Half Moon Street tp-20 Read online

  They moved more slowly, eyes to the ground, looking for footprints, signs of anyone’s passing recently.

  “There, sir,” Buckler said between his teeth. “I reckon that’s ’cos something was dragged. See where it’s all bent. Some o’ their stalks is broke.”

  Pitt had seen it. Something heavy had fallen and then been pulled along.

  “I expect he carried Cathcart as far as he could, then dropped him here and hauled him the rest of the way,” Pitt said. He stepped forward, leading Buckler to the edge of the river. Here the weed was deeply scored, but the tide had risen and fallen four times in the last two days, and the marks were obliterated below the high-water line. There was a post where a boat could be tied, and the ridges worn on its sides made its use apparent.

  Pitt stood staring at the water, rippling, dark peat browns reflecting the sun. It was several moments before he noticed the white edge of another chip of porcelain, and then another. It was Buckler who saw the mass of the rolled-up rug half sunken under the willow, brushed by the branches. At first it had looked like a drifting log, and he had ignored it.

  Loath to wade into the river, or ask Buckler to do it, Pitt went back up to the garden shed and fetched a long-handled rake, and together they managed to pull the mass ashore. They unrolled it and looked at it carefully, but it had been in the mud and water too long to tell if any of the marks were blood or not.

  “It was done in the ’ouse, and then ’e were carried out ’ere and put in the boat,” Buckler said grimly. “An’ ’ooever done it broke the jar an’ threw the bits down ’ere, an’ took the rug up ’cos o’ the blood. Mebbe they ’oped it’d ’ide the fact ’e were dead, an’ we’d think ’e jus’ upped an’ took off somewhere.”

  Pitt was inclined to agree with him, and said so. The longer an investigation was delayed the more difficult it was. But this evidence did not answer whether the crime had been spontaneous or premeditated, simply that the killer had been in sufficient possession of his wits to act with self-preservation afterwards.

  “Must a’ bin quite a big feller,” Buckler said doubtfully, “ter carry ’im down ’ere from the ’ouse an’ put ’im in the boat.”

  “Or else he had help,” Pitt pointed out, although he did not believe that. There was too much emotion, too much that was violent and twisted, for a collaboration between two people-unless both were affected with the same madness.

  “There’s nothing more for us here.” Pitt looked around at the quiet garden and the fast-flowing river. The tide had risen several inches even while they stood there. “We’d better go back to your station. This is your patch.”

  But Superintendent Ward had no desire to take the case, and told Pitt in no uncertain terms that since the body had been found at Horseferry Stairs, and Pitt had already started to investigate, he should continue to do so.

  “Besides,” he pointed out forcefully, “Delbert Cathcart was a very important photographer. Done a lot of high society. This could be a very nasty scandal indeed. Needs to be handled with a great deal of discretion!”

  Tellman returned form Dover hot and tired, and after a cup of tea and a sandwich at the railway station, he went to Bow Street and reported to Pitt.

  “No sign of him in Dover now,” he said with a mixture of relief at not having had to arrest a French diplomat, and disappointment because he had been denied a trip to France. “But he was there. Booked a passage across to Calais, then never turned up to go. I questioned them up and down about that, but they were absolutely certain. Wherever he is, he’s still in England.”

  Pitt leaned back in his chair, looking at Tellman’s dour face and reading the anxiety in him.

  “The body in the boat wasn’t Bonnard,” Pitt said. “It’s a society photographer called Delbert Cathcart. He lived in Battersea, just across the bridge from Chelsea, where he had a very nice house backing onto the river.” He told Tellman about finding the place where Cathcart had been carried down to the punt, and the broken jar and the stained rug.

  Tellman sat in the other chair, frowning. “Then where’s Bonnard? Why did he take off to Dover and then disappear? Do you suppose he’s the one who killed what’s his name. . Cathcart?”

  “There’s no reason to think they are connected,” Pitt said with a wry smile. He knew Tellman’s opinion of foreigners. “We’ll go and see Lily Monderell this evening.”

