Half Moon Street Read online

  Lady Jarvis herself was about thirty-five, handsome in a conventional way, although her eyebrows were well marked, like delicate wings, giving her face rather more imagination than a first glance betrayed. Her clothes were expensive and rigidly fashionable, with a very slight bustle, perfect tailoring, big sleeves full at the shoulder. Pitt would have dearly liked to buy Charlotte such a gown. And she would have looked better in it.

  “You said it was about Mr. Cathcart, the photographer?” she began, obvious interest in her face. “Has somebody brought a complaint?”

  “Do you know who might?” Pitt asked quickly.

  The chance to savor a little of the spice of gossip was too pleasant for her to pass by, even if it was dangerous.

  “It could be Lady Worlingham,” she said half questioningly. “She was very offended by the portrait he took of her younger daughter, Dorothea. Actually I thought it caught her rather well, and she herself was delighted with it. But I suppose it was a trifle improper.”

  Pitt waited.

  “All the flowers,” Lady Jarvis went on, waving her hand delicately. “A bit . . . lush, I suppose. Hid her dress until its existence was left to the imagination . . . in places.” She almost laughed, then remembered herself. “Has she complained? I wouldn’t have thought it was a police matter. There’s no law, is there?” She shrugged. “Anyway, even if there is, I don’t have any complaint.” A look of wistfulness crossed her face, just for an instant, as if she would like to have had, and Pitt glimpsed a life of unrelenting correctness where a photograph with too many flowers would have been exciting.

  “No, there is no law, ma’am,” he replied quietly. “And so far as I know Lady Worlingham has not complained. Did Mr. Cathcart take your photograph?” He let his glance wander around the room to indicate that he did not see it.

  “Yes.” There was no lift in her voice. Apparently this was not a matter of flowers. “It is in my husband’s study,” she answered. “Do you wish to see it?”

  Pitt was curious. “I should like to very much.”

  Without saying anything more she rose and led the way out across the chilly hall to a study perfectly in keeping with the somber grandeur of the withdrawing room. A massive desk dominated everything else. A bookcase was crammed full of matching volumes. A stag’s head hung high on one wall, glass eyes staring into space, a bit like the military photographs on the table in the other room.

  On the wall opposite the desk hung a large photographic portrait of Lady Jarvis dressed in a formal afternoon gown. Her features were lit softly from the window she was facing, her eyes clear and wide, her winged brows accentuated. There was no furniture visible, no ornaments, and the shadow of the Georgian panes fell in a pattern of bars across her.

  Pitt felt a sudden chill inside him, an awareness of Cathcart’s brilliance which was both frightening and sad. The picture was superb, beautiful, fragile, full of emptiness, a creature just beginning to realize it was imprisoned. And yet it was also no more than the portrait of a lovely woman in a manner which might be intended only to strengthen the awareness of the character in her face. One might see the deeper meaning or miss it. There were no grounds for complaint, only a matter of taste.

  He felt a pervading, quite personal sense of loss that Cathcart was dead and could no longer practice his art.

  Lady Jarvis was watching him, her face puckered in curiosity.

  What should he say? The truth? It would be intrusive and serve no purpose. Could she and Cathcart have been lovers? The murder definitely sprang from some form of passion. He turned to the portrait again. It was not the picture a man created of a woman he loved. The perception was too sharp, the compassion impersonal.

  “It’s remarkable,” he said tactfully. “It is unique, and very beautiful. He was an artist of genius.”

  Her face lit with pleasure. She was about to reply when they both heard the front door close and footsteps across the hall. The door opened behind them. Automatically they turned.

  The man standing there was slight, of medium height, and at this moment his pleasant, rather bland face was filled with alarm.

  “Is something wrong?” he demanded, turning from one to the other of them. “My butler says you are from the police! Is that true?”

  “Yes sir,” Pitt answered him. “I am here regarding the death of Delbert Cathcart.”

  “Cathcart?” Jarvis’s face was blank. Certainly there was no guilt or dismay in it, no anger, not even comprehension. “Who is Cathcart?”

  “The photographer,” Lady Jarvis supplied.

