Half Moon Street

sure?”

“Certain.” Pitt did not know whether to bother pursuing the matter. He had never seen anyone look less guilty than Jarvis. Yet if he did not, there would always be the faint, prickling knowledge that he had left something undone. “You didn’t happen to see him last Tuesday evening, did you?”

“Tuesday? No, I’m afraid not. I was at my club. Stayed rather late, I’m afraid. Got into a game of. . well, a game.” He stared at Pitt with wide eyes. “Was playing, you see, and suddenly looked up and realized it was gone two in the morning. Freddie Barbour. Too damned good. Certainly didn’t see Cathcart. Not a member, actually. Old club. A trifle particular.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Not at all. Sorry to be of no use.”

Pitt thanked him and left. It would be easy enough to check, if he ever needed to, but there was no doubt in his mind that Jarvis had neither cause nor passion to have murdered Cathcart.

It was growing late, and Pitt was happy to return home and leave the rest of the client list until the following day. He was tired, he did not really believe that he would learn anything of value, and there might be another letter from Paris waiting for him.

He opened the door trying not to expect too much, squashing down the hope inside himself in case there was nothing. It was only two days since the last letter. Charlotte was enjoying herself in a strange and exciting city. She should make everything of it that she could. She would have little time for writing him, especially when she would certainly tell him everything when she returned.

He looked down. There it was; he would know her exuberant writing anywhere. He was grinning as he picked it up and tore it open, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot. He read:

Dearest Thomas,

I am having a marvelous time. It is so very beautiful along the Bois de Boulogne, so desperately fashionable and terribly French. You should see the clothes!

[She went on to describe them in some detail.]

Which brings me to the Moulin Rouge again, she continued. One keeps hearing whispers of terrible gossip. The artist Henri Toulouse-Lautrec goes there often. He sits at one of the tables and makes sketches of the women. He is a dwarf, you know-at least his legs have never grown, and he is terribly short. Apparently the dance that the chorus girls do is inexpressibly vulgar and exciting. The music is marvelous, the costumes outrageous, and they have no undergarments, even when they kick their legs right over their heads-or so I’m told. That is why Jack has said we absolutely cannot go. No decent woman would even mention the place. (Of course we all do! How could we not? We simply don’t do it in the hearing of the gentlemen-just as they don’t within ours! Isn’t it all silly? But we have nothing else to do but play games. The less we have to do that matters, the more complicated the rules become.) Reputations are made and lost there.

I think of you all so often, wonder how you are, how is Gracie managing at the seaside and are the children enjoying it? They were so keen to go. I hope it is living up to all their dreams. My trip is, in every way. Best of all because I shall be ready to come home when the time arrives.

I sit here at the end of my long day and wonder what you are doing with your body in the punt. I suppose all cities have their crimes and their scandals. Here everyone is talking about the case I mentioned to you before-the young gentleman who is accused of murder, but swears he was somewhere else and so could not be guilty. But the trouble is that the “somewhere else” is the Moulin Rouge-at the very hour when La Goulue, the infamous dancer, was doing the cancan. No one else is willing to say they saw him because they dare not admit they were there. I suppose most people know it, but saying it is different. Then we “ladies” cannot pretend not to know, and if we know of course we have to react. We cannot be seen to approve, so we have to disapprove. I wonder how many situations are like that? I wish you were here to talk to. There is no one else to whom I could say exactly what I think, or who will tell me what they think so honestly.

Dear Thomas-I miss you. I shall have so much to say when I get home. I hope you are not too bored staying in London. Dare I wish you an interesting case? Or is that tempting fate?

Either way, be well, be happy-but miss me! I shall see you soon,

With my true love,

Charlotte

He folded the last page, still smiling, and held on to the letter as he went along the corridor to the kitchen. She must have stayed up very late writing that. He did miss her terribly; it would probably be foolish to tell her how much. And in a way he was pleased she had gone. It was good to realize how much he valued her. The silence of the house was all around him, but in his mind he could hear her voice.

And sometimes when parted one would write the deeper feelings one did not express in words when the daily business of living intruded. Certainly that had been so lately.

He left the letter out on the table as he stoked up the stove and put the kettle on to make himself a pot of tea. Archie and Angus were both purring and winding themselves around his legs, leaving hairs on his trousers. He spoke to them conversationally, and fed them.

He did not bother to meet with Tellman before going to see Lord Kilgour, another of Cathcart’s clients.

“Yes! Yes-it’s in the newspapers,” Kilgour agreed, standing in the sunlight in his magnificent withdrawing room in Eaton Square. He was a handsome man, tall and very slim, with delicate, aquiline features and a fair mustache. It was a fine-boned face but without real strength; however, the lines of humor were easily apparent, and there was intelligence in his light blue eyes. “Happened five or six days ago, so they say. What can I tell you of use? He took my photograph. Wonderful artist with a camera. Don’t imagine it was professional rivalry, do you?” A quick smile lit his face.

“Do you think that is possible?” Pitt asked.

Kilgour’s eyebrows rose sharply. “I’ve never heard of photographers murdering each other because one was better than the rest. But it would certainly cut down the competition. I suppose anyone who wants a portrait in future will have to go to Hampton, or Windrush, or anybody else they like. Certainly they cannot go to Cathcart, poor devil.”

“Was he the best?” Pitt was curious as to Kilgour’s opinion.

There was no hesitation. “Oh, undoubtedly. He had a knack of seeing you in a particular way.” He shrugged, and the humor was back in his face. “No doubt as you would most like to see yourself-whether you had realized it or not. He had an eye for the hidden truths. Not always flattering, of course.” He looked at Pitt quizzically, assessing how much he understood.

Having seen Cathcart’s portrait of Lady Jarvis, Pitt understood exactly. He allowed Kilgour to perceive as much.

“Would you like to see his picture of me?” Kilgour asked, his eyes bright.

“Very much,” Pitt answered.

Kilgour led the way from the withdrawing room to his own study, threw open the door, and invited Pitt to view.

Immediately Pitt saw why the portrait was hung there and not in one of the reception rooms. It was superb, but bitingly perceptive. Kilgour was in fancy dress, if one could call it such. He wore the uniform and robes of an Austrian emperor of the middle of the century. The uniform was ornate, magnificent, almost overpowering his slender face and fair coloring. The crown sat on a table to his right and half behind him. One side of it was resting on an open book, so it sat at a tilt and looked as if it might slide off altogether onto the floor. On the wall beyond it was a long looking glass, reflecting a blurred suggestion of Kilgour, and the light and shadows of the room behind him, invisible in the picture. There was an illusory quality to the whole, as if he were surrounded by the unknown. Kilgour himself was facing the camera, his eyes sharp and clear, a half smile on his lips, as if he understood precisely where he was and could both laugh and weep at it. As a photographic work it was brilliant, as portraiture it was a master-piece. Words to describe it were both inadequate and superfluous.

“Yes, I see,” Pitt said quietly. “An artist to inspire passionate feelings.”

“Oh, quite,” Kilgour agreed. “I could name you half a dozen others he did just as fine as this. Some people were thrilled, but then they were not the sort who would have done him any harm were they not. I suppose that is self-evident, isn’t it? It is the ones with flawed characters who would think of killing him for his revelations, not the