He sipped the tea she had given him. It was fragrant and very hot. “I have been to see Mr. Cathcart’s man of affairs,” he said almost casually.
“To find out when he bought the house?” she asked.
“Among other things,” he replied. “Also to see how he had bequeathed it, and his works of art, and whatever money he had.”
She lifted her cup and drank delicately. Hers too was very hot. “Charity,” she said after a moment. “At least that’s what he always said he would do.”
He felt a wave of surprise, and then relief. He should have been disappointed. Her spending was not based on any expectation of profit from Cathcart’s death, at least not by inheritance. There was still blackmail.
She was watching him now, waiting.
“Yes, exactly,” he replied. He let his gaze rest on the teapot. “That’s a nice new watercolor of cows that you have in the hall. I’ve always liked pictures of cows. They seem so supremely restful.”
Did he imagine the tightening of her shoulders under the silk?
“Thank you,” she answered. “I am pleased you like it, love. Would you care for some toast? Have you had any breakfast, or have you been walking around the streets asking questions all morning?” Her voice was warm, rich, as if she was really concerned for them.
Tellman cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was almost certainly hungry, and equally certainly did not want to accept her hospitality. He would find it confusing to be obliged to her, even for so small a thing.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, because he would like it, but primarily because it would give him an easy excuse to remain here talking to her.
She rang a small crystal bell on the table, and when the maid came, she requested toast, butter and marmalade for all of them. Tellman’s discomfort amused her, it was there in the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. By the standards of the day, she was not beautiful, her features were too large, especially her mouth. There was nothing modest or fragile about her. But she was one of the most attractive women Pitt had ever met, full of laughter and vitality. He admired Cathcart for his taste with regard to her even more than for the beauty of his house.
“We haven’t learned very much,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve spent several days asking questions and discovered almost nothing. . except that Mr. Cathcart spent a great deal more money than he earned in his art.” He was watching her eyes for the smallest flicker, and even so he was not certain whether he saw it or not. And then he did not know how to interpret it. Had she loved him? Was her emotion grief, or only a decent distaste for the violence and waste of his death? Surely she had been fond of him. She had liked him, whether she had loved him or not.
She lowered her eyes. “He was very clever. He wasn’t just a photographer, you know, he was a real artist.”
“Yes, I do know.” He meant that every bit as much as she did. “I’ve seen several of his portraits. I don’t think
She looked up quickly, smiling again. “He was, wasn’t he?” There were tears in her eyes.
Neither like nor dislike should overrule his judgment.
“He had a gift I’ve never seen equaled for catching the essence of a person and symbolizing it in an image,” he continued. “Not only what they would like to have seen in themselves, but a great deal they could not have wished shown so clearly. I saw not only faces portrayed, but the vanity or emptiness inside them, the weaknesses as much as the beauty or the strength.”
“That’s portraiture,” she said softly.
“Perhaps it’s also dangerous,” Pitt observed. “Not everyone wishes to have their character stripped so naked to the eyes of strangers, and perhaps still less to the eyes of those they love or to whom they are vulnerable.”
“You think he was killed by a client?” She seemed startled.
“I’m sure he was killed by someone who knew him,” Pitt answered. “And who felt passionately about him.”
She said nothing.
“Had you thought it was a crime of greed?” he asked her. “It was hardly self-defense. Unless he was blackmailing someone. .” He stopped, waiting to see her reaction.
Her eyes widened so little, the moment after he was not sure he had seen it at all. Why? She should have been startled, even offended. He had just suggested her friend was guilty of one of the ugliest of crimes.
“Over what?” she asked, measuring her words. “What makes you think he knew anything about. . anyone?”
“Did he?”
“If he did-he certainly didn’t tell me. . ”
“Would he have?”
She was definitely uncomfortable now. It was very well hidden, only a tightening of her hand on the delicate porcelain of the cup, a very slight shaking so the tea in it dimpled on the surface. She must know he was working his way towards asking if she knew the secret which had cost Cathcart his life, and if she was also using it the same way, which might in the end cost her her life also.
“I don’t know.” She made herself smile. “He didn’t. But then I don’t know for sure if there was anything to tell.”
Was that true? Where had his money come from? Where had she suddenly found sufficient to purchase the painting in the hall and the silver teapot? It was a great deal of money to spend in the space of one week. Had she acquired a new and extremely generous lover?
Or had she been back to Cathcart’s house and abstracted a few keepsakes, with or without Mrs. Geddes’s knowledge? It could even be that with no heir to be particular, Mrs. Geddes had collaborated, keeping a few small things herself. Would anyone know? Probably not, unless Cathcart kept a list of his possessions somewhere, and from what Pitt had seen of his life, that was unlikely. Certainly there had been no such list among his papers.
He did not wish to think of Lily Monderell’s going in among Cathcart’s possessions and taking what she fancied. He could understand it well enough, but it was still not a pleasant thought.
His silence bothered her.
“Like some more tea, love?” she asked, reaching for the beautiful pot.
“Thank you,” he accepted, looking at the light gleam on the pot’s satin surface. It was almost as if she were provoking him into the very questions she least wanted.
“Have you been back to his house since he was killed?” he asked.
Her hand clenched, and she had to reach up the other hand to steady the pot.
He waited. Even Tellman sat motionless, toast and marmalade halfway to his mouth.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“What for?”
She poured his tea, and some more for Tellman also, and lastly for herself, until she had delayed all she could. She looked up again and met Pitt’s eyes.
“He promised me some of his pictures that he was going to sell. I went to get them. That’s where the money came from.”
“You sold them already?”
“Why not? They were good. I know where to go.”
She was nervous. He did not know why. He was not sure if she was telling the truth, but her story was reasonable enough. She had been Cathcart’s mistress. Men gave gifts to their mistresses, often very expensive ones. Pitt had been surprised that Cathcart had not bequeathed her anything in a more formal way. He had no dependents, so there was no reason, legal or moral, why he should not have. It would be logical enough that the pictures in question would be her legacy.
Why was she nervous? What were the pictures? The means of his blackmail? Had she sold them back to the victims? Or kept them as further source of income? Most people would do the latter. It was an ugly thought.
But Lily Monderell needed to survive, and her looks would not last indefinitely. She had no husband to care for her, probably no skills but those of a mistress, certainly none which would keep her in the manner she now enjoyed and had become accustomed to.
And all of those arguments were excuses, not reasons.
