sketch of her from a play-bill, looking beautiful and intense. It was that which first caught her attention.
Caroline sat staring at the page. She was filled with an unreasonable anger, but it was confused, veering one way and then the other. Why should one man be able to decide what people may see or not see? Who was he? What manner of man? What were his prejudices and secrets, his fears or dreams? Did he see threat where there was simply intelligent enquiry, a challenge to bigotry and to one person’s dominion over another’s thoughts and beliefs?
Or was he protecting the young or vulnerable against the assaults of pornography and violence, the coarsening effects upon sensibility of seeing abuse of others portrayed as acceptable, the eroding of values because they were mocked and made fun of, until it took more courage to espouse gentleness and reverence than it did to deny it?
She looked across the table at the old lady’s face, set in lines of bitterness, and saw also something she thought for a moment was fear. It was profoundly disturbing; it aroused in her fears of her own, and something far too like pity.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The constable stood in front of Pitt in his office, very much to attention.
“Yes sir, that’s wot ’e said.”
It was early morning, the sun hazy gold outside, warm on the walls and the stones of the street, only a little dimmed by the smoke of countless chimneys. The air was dry and mild, pungent with the smells of the city.
“He saw Orlando Antrim and Delbert Cathcart quarreling the day of Cathcart’s death,” Pitt repeated. “You are sure?”
“Yes sir, I am. That’s wot ’e said, an’ seems there were no shaking ’im from it.”
“Presumably he is acquainted with both men, this. . what’s his name?”
“Hathaway, sir. Peter Hathaway. I dunno, sir, ’cept I reckon ’e must be, or ’ow would ’e know ’oo they are? Two gents quarrelin’ could be anybody.”
“Precisely. Where do I find this Mr. Hathaway?”
“Arkwright Road, sir, ’Ampstead. Number twenty-six.”
“And he reported this to Bow Street?” Pitt was surprised.
“No sir, ’Ampstead. They told us. . by telephone.” The constable lifted his head a little higher. He was proud of new technology and had great hopes of its use in catching criminals-even in preventing crime before it occurred.
“I see.” Pitt rose to his feet. “Well, I suppose I had better go and talk to Mr. Hathaway.”
“Yes sir. Maybe this Mr. Antrim is our man, sir, seein’ as ’ow they was quarrelin’ real violent, like.” He looked hopeful, his eyes wide and bright.
“Perhaps,” Pitt agreed with a sharp sense of disappointment. He had admired Orlando Antrim; there was something likable about him, a sensitivity, an acuteness of perception. But it would not be the first time Pitt had liked someone who was capable of killing another person. “Inform Sergeant Tellman where I’ve gone, will you?” he said from the door.
When Pitt reached Arkwright Road he was told by the housemaid that young Mr. Hathaway was not at home. It was a fine day, and he had gone out with his camera, no doubt to his club, and if the gentlemen were on a field trip, that could be anywhere at all. However, after a little probing, she gave him the address of the place where they met, and the doorman there in turn told him that today the members of the club had taken a trip to the nearby heath in order to practice photographing natural scenery.
“Very big on natural scenery, they are,” he added approvingly. “Take some lovely pictures. Fair lifts yer spirits to see them.”
Pitt thanked him and walked back towards Hampstead Heath to begin the search for the camera club and Mr. Peter Hathaway. Of course, whatever Hathaway had seen was only indicative. People could quarrel without its leading to violence of any sort, let alone to murder. But Cathcart’s death was a melodramatic crime, one perpetrated by a person of high emotion and a great deal of imagination, and presumably a familiarity with art, to mimic Millais’s painting of Ophelia so closely. Unless that had been accidental, not a copying so much as another person with the same passion expressing it in the same, fairly elemental way.
It was pleasant walking in the sun over the dry, springy grass, the wind barely rustling the leaves, the smell of earth in the air instead of smoke and manure and dusty stone. There were birds singing, not the ever-present sparrows but what sounded like blackbirds, their song high, persistent and sweet.
He saw a young man and woman half lying on the ground, her skirts billowing around her, a picnic basket near them, as yet unopened. They had been laughing together, she flirting, he showing off a little. They stopped and looked up as Pitt approached them.
“Excuse me,” Pitt apologized. He would far rather have been doing as they were, savoring the last echoes of summer, enjoying the moment with no thought of yesterday or tomorrow, than caring who killed Delbert Cathcart, or why.
When Charlotte came home from Paris he would take a day off, and the two of them would go out into the country sunshine, just wander around doing nothing in particular. It would not be difficult, and trains were cheap if you did not go too far.
“Yes?” the young man asked, politely enough.
“Have you seen a group of men go past carrying cameras?” Pitt enquired.
It was the girl who answered. “About half an hour ago. Ever so serious they was, all talking together.”
“Which way did they go?”
She looked at him to see if he was carrying a camera as well, and was puzzled when there was none visible.
“I’m looking for a friend,” Pitt said somewhat lamely. “Which way did they go?”
She was not sufficiently interested to pursue her curiosity. “That way.” She pointed across the swell of grass towards a clump of trees, gnarled roots writhing above the earth in intricate and beautiful form.
“Thank you.” He nodded briefly and set off as directed.
It took him twenty minutes longer, and he was hot and out of breath when he saw the group of a dozen young men dressed in jackets, waistcoats, trousers, and all but two in bowler hats as well. Every one of them had his share of equipment, including a variety of leather cases and boxes from less than a cubic foot in size to ones large enough to have carried clothes for a weekend, and boots to go with them. Tripods straddled the grass with a strange, angular kind of elegance. Cameras balanced on top of them with lenses pointing intently at a bough or a branch, or some interesting formation of wood and leaf.
“Good morning,” Pitt interrupted their concentration.
No one answered.
“Excuse me!” he tried a little more loudly.
The nearest young man turned, startled by the intrusion. “Sir!” he said, holding up his hand as if to stop
