Resurrection Row (22 page)

“Would you?”

Carlisle hesitated, considering. “No,” he said at length. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Pitt had expected that. Charlotte had said Carlisle had spoken slightingly of Jones as an artist. He would have contradicted himself had he praised him now.

Pitt pursued it. “Overrated, would you say?”

Carlisle looked levelly at him; his eyes were dark gray and very clear. “As a painter, yes, Inspector, I would say so. As an admirer and companion, possibly not. He was quite a wit, very even-tempered, and had learned the not inconsiderable art of suffering fools graciously. It is difficult to command more than you are worth for long.”

“Isn’t art something of a fashion?” Pitt inquired.

Carlisle smiled, still meeting his eyes without a flicker.

“Certainly. But fashions are frequently manufactured. Price feeds upon itself, you know. Sell one thing expensively, and you can sell the next even more so.”

Pitt took the point, but it did not answer the question as to why anyone should strangle Godolphin Jones.

“You mentioned other forms of worth,” he said carefully. “Did you mean purely as a companion, or perhaps more—as a lover in an
affaire
—or even several?”

Carlisle’s face remained impassive, amused. “It might be worth your while to investigate the possibility. Discreetly, of course, or you will rouse a lot of ill feeling that will rebound upon yourself.”

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed. “Thank you, sir.”

Discretion began with Aunt Vespasia.

“I was expecting you yesterday,” she said with slight surprise in her voice. “Where can you start? Is there anything you know about this wretched man? So far as I have heard, he had nothing to do with Augustus, and Alicia was one of the few beauties, or imagined beauties, around the Park that he did not paint. For goodness’ sake, man, sit down; you give me a crick in my neck looking at you!”

Pitt obeyed. He still did not care to take the liberty of making himself comfortable before he was invited. “Was he a good artist?” he asked. He would value her opinion.

“No,” she said baldly,. “Why?”

“Charlotte said as much.”

She looked at him a little sideways, her eyes narrowed. “Indeed. And what do you draw from that? You are trying to say something—what is it?”

“Why do you think he was able to charge so much, and get it?” he asked frankly.

“Ah.” She leaned back a little, and a very small smile curved her mouth. “Portrait artists who paint society women have to be courtiers as well, in fact, possibly even courtiers first. The best of them can afford to paint as they please, but the others must paint to suit whoever holds the purse strings. If they have the skill, they flatter with the brush; if not, they must do it with the tongue. Some even do both.”

“And Godolphin Jones?”

Her eyes flickered with amusement. “You have seen his work yourself—and you must know it was with his tongue.”

“Do you suppose it went further than flattery?” He was not sure if she would be affronted by his assuming such a possibility and asking it so bluntly. But, on the other hand, there was no point in being evasive with her, and he was too weary of the case and confused to be subtle.

She was silent for so long he began to be anxious she was offended. Then at last she spoke, choosing her words.

“You are asking me if I know of anyone having an
affaire
with Godolphin Jones. I suppose if I do not tell you, you will have to pursue it yourself? I had rather tell you; I imagine that will be the least painful. Yes, Gwendoline Cantlay had an
affaire.
It was nothing serious, a relief from boredom of a pleasant but growingly uninterested husband; certainly not a grand passion. And she was extremely discreet about it.”

“Do you know if Sir Desmond knew of it?”

She considered for a moment before replying.

“I should think he guessed but was tactful enough to look the other way,” she said at length. “I find it very hard indeed to believe he would have killed the wretched little man over it. One does not react in such a way, unless one is completely unhinged.”

Pitt had no understanding; he simply had to accept that she knew. He could not conceive of what his own behavior might have been had he discovered Charlotte in such a squalid involvement. It would shatter everything he cared about, desecrate and overturn all that was precious within him and held him islanded against daily wretchedness he saw. It was not beyond his imagination that he would strangle the man: the more so if it were merely part of his professional repertoire, and she were one of any number.

Vespasia was looking at him, perhaps reading something of what was going through his mind.

“You must not judge Desmond Cantlay by yourself,” she said quietly. “But investigate the possibility, if you must. I suppose as late as this you cannot say when he was killed?”