  “His mistress?” Tellman invested the word with considerable scorn. There was a deep-rooted anger inside him against all sorts of things-privilege, injustice, greed, being patronized or ignored-but although he would have denied it hotly, he was a very moral man, and his beliefs on marriage were conservative, as were his ideas about women.

  “We have to begin somewhere,” Pitt answered. “There were no signs of anyone having broken into the house, so we must presume that whoever killed him was someone he knew and let in himself. He knew of no reason to fear them. Mrs. Geddes says she has no idea who it could be. Perhaps Miss Monderell will know more.”

  “Other servants?” Tellman asked. “Does this Mrs. Geddes do everything?”

  “Apparently. He very often ate out, and didn’t care to have a manservant. Someone came in to do the scrubbing two days a week, and there was a gardener, but no one who knew him any better than Mrs. Geddes.”

  “Then I suppose we’d best go and see this mistress,” Tellman conceded grudgingly. “Is there time for a proper dinner first?”

  “Good idea,” Pitt said willingly. He would far rather find a warm, noisy public house and eat with Tellman than go home to the silence of Keppel Street and eat something alone at the kitchen table. The sight of the familiar room with its polished copper and the smell of linen and clean wood only made him more aware of Charlotte’s absence.

  Tellman had formed a picture of Lily Monderell in his mind. She would be the sort of woman a man took to bed but did not marry. There would be something essentially vulgar about her, and of course greedy. She would have to be handsome or she would not succeed in her purpose, especially with someone who was an artist of sorts. Without any reason, he had seen her as fair-haired and rather buxom, and that she would be dressed flamboyantly.

  When he and Pitt were shown into her sitting room in Chelsea, he was disconcerted, and yet he could not have said why. Apart from the fact that she was dark, she answered his imagined description very well. She was extremely handsome, with bold eyes, a wide, sensuous mouth, and masses of shining, dark brown hair. Her figure was very rich, and the gown she wore displayed it to fine advantage. It was a trifle ostentatious, but that might have been because she had so much to show. On a thinner woman it would have been more modest.

  What upset his composure was that he did not find her unattractive. Her face was full of laughter, as if she knew some joke she was waiting to share. From the moment they stepped into the warm room with its rose-shaded lamps, she flirted with Pitt.

  “I’m very sorry,” Pitt said after he had told her the news of Cathcart’s death, sparing her the details.

  She sat on the sofa, her rose-red skirts billowing around her. She leaned back a little, more from habit than thought, showing off her generous body.

  “Well, poor Delbert,” she said with feeling. She shook her head. “I can’t think who would want to do something so. . vicious.” She sighed. “He made enemies, of course. That’s natural when you’re really good at what you do, and he was brilliant. In some ways there was no one to touch him.”

  “What sort of enemies, Miss Monderell?” Pitt asked. “Professional rivals?”

  “Not who’d kill him, love,” she said with a wry smile.

  Tellman noticed a slight northern accent. He was not sure where to place it, but he thought Lancashire. He did not know much about the cities outside London.

  Pitt kept his gaze steady on her. “What sort?” he repeated.

  “You ever seen any of his pictures?” She looked back at him without wavering.

  “A few. I thought they were extremely good. Were
some of his clients dissatisfied?”

  Her smile widened, showing excellent teeth. “Well, I daresay you don’t know the clients,” she answered. “Did you see the lady dressed as Cleopatra. . with the snake?”

  “Yes.”

  Tellman was startled, but he said nothing.

  “What did you think of it?” she asked, still looking at Pitt.

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Pitt’s face.

  Tellman was fascinated. He wished he had seen the pictures. He wondered fleetingly if the lady in question had been fully dressed.

  “Come on, love! What did you think of it?” Lily Monderell repeated. “Tell the truth and shame the devil! Poor Delbert deserves that.”

  “I thought it was extremely powerful,” Pitt replied, the faintest color rising to his cheeks.

  Lily Monderell threw her head back and roared with laughter.

  Tellman was shocked. Her lover was newly dead, she had heard the news only moments before, and here she was laughing! He tried to frown to convey his disapproval, and found he could not. There was a warmth about her which enveloped him in spite of himself.

