“Pictures of whom?” he asked, not expecting an honest answer, only to see something in her face.
Her eyes did not flicker. She was prepared for the question, he could see it unspoken in her.
“Artist’s models,” she replied. “No one you would know, I should think. They were just beautiful pictures. He used them as practice for when he was going to do a client. . to get the costume and lighting right. But people like them. . they’re so well done they’re worth a lot.” She sighed and glanced at the teapot again.
Should he ask her whom she had sold them to? And if she told him would he follow up to make sure it was the truth? Could he? It might have been the sort of cash transaction of which there was no written record, a quick profit in the works of a man now dead.
Or on the other hand, she might have sold them back to the people Cathcart had blackmailed, and any written record would be worthless.
Or she might simply have collected more blackmail money. Probably he would never be able to prove any of those possibilities.
“Miss Monderell,” he said gravely, “you were close to Cathcart, perhaps he trusted you with intimate knowledge of his business, even of his clients. He was murdered by someone who hated him in a very personal way and with an intensity beyond their ability to control.”
The color drained from her face.
“Be careful, Miss Monderell.” He lowered his voice even further. “If you have any knowledge about his death, any at all, you would be very unwise not to tell me what it is. . as fully as you are able. I don’t want to be investigating your death next week. . or the week after.”
She stared at him in silence, her bosom rising and falling as she strove to control her breathing.
He stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“I don’t know anything about his death.” She looked up at Pitt.
He would have liked to believe her, but he did not.
CHAPTER SIX
While Pitt was trying to learn more about Delbert Cathcart’s life, Caroline had invited Samuel Ellison to call again, and was delighted when he accepted. This much was obvious to Mariah as Caroline came into the room with Samuel almost at her heels. She looked pleased with herself.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Samuel said to the old lady, inclining his head a little. “I’m glad to see you looking well. It’s very kind of you to receive me again so soon.”
It was soon, far too soon, in the old lady’s opinion, although it would be unacceptable to say so. However, she could not let her displeasure go entirely unmarked.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ellison,” she replied coolly, looking him up and down with a flutter inside she could not suppress. He was so like her own son, Edward, it was almost as if his ghost had returned to her. Perhaps more disconcerting at the moment, he was also markedly like his father. He could not know that, but she did. It was as if parallel with this autumn afternoon in 1891 there were hundreds of other afternoons in other years when Edmund Ellison had walked in, courteous as this man, sounding as he did now, with heaven knew what going on in his mind.
“I daresay you wish to make the most of whatever time you have in London,” she continued. She must leave him in no doubt that he could not keep coming here. “There must be many calls upon it. And then you will go back to America. No doubt you have obligations there.”
“Not an obligation in the world,” he said airily.
“Please sit down,” Caroline invited. “Tea will be served in half an hour or so.”
He took the chair she indicated, crossing his legs comfortably and reclining. The old lady thought he looked offensively at ease.
“It is unfortunate you could not have come when Mr. Fielding was at home,” she said sharply. She wished to make Caroline sensible of a certain disloyalty to her husband in inviting Samuel, who was far nearer her own age and much too obviously found her attractive, at an hour when Joshua was out doing whatever it was he did. She did not know what he occupied his time with, and had never thought to ask. It was probably something she would prefer not to know. Men should keep their indiscretions to themselves, and a woman with the least sense did not ask. “I am sure he also would have liked to see you,” she added, to prevent its being obvious she was not pleased to see him. Criticizing Caroline was one thing; she did not wish to appear rude, if it could be avoided.
“I had hoped he would be,” Samuel replied with a quick smile. “I thought the afternoon quite a good time. It seems I misjudged.”
There was a slight flush on Caroline’s cheek. “Usually it is. He has gone to see a friend who is writing a play and wants his advice on stage directions.”
Samuel’s face lit up with interest. “What a fascinating thing to do! To know what instructions to give to create the perfect illusion and draw in people’s emotions and understanding, to form a world which lies open to observation and yet is perfectly contained within itself. Do you know the play?”
It seemed that Caroline did. She answered with a detailed description of the setting and the plot. Mariah sat back in her chair, still upright, but in a sense, by her posture, expressing her exclusion from the conversation. They were discussing the theatre again, and she did not approve. Certainly marrying an actor was a social catastrophe no decent woman would even consider. But now that Caroline had made her bed, she must lie in it. She owed Joshua some loyalty, and sitting there smiling and hanging on every word of Samuel Ellison was disloyal.
Samuel was talking about Oscar Wilde, of all people. Caroline was listening intently, her eyes alight. Mariah’s mind raced over what she could do to get rid of Samuel before he said something which woke Caroline’s suspicion and she started to think, to ask.
She had already tried hints so direct any decent man would have taken them. It was perfectly obvious to anyone, except a fool, that he was attracted to Caroline, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. It was intolerable.
“I’ve just read
“Really?” Mrs. Ellison said icily. She had not meant to join the conversation, but this was too much to allow to pass. “I would not have thought he was the sort of person any respectable man, and any woman at all, would care to associate with. I believe ‘decadent’ is the term applied to him and his like.”
“I believe it is,” Samuel agreed, turning away from Caroline to face her. “I’m afraid my desire to experience as much of life as I can has led me to some very questionable places, and most certainly into some company you would not approve of, Mrs. Ellison. And yet I have found honor, courage and compassion in some places you would swear there was nothing good to see. . maybe not even any redemption to hope for. It’s a great thing to see beauty in the darkness of what seems to be lost.”
There was a kind of light in his face which defied her to go on disapproving. He was so like Edward it was deeply disturbing, and also unlike him, and that disturbed her as well, because it was inappropriate, and yet it was also kind. She wished with a fierceness that nearly choked her that he had never come.
Caroline saved her the necessity of replying.
“Please tell us the sort of thing you mean,” she asked eagerly. “I shall never go to America myself, and certainly even if I did I would never go westwards. Is New York like London. . I mean now? Do you have theatres and operas and concerts? Do people care about society and fashion, who is being seen with whom? Or are they beyond that sort of silly concern?”
He laughed outright, then proceeded to tell her about New York society. “The original ‘four hundred’ is superb,” he said with a laugh. “Although the word is now that there are at least fifteen hundred, if one were to believe all those who claim to be descendants.”
“I don’t see how that bears any resemblance to us,” Mariah said acidly. “I don’t know anyone at all who claims to have arrived on a ship from anywhere. I cannot imagine why they should wish to.” She fervently desired him to change the subject away from America and ships altogether. If she could freeze him out of it she would.
“William the conqueror!” Caroline said instantly.