“No; approximately three to four weeks ago, but that is hardly any use for establishing anyone’s whereabouts to prove him innocent or guilty. I should imagine he was killed shortly after the last time his servants saw him, which was three weeks ago last Tuesday. But even that is not proven. We don’t even know where he was killed yet.”

“You seem to know remarkably little,” she said grimly. “Don’t go seeking your information by spreading suspicions. Maybe Desmond didn’t know it. And doubtless, since it is a tool of his trade, Jones used it quite regularly.”

Pitt frowned. “Probably. But would he dare with Lady St. Jermyn?” He pictured that dark head with its severe silver streak. There was a remarkable dignity about her. It would have been a brash artist indeed who had tried to soften her with over-flattery.

Vespasia’s eyes widened very slightly, but her expression was beyond his reading.

“No,” he said simply. “Nor with the Misses Rodney, I suspect!”

The idea of an
affaire
with the Misses Rodney was ridiculous, but few people are impervious to flattery, and perhaps Jones had been skilled enough when he wished.

“I’ll have to find his other subjects,” he agreed. “I have a list from the butler.” He wanted to ask her more; in fact, he had a vague impression that she knew something that deliberately she was not telling him. A shield for Gwendoline Cantlay or for someone else? Surely not Alicia again? Or worse than that, Verity? There was no point in asking. It would only offend her.

He stood up. “Thank you, Lady Cumming-Gould. I appreciate your help.”

She looked at him dubiously. “Don’t be sarcastic with me, Thomas. I have been of uncommonly little help, and you know it. I have no idea who killed Godolphin Jones, but whoever it was, I have some sympathy with him. But I am really only marginally interested in the whole affair. It is a pity he could not have remained decently buried in the butler’s grave. The parliamentary bill is a great deal more important than the death of one opinionated and indifferent little artist. Do you have any conception of what it could mean in the lives of thousands of children in this wretched city?”

“Yes, ma’am, I have,” he said, equally soberly. “I have been in the workhouses and the sweatshops. I have arrested starving five-year-olds already schooled in thieving, and knowing of nothing else.”

“I apologize, Thomas.” She was unused to retreat, but this time she meant it.

He knew it. He smiled at her, brilliantly, honestly, and for an instant they were equals. Then it vanished. She rang the bell, and the butler showed Pitt to the door.

But there was something nagging at his mind, and, rather than take out the butler’s list, he hailed a cab and traveled for more than two miles before alighting, paying the driver, and climbing a dingy staircase up to a small room that had a great south-facing window and an even greater skylight. A scruffy little man with enormous eyes looked up at him.

“Hello, Froggy,” Pitt said cheerfully. “Can you spare me a few minutes?”

The man looked at him skeptically. “I ain’t got nothing as I oughtn’t to. You got no right to look!”

“I’m not looking, Froggy. I want your advice.”

“And I ain’t ratting on no one!”

“Your artistic advice,” Pitt elaborated. “On the worth of a perfectly legitimate picture. Or, to be more precise, an artist.”

“Who?”

“Godolophin Jones.”

“No good. Don’t touch it. But ’e’s bleedin’ hexpensive. Where d’you get that kind o’ money? You bin takin’ bribes, or suffink? D’you know what ’e sells for—four or five ’undred nicker a time, or near enough.”

“Yes, I do know that, and I won’t press you to tell me how you know. Why does he sell that highly, if he’s no good?”

“Oh, now there you ’as one o’ life’s mysteries. I dunno.”

“Maybe you’re wrong, and he is good?”

“Now, there’s no need to be rude, Mr. Pitt! I know my business. Couldn’t sell one o’ them Joneses, not if I was to give you a chicken with each one. People as buy from me wants suffink as they can keep for a while; then, when nobody’s lookin’ for it anymore, ship it out to some collector what ain’t too choosy as to ’ow they come by fings. No collector wants a Jones. You ask why they pays so ’igh—maybe it’s vanity? Don’t understand the Quality, never ’ave—and you’re wastin’ your time if you thinks you can. They’re a different sort of animal from you and me. No knowin’ what they’ll do, or why. Except I can tell you this—that Joneses never change ’ands; nobody sells ’em ’cos nobody buys ’em. Now, that’s a rule, that is—if it’s worth buying, somewhere, sometime, somebody’s goin’ to sell it!”

“Thank you, Froggy.”

“That all?”

“Yes, thank you, that’s all.”