  “Oh!” Enlightenment came in a word. “Is he dead? Pity.” He shook his head sadly. “Clever fellow. Quite young. How can we help you?” His face darkened again. He did not understand.

  “He was murdered,” Pitt said boldly.

  “Was he? Good heavens. Why? Why would anyone murder a photographer?” He shook his head. “Are you 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 t
he 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 charming or the brave, the funny or the kind.”

  Pitt smiled. “And his rivals?” he pressed.

  “Oh, I’m sure they hated him.” Kilgour moved back out of the study into the hallway and closed the door. “I keep that picture where I work. I have enough sense of the absurd to enjoy it, and when I get delusions of my own importance it is a very salutary reminder. My wife likes it because she does not see my weaknesses and has not a very quick eye to understand what Cathcart was saying. But my sister understands, and advised me to keep it out of general sight.” He shrugged ruefully. “As if I couldn’t see it for myself ! But then she is my elder sister—so what may one expect?”

  They returned to the withdrawing room and spoke a little longer. Pitt finally left with several names written on a list, both clients and rivals of Cathcart.

  He spent the rest of the day visiting them, but learned nothing else that furthered his knowledge of Cathcart’s life.

  In the morning he met with Tellman, and over a cup of tea in the kitchen they discussed the matter.

  “Not a thing,” Tellman said dismally. He kept glancing at the door as if he half expected Gracie to come in any moment. He heard the marmalade cat, Archie, come trotting along the passage and look up hopefully at Pitt, then seeing he was unresponsive, go over to the laundry basket and hop in as well. He curled up half on top of his brother and went to sleep.

  “Nor I,” Pitt replied. “He was brilliant, and I saw one of his competitors who acknowledged as much, but he was doing well enough.”

  “You don’t murder someone because they’ve got a talent you haven’t,” Tellman said gloomily. “You might spread lies about them or criticize their work.” He shook his head, staring at his half-empty cup. “But this was personal. It wasn’t a matter of money, I’d swear to that.”

  Pitt reached for the teapot and refilled his cup. “I know,” he said quietly. “Someone who merely wanted him out of the way wouldn’t do this. But I couldn’t find anything in his life to provoke this sort of emotion. We aren’t looking in the right place.”

  “Well, I’ve been all around this day-to-day business,” Tellman said defensively, straightening his shoulders a little. “He lived pretty high! He’s got to have spent a lot more than he made taking pictures. And he bought that house, we know that. Where’d the money come from? Blackmail, if you ask me.”

  Pitt was inclined to agree. They had already investigated the possibility of theft, using Cathcart’s knowledge of art and of the possessions of his clients. But none of the clients admitted to any losses.

  “You must have talked to enough people.” He looked up at Tellman. “What did they say about him?”

  Tellman reached for the teapot. “Spent a
lot of money but paid his bills on time.” He sighed. “Liked good things—the best—but he wasn’t awkward to suit, like some folk. Always pleasant enough to the few that saw him, that is. Sent for a lot of things, or had them on regular order. Seems he worked pretty hard.”

  “How hard?” Pitt asked, his mind turning over the clients he knew of from Cathcart’s list.

  Tellman looked puzzled.

  “Hours?” Pitt prompted. “He only took about one client a week, on average. Visited them maybe twice or three times, then had them to his studio for the actual photograph. That’s not ten hours a day, by any means.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Tellman frowned. “Doesn’t exactly account for the time he seems to have been away, and people assumed he was working. Perhaps he wasn’t? Could have been doing anything. Wouldn’t be the first man that said he was working when he wasn’t.”

  “Whatever he was doing, it made him money,” Pitt said grimly. “We need to know what it was.” He drank the last of his tea and stood up. “It’s about the only thing we’ve got.”

  “Unless it was really the Frenchman and not Cathcart at all,” Tellman answered, standing as well. “That would explain everything.”

  “Except where Cathcart is.” Pitt poured a little milk for Archie and Angus, and made sure they had food. Angus smelled the milk in his sleep and woke up, stretching and purring.

  “Well, if it is Cathcart, where is the Frenchman?” Tellman continued. “He didn’t go on the boat from Dover, he came back on the train to London, but he’s not here now.”