was another source.
He should also find out if Cathcart had left a will. He certainly had much to bequeath. Pitt searched the desk again to find out who was his man of affairs, who would surely know.
He found it only just before Tellman returned, looking less than pleased.
“Didn’t shop much around here,” he said, sitting down gingerly on a Sheraton chair as if he were afraid he might break its beautiful legs. “Mrs. Geddes seems to have bought most of the household necessities. Sent his stuff out to be laundered, linens, clothes, all of it. Expensive.” He grunted. “Still, I suppose keeping a staff would cost a bit too, and it may be he preferred not to have anyone around too much.”
“What’s the gossip?” Pitt leaned back in the desk chair.
“Not a lot,” Tellman replied. “Beyond the impression that he’s got money and is a bit odd. Some have a less- charitable word for it, but it comes to the same thing. Local chap comes in twice a week and does the garden, but seems Cathcart liked it all overgrown and artistic, like. Can’t bear rows of things, and can’t be bothered with vegetables or anything useful.”
“Perhaps in his profession flowers are more use?” Pitt suggested. “Roses on the arches and pergolas, the willow trailing over the water.”
Tellman refrained from comment. “You find anything?” He had always resented calling Pitt “sir,” and for some time now had abandoned it altogether, except when he was being sarcastic.
“He went through a lot of money,” Pitt replied. “More than he earned as a photographer, unless his books are fiddled. But I need to know if he inherited the house and the things in it. . which are probably worth more than it is.”
Tellman looked around, his brows drawn together. “Reckon he was killed for it? People have killed for a lot less, but not dressed them up and chained them like that. That’s. . personal.”
“Yes, I know,” Pitt said quietly. “But we need to find out all the same.”
“Now what?” Tellman asked, his eyes going surreptitiously to the Chinese vase on the mantelpiece and then across to a blue plaque with raised white figures of dancing children on it, which Pitt guessed to be Italian Renaissance, either Della Robbia or a good copy. He had seen something like it once recovered from a burglary.
“Is it really worth a lot?” Tellman asked.
“I think so. We’ll find out if he inherited it. And who inherits it now.” Pitt folded up the paper he had been writing on and put it in his pocket, along with the usual variety of things already there, and stood up. “We’ll go and find Mr. Dobson of Phipps, Barlow and Jones. He should be able to answer both questions for us.”
Mr. Dobson was a mild-mannered man with a long, distinguished face which fell very naturally into lines of the gravity appropriate to his calling.
“Police, you say?” He regarded Pitt’s untidy figure dubiously. Tellman, he seemed to have no doubt of.
Pitt produced his card and offered it.
“Ah!” Dobson let out a sigh, apparently satisfied. “Come in, gentlemen.” He indicated his office and followed after them, closing the door. “Please be seated. What can I do for you?”
“We are here regarding Mr. Delbert Cathcart. I believe he is a client of yours,” Pitt replied.
“Indeed he is,” Dobson agreed, sitting down and inviting him to do the same. “But of course his business is confidential, and to the very best of my knowledge, completely honest, and even praiseworthy.”
“You are not aware of his recent death?” Pitt asked him, watching the man’s face closely.
“Death?” Dobson was clearly taken aback. “Did you say death? Are you perfectly sure?”
“I am afraid so,” Pitt replied.
Dobson’s eyes narrowed. “And what brings you here, sir? Is there something questionable about the manner of it?”
Obviously the newspapers had not yet been informed that the body from Horseferry Stairs had been identified, but it could only be a matter of time. Briefly Pitt told him the essentials.
“Oh dear. How extremely distressing.” Dobson shook his head. “In what manner may I assist you? I knew nothing of it, nor do I know anything which would seem to be relevant. It must be some madman responsible. What is the world coming to?”
Pitt decided to be completely frank. “It happened in his house, Mr. Dobson, which would make it probable it was someone he knew.”
Dobson’s face expressed misgiving, but he did not interrupt.
“Did Mr. Cathcart inherit his house in Battersea?” Pitt asked.
Whatever Dobson had been expecting, his face betrayed that it was not this. “No. Good heavens, why do you ask?”
“He purchased it himself?”