“Does it ’elp?”

“I’ve no idea. But I think I’m glad to know it all the same.”

On his return to the police station before the end of the day, Pitt was greeted by the sergeant who had previously met him with news of one corpse after another. His heart sank as soon as he saw the wretched man’s face flushed with excitement again.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“That plate, sir, the photographic plate from the dead artist’s house.”

“What about it?”

“You sent it to be developed, sir.” He was practically fidgeting in his fever.

“Naturally—” Sudden hope seized Pitt. “What was on it? Tell me, man, don’t stand there!”

“A picture, sir, of a naked woman, naked as a babe, but nothing like a babe, if you get my meaning, sir?”

“Where is it?” Pitt demanded furiously. “What have you done with it?”

“It’s in your office, sir, in a brown envelope, sealed.”

Pitt strode past him and slammed the door. With shaking fingers he picked up the envelope and tore it open. The photograph was as the constable had said, an elegant but highly erotic pose of a woman without a shred of clothing. The face was perfectly clear. He had never seen her before, either in life or in paint. She was a total stranger.

“Damn!” he said fiercely. “Damnation!”

Pitt spent the next day trying to discover the identity of the woman in the photograph. If she was a person of social standing at all, the picture alone was motive for murder. He gave the sergeant a copy and had him try all the police stations in the inner city to see if anyone recognized her, and he took another copy himself, this time with the body carefully blocked out, to see if anyone in society knew her. She did not have to be a lady; even a maid, seeking to make a little money on the side with such things, would lose not only her present employment but any hope of future employment with all its security, clothes, regular meals, companionship, and certain status of belonging. That, too, could be cause for murder.

Of course, he went back to Vespasia.

She hesitated a long time before replying, weighing her answer so carefully he was more than half prepared for a lie.

“She reminds me of someone,” she said slowly, her head a little to one side, still considering it. “The hair is not right; I seem to feel it was done differently, if indeed I do know her. And perhaps it was a little darker.”

“Who is it?” he demanded, impatience boiling inside him. She might actually have the last clue to murder on the back of her tongue, and she was havering like a nervous bride.

She shook her head. “I don’t know—I just feel a certain familiarity.”

He let out his breath in a sigh of exasperation.

“There’s no use trying to goad me, Thomas,” she replied. “I am an old woman—”

“Rubbish!” he snapped. “If you are going to plead infirmity of mind—I’ll charge you with perjury!”

She smiled at him bleakly. “I do not know who it is, Thomas. Perhaps it is someone’s daughter, or even someone’s maid. Maybe I have normally seen that face under a lace cap? Hair makes a lot of difference, you know. But if I see her again, I shall send a messenger to you within the hour. You said you found this photograph in Godolphin Jones’s house, in his camera? Why is it so important?” She glanced at the picture still in her hand. “Is the rest of it indecent? Or is there some other person in it? Or perhaps both?”

“It is indecent,” he replied.

“Indeed.” She raised her eyebrows a little and handed it back to him. “Motive for murder then. I presumed so. Poor creature.”

“I must know who it is!”

“I appreciate your desire,” she said calmly. “You have not need to reinforce it.”

“If everyone were to go around murdering witnesses to indiscretion—” He was frustrated almost beyond the stretch of his temper. He was now nearly sure she was concealing something from him, if not knowledge, at least strong suspicion.

She cut across him. “I do not approve of murder, Thomas,” she said staring up at him. “If I remember who it is, I shall say so.”

He had to be content with that. He knew perfectly well she would say no more. He took his leave with as much grace as he could muster and went out into the thickening fog.

He spent most of the rest of the day inquiring, with the picture in his hand, but no one else was prepared to admit having known the woman, and by dusk he was cold, his legs and feet ached, there was a blister on his heel, and he was hungry and thoroughly miserable.

Then, as the fourth hansom cab passed him without stopping and left him islanded under the gas lamp in a sea of icy vapor, he had a sudden idea. He had temporarily forgotten all about the other corpses, presuming them incidental. They had all died naturally; only Godolphin Jones was murdered. But perhaps there was some bizarre connection? Horatio Snipe had been a procurer of women. Could his clientele have included Godolphin Jones—either for his own appetite or as subjects to photograph? Perhaps that was his particular fetish—lewd photography.