“What brings you here? Not my protest against the Lord Chamberlain, surely? Now, if you read my mind as to what I would like to do to the wretch, that may well be arrestable.”
“I cannot arrest you until after you have done it, Miss Antrim,” he pointed out, trying to hide his amusement. It was not a time for it, and yet it rose unbidden within him.
She understood far too quickly. Her face broke into a lovely smile. “How very kind of you. Thank you so much!”
Bellmaine stepped between them. “You have come for something, sir. Pray what is it? We cannot afford to stop for long. This may not appear much to you, but it is our living, and far harder than it seems.”
Pitt turned to him. “It seems extremely hard, Mr. Bellmaine,” he said honestly. “I have to speak to Mr. Antrim. I shall keep it as brief as possible. Is there a scene you can rehearse without him?”
“
Pitt walked across the boards towards Orlando, his footsteps loud and solitary for a moment until the arrival of Laertes and Ophelia muffled them, and the drama began instantly with well-schooled voices and passion lit as if the whole story leading to it were barely dismissed the moment before.
“What is it?” Orlando asked with a frown. “Is it to do with the censorship thing? I protested, but quite peacefully.”
“No, Mr. Antrim, it has nothing to do with censorship at all. As far as I know, you have broken no laws in this matter.” He walked beside Orlando farther into the wings and behind the stage, where bare brick walls stretched up into the darkness out of sight and huge painted backdrops for a dozen different worlds hung or were stacked in layers.
“Then what?” Orlando faced him, standing with grace so deeply learned he did it without thought.
“Do you belong to a gentlemen’s camera club near Hampstead?” Pitt asked.
“What?”
Pitt began to repeat the question.
“Yes!” Orlando interrupted. “Yes, I do. . at least, I go there occasionally, not very often, but I do belong. Why?”
“Did you join them near the Serpentine last Tuesday quite early in the morning?” He watched Orlando’s face, and was not sure in the uncertain light whether he saw him pale or not.
“Yes. .” Orlando said guardedly. He swallowed and coughed. “Yes, I did. Why? Nothing unusual happened, so far as I am aware.”
“You met a Mr. Delbert Cathcart there, and had a heated disagreement with him.”
“No.” He looked startled, as if the question had taken him completely by surprise. “You-you mean the photographer who was killed? If he was there I certainly didn’t see him.”
“But you were there?”
“Yes, of course I was there. It was an excellent morning, clear early light with a sort of whiteness to it, and not many people about. I didn’t have to rehearse and I hadn’t been too late the night before. Who told you Cathcart was there?”
“Do you know him?”
“No.” The answer was very quick. Orlando’s eyes did not leave Pitt’s and they were unnaturally steady. But then he knew Cathcart had been murdered. Any normal man would be nervous. “No, I don’t,” he repeated. “He was a professional, one of the best, so everyone says. I am completely amateur. I just enjoy it. But I think I’ll have to give it up. I haven’t time.”
Pitt could believe that without the slightest difficulty. He could not even imagine the amount of mental and emotional energy needed to play a role like Hamlet, let alone the physical endurance.
“You quarreled with someone that morning and left in some heat. If it was not Cathcart, who was it?” he asked.
Orlando flushed. He hesitated several moments before replying, and when he did so he looked away first.
“A friend,” he said a touch defiantly. “A fellow I’ve known for a little while. I’d rather not get him concerned in this. It was a simple disagreement, that’s all. I daresay it looked more violent than it was. There was no ill will, just a. . a difference of opinion as to what was right. Not the sort of thing you would lose a friendship over, let alone come to blows.”
Pitt disliked what he had to do, but to omit it would be irresponsible, even though he half believed Orlando.
“Others have identified the man as Cathcart, Mr. Antrim. If it was not he, then I need to verify that. The name of your friend?”
Orlando hesitated again, then his face set. “I’m sorry.” He waited for a moment to gauge Pitt’s reaction. He must have seen no yielding. “Actually he is out of town anyway, and I couldn’t get in touch with him. So there would be no point in my giving you his name. . or address.”
“If he is out of town, Mr. Antrim, there would be no harm either, would there?” Pitt resumed.
“Well, yes there would. It might do his reputation some damage, and he would not be there to protect it.”
“Mr. Antrim, all I wish to do is confirm that it was he you quarreled with the morning of the day Mr. Cathcart was killed, no more than that.”
“Well, you cannot, because he is not here. But surely if a man of Cathcart’s standing and reputation had been at the camera club, of all places, some other member would be able to confirm it?”
That was unarguably true. It was also true that they ought to be able to tell him the identity of the man Orlando Antrim had spoken with so passionately. Why should he wish to hide it?
“Then I shall have to ask there,” Pitt accepted, looking very directly at Orlando. “No doubt they saw you as well, and if he is a member they will know his name. It would be a great deal easier if you were to tell me, but if I must draw it out by questioning other members, then I will do so.”
Orlando looked acutely unhappy. “I see you are not going to let it go. It has no bearing on your case, I swear. It was a diplomat with the French Embassy. . the situation is delicate. .”
“Henri Bonnard,” Pitt supplied.
Orlando stiffened, his chin jerking up a little, his eyes wide, but he did not speak.
“Where is he, Mr. Antrim?”
“I am not at liberty to say.” Orlando’s face set, hard and miserable, but completely resolute. It was apparent that he was not going to say anything further, no matter how hard he was pressed. “I have given my word.”
Nothing Pitt said would change his mind.
Bellmaine was apparently through with the scene to his satisfaction, or else was no longer prepared to remain in ignorance as to what Pitt wanted with his principal actor. He came around the corner into the cluttered space where they were standing, his face sharp, his eyes going first to Orlando, then to Pitt.
“ ‘Art is long and life is short,’ Superintendent,” he said with a wry half smile. “If we really can be of help, then of course we are at your disposal. But if, on the other hand, it is not a matter of urgency or importance, perhaps we could now continue with
Orlando seemed vaguely relieved that Bellmaine had come. Perhaps unconsciously, he moved a step closer to him.
Bellmaine put a hand on his shoulder. “Work, my prince,” he said, still facing Pitt. “If the superintendent will allow?”
There was nothing further to be gained. He was breaking their rhythm of creation for no good reason.
“Of course,” he yielded. “Thank you for your time.”
Orlando shrugged it off.
Bellmaine spread his hands in an eloquent and graceful gesture, then led the way back to the stage, where everyone was waiting for them. Pitt took one last look at the actors as they took up their own world again and lost themselves in it, then he turned and walked away.
