“Certainly. About, let me see, eight years ago, August of ’83, I think. Why? There was nothing irregular in it, I assure you. I handled the matter myself.”
“And the objects of art in it, the furnishings?”
“I have no idea. Are they. . questionable?”
“Not so far as I know. Who inherits them, Mr. Dobson?”
“Various charities, sir. No individual.”
Pitt was surprised, although he had not seriously thought Cathcart had been killed for property, any more than Tellman did. But it cast a new light on Cathcart’s income that he had purchased both house and works of art himself. Pitt was aware that Tellman was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“Thank you.” He sighed, looking at Dobson. “Did he receive any bequests that you are aware of-from an appreciative client, perhaps? Or a deceased relative?”
“Not so far as I know. Why do you ask, sir?”
“To exclude certain possibilities as to why he may have been killed,” Pitt answered somewhat obliquely. He did not wish to tell Dobson his suspicions as to Cathcart’s sources of income.
There was little more to learn, and five minutes later they excused themselves and left.
“Do you think they could be stolen?” Tellman asked as soon as they were in the street. “If he goes into the houses of all those fancy people and talks to them before he takes their pictures, he’d be in an ideal position to know what they had and where it was kept.”
“And when they came to his studio to be photographed they’d be in an ideal position to see it again,” Pitt pointed out, stepping around a pile of manure as they crossed the road.
Tellman skipped up onto the curb on the far side and grunted acknowledgment. He had to stride to keep up with Pitt. He was used to it, but it still annoyed him. “I suppose those sort all know each other.”
“Probably,” Pitt agreed. “Couldn’t take a risk, anyway. But I suppose we should still check if there’ve been any robberies. I’ve got a list of his clients.”
But the enquiries produced nothing, as he had expected. Nor were there reports from anywhere else of objects of art or furniture missing which answered the descriptions of any of the pieces he had seen in Battersea. He was drawn back to the conclusion that Cathcart had a second, and probably larger, source of income other than his photography, excellent as that was.
He ate a good dinner at the nearest public house, but with little enjoyment, and went home to sit by the stove at the kitchen table for a while. There were no letters from Paris. He went to bed early and was surprised to sleep well.
He and Tellman spent the following two days further investigating Cathcart’s life and visiting his clients listed for the six weeks prior to his death.
Lady Jarvis, whom Pitt called on in the middle of the afternoon, was typical. She received them in a heavily ornate withdrawing room. Brocade curtains fell almost from ceiling to well below floor length, gathered up in the rich swathes that demonstrated wealth. Pitt thought with some envy that they would also be excellent at keeping out winter drafts, even if now they also excluded some of the golden autumn light. The furniture was massive, and where the wood showed it was deeply carved oak, darkened by generations of overpolishing. The surfaces were cluttered with small photographs of people of various ages, all posed solemnly to be immortalized in sepia tint. Several were gentlemen in stiff uniforms, staring earnestly into space.
Lady Jarvis herself was about thirty-five, handsome in a conventional way, although her eyebrows were well marked, like delicate wings, giving her face rather more imagination than a first glance betrayed. Her clothes were expensive and rigidly fashionable, with a very slight bustle, perfect tailoring, big sleeves full at the shoulder. Pitt would have dearly liked to buy Charlotte such a gown. And she would have looked better in it.
“You said it was about Mr. Cathcart, the photographer?” she began, obvious interest in her face. “Has somebody brought a complaint?”
“Do you know who might?” Pitt asked quickly.
The chance to savor a little of the spice of gossip was too pleasant for her to pass by, even if it was dangerous.
“It could be Lady Worlingham,” she said half questioningly. “She was very offended by the portrait he took of her younger daughter, Dorothea. Actually I thought it caught her rather well, and she herself was delighted with it. But I suppose it was a trifle improper.”
Pitt waited.
“All the flowers,” Lady Jarvis went on, waving her hand delicately. “A bit. . lush, I suppose. Hid her dress until its existence was left to the imagination. . in places.” She almost laughed, then remembered herself. “Has she complained? I wouldn’t have thought it was a police matter. There’s no law, is there?” She shrugged. “Anyway, even if there is, I don’t have any complaint.” A look of wistfulness crossed her face, just for an instant, as if she would like to have had, and Pitt glimpsed a life of unrelenting correctness where a photograph with too many flowers would have been exciting.
“No, there is no law, ma’am,” he replied quietly. “And so far as I know Lady Worlingham has not complained. Did Mr. Cathcart take your photograph?” He let his glance wander around the room to indicate that he did not see it.
“Yes.” There was no lift in her voice. Apparently this was not a matter of flowers. “It is in my husband’s study,” she answered. “Do you wish to see it?”
Pitt was curious. “I should like to very much.”
Without saying anything more she rose and led the way out across the chilly hall to a study perfectly in keeping with the somber grandeur of the withdrawing room. A massive desk dominated everything else. A bookcase was crammed full of matching volumes. A stag’s head hung high on one wall, glass eyes staring into space, a bit like the military photographs on the table in the other room.
On the wall opposite the desk hung a large photographic portrait of Lady Jarvis dressed in a formal afternoon gown. Her features were lit softly from the window she was facing, her eyes clear and wide, her winged brows accentuated. There was no furniture visible, no ornaments, and the shadow of the Georgian panes fell in a pattern of bars across her.
Pitt felt a sudden chill inside him, an awareness of Cathcart’s brilliance which was both frightening and sad. The picture was superb, beautiful, fragile, full of emptiness, a creature just beginning to realize it was imprisoned. And yet it was also no more than the portrait of a lovely woman in a manner which might be intended only to strengthen the awareness of the character in her face. One might see the deeper meaning or miss it. There were no grounds for complaint, only a matter of taste.
He felt a pervading, quite personal sense of loss that Cathcart was dead and could no longer practice his art.
Lady Jarvis was watching him, her face puckered in curiosity.
What should he say? The truth? It would be intrusive and serve no purpose. Could she and Cathcart have been lovers? The murder definitely sprang from some form of passion. He turned to the portrait again. It was not the picture a man created of a woman he loved. The perception was too sharp, the compassion impersonal.
“It’s remarkable,” he said tactfully. “It is unique, and very beautiful. He was an artist of genius.”
Her face lit with pleasure. She was about to reply when they both heard the front door close and footsteps across the hall. The door opened behind them. Automatically they turned.
The man standing there was slight, of medium height, and at this moment his pleasant, rather bland face was filled with alarm.
“Is something wrong?” he demanded, turning from one to the other of them. “My butler says you are from the police! Is that true?”
“Yes sir,” Pitt answered him. “I am here regarding the death of Delbert Cathcart.”
“Cathcart?” Jarvis’s face was blank. Certainly there was no guilt or dismay in it, no anger, not even comprehension. “Who is Cathcart?”
“The photographer,” Lady Jarvis supplied.
“Oh!” Enlightenment came in a word. “Is he dead? Pity.” He shook his head sadly. “Clever fellow. Quite young. How can we help you?” His face darkened again. He did not understand.
“He was murdered,” Pitt said boldly.
“Was he? Good heavens. Why? Why would anyone murder a photographer?” He shook his head. “Are you