  She glanced at him, and her mirth died away.

  “Don’t look like that, love,” she said gently. “You wouldn’t want anyone standing around with a face like the milk had gone off. He’d expect us to go on. . me especially. I knew him, you see. You never did.”

  Tellman could not think how to answer her. She looked like all the images he had in his mind of such women, but inside she was different, more alive, more disturbing, and it confused him.

  But she was finished with Tellman. She turned back to Pitt, her face sharp with interest and amusement.

  “Powerful?” she said curiously. “How carefully you choose your words, Superintendent. Is that all?”

  Tellman watched Pitt, wondering what he would say. He suspected Pitt had seen far more than that in it.

  “Go on! Be honest,” Lily urged. “What kind of woman is she?”

  A half smile hovered around Pitt’s mouth. “In the picture-a sensuous, selfish woman,” he replied. “Impetuous, ruthless, very confident. A doubtful friend and a bad enemy.”

  She nodded her head very slowly, satisfaction bright in her eyes. “You see? It’s all there in the picture. You look at it once and you know her better than she wants to be known.” There was considerable pride in her. “That was his genius. He could do that time and time again. A light here or there, a shadow, something in the setting. You’d be surprised how often people like the sort of thing that shows up their real character. They forget that a photograph is taken in a very private place but the picture, when it’s finished, may be shown anywhere.”

  Pitt leaned forward a little. “What sort of things did he add?”

  Tellman could not see any reason for knowing. He thought Pitt was interested for himself.

  “Well, the snake, of course,” she started to recall. “And I remember some butterflies from one young society woman. She thought they were beautiful. . which they were. They also reflected her nature rather too well.” She was smiling as she spoke. “And a looking glass, knives, fruit, wineglasses, stuffed animals, different kinds of flowers. . all sorts of things. And where he put the lights made a lot of difference. A face lit from below doesn’t look anything like the same one as lit from the side or above.”

  Pitt was thoughtful. “And he made enemies with this perception?”

  “You can’t understand how strong vanity is if you have to ask that,” she answered, shaking her head at him. “Don’t you know people at all? And you are supposed to be a detective.”

  “As you said before, Miss Monderell, you knew Mr. Cathcart and I did not.”

  “You’re right, love, of course.” A sadness filled her for a moment, and Tellman was startled to see tears in her eyes. He did not know why, but he was pleased. A decent person grieved for death.

  Pitt suddenly changed his line of enquiry. “Did he inherit his wealth or earn it with his photography?”

  She looked momentarily startled. “He never spoke about it. He was generous, but I didn’t need him for that.” She said it quite casually, but Tellman felt she wished them to know it.

  Pitt looked down at his hands. “You weren’t dependent on him financially?” he said curiously. “Were you lovers or just friends?”

  She smiled at him, shaking her head a little, and the tears spilled over her cheeks. “I know what you’re saying, and you’re wrong. We were lovers. He liked women, and I never imagined I was the only one. . but with me it was different. It was never a grand affair, but we liked each other. . he was fun, that is more than you can say of everyone. I’ll miss him.” She wiped her cheek. “I. . I’d like to think it was quick. . that he didn’t suffer. . ”

  “I should think he didn’t even know it,” Pitt replied gently.

  She glanced at Tellman. He thought she was afraid Pitt was being kind rather than honest.

  “Back of the head,” Tellman confirmed. “Probably went out straightaway.” He startled himself by wanting to comfort her. She was everything he disapproved of, and as unlike Gracie as possible. Gracie was small and thin with a wide-eyed, quick little face and as spiky a nature as he had ever met. She was careful, sharp-witted, and as brave as anyone he’d ever known. In fact, she was altogether the opposite of the sort of woman he had always been drawn to and imagined one day he would marry. Liking her was reasonable enough, respecting her certainly was, but they disagreed about so many things, important things like social justice and people’s place in society, it would be ridiculous to think of anything more than a pleasant association.

  Of course it was ridiculous! Gracie didn’t even like him. She tolerated him because he worked with Pitt, no more. She probably wouldn’t have done that, had she a choice. But she would have given tea and homemade cakes to the devil if Pitt had asked her to and she thought it would help him in a case.

  Pitt was still talking to Lily Monderell, asking about Delbert Cathcart’s life, his clothes, his trips to the theatre, his parties, the sort of people with whom he spent his time when not seeking clients.

  “Of course he went to parties,” she said quickly. “All sorts, but he liked theatre best. It was almost part of what he does.”

  “Did he dress up himself?”

  “You mean fancy dress, for society balls and the like? Probably. Most of those folks do.” She frowned. “Why? What’s that got to do with who killed him?”

  “He was. . in fancy dress,” Pitt replied.

  She looked surprised, a little puzzled.

  “That wasn’t usual. He preferred to be. . ordinary. He said what you picked for fancy dress gave away too much of who you were inside.”

  “What would he dress as. . if he did?” Pitt asked.

  She thought for a moment or two. “Only time I remember, he went all in black, and he carried a pen and a looking glass. Kind of a clown, I thought he was. What was he wearing when he died?”

  Pitt hesitated.

  Her face darkened. “What?”

  Pitt looked up at her. “A green velvet dress,” he answered.

  “Dress? What do you mean?” She was obviously at a loss.

  “I mean a woman’s gown,” Pitt elaborated.

  She stared at him in disbelief. “That’s. . silly! He’d never wear that kind of thing. Somebody else did that to him. . after. .” She shivered and blinked hard.

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell us who it might be,” Pitt pressed.

  Her voice was higher pitched, sharper. “Well, I can’t! His friends are colorful, a bit wild, spend a lot on their pleasures, but not to do that! Poor Delbert.” She looked beyond Pitt to something within her own imagination, her eyes troubled. “I’d help you if I could, but it isn’t anyone of his friends I’ve met.” She focused on Pitt again. “I want you to find him, Mr. Pitt. Delbert didn’t deserve that. He was a bit too clever sometimes, and he didn’t always know when to keep his observations quiet. . and that can
make enemies. And he saw too clearly. . but he wasn’t a bad man. He liked a good joke, and a good party, and he was generous. Find out who did that to him. . ”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Miss Monderell,” Pitt promised. “If you would give me a list of Mr. Cathcart’s friends, we’ll see if any of them can help us also.”

  She stood up in a graceful movement and walked over to the bureau, skirts rustling, a wave of perfume teasing Tellman, warm and sweet, and confusing him all over again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mariah Ellison was nervous. That made her angry because it was something she had managed to avoid for more years than she could remember, and that was now a great many. She had kept control of events so that she was very seldom placed at a disadvantage. It was one of the privileges of age.

  This was entirely Caroline’s fault. A great deal that was presently disagreeable was Caroline’s fault. Imagine marrying an actor! The woman had taken leave of her wits. Not that she had ever had very many. Caroline had seemed sensible enough when she had married Edward, Mariah’s only son. Poor Edward. How he would grieve to see what a state his widow had fallen into-taking up with theatrical people and then marrying one young enough to be her own son! Edward’s death must have unhinged her mind, that was the most charitable explanation one could offer. Not made of stern-enough stuff, that was her trouble. Mariah had not fallen into pieces like that when Edward’s father had died and left her a widow at much the same age. But then she was of a different generation from Caroline, and had a backbone of steel.

  Who was this Samuel person Caroline had gone and invited to tea so hastily? Apparently she had written a note this very morning and dispatched an errand boy with it to the hotel where Mr. Ellison was staying during his time in London. The acceptance had come by return. He would be delighted to call upon them at three o’clock.

  He could be any sort of a person! Caroline had said he was charming, but then her marriage was witness enough as to her judgment. Heaven only knew what else she might admire these days.

  Naturally, Mariah had brought her own maid, Mabel, with her from Ashworth House. That was the least comfort they could afford her. Accordingly it was Mabel who put out her best black afternoon gown-she was a widow and, like the Queen, had refused to wear anything but black for the last twenty-five years.