Anne Perry - Belgrave Square

“Yes, Inspector? My name is Caulfield, Hosea Caulfield. What can I do for you?” he asked agreeably. His voice was light and his diction a little sibilant. “Always help the police, if I can. What is it this time? Not that bouncer fellow again, is it? Getting hisself into trouble? Police were ’ere asking about him.”

“Yes it is,” Pitt answered, watching the man’s face, noticing the way he stood. There was something about him that puzzled, something not what he expected.

“Oh dear.” Caulfield rubbed his hands together as if he were cold, although it was midsummer and humid. “I feared as much, since the other officer was here. But I can’t help you.” He shook his head. “He never came back. Scarpered, you might say. Suspicious that, in itself.”

Pitt struggled to place what it was in the man that troubled him. He had spoken to enough music hall managers. They were all civil, but they were not fond of the police, and were better pleased to see him leave than arrive. But Caulfield was almost eager. He stood on the balls of his feet and under his fair brows his eyes were sharp on Pitt’s face. He was waiting for something, and it was not for Pitt to go. He wanted something first. Was it to receive information, or to give it?

To give it. Pitt could tell him nothing he could not have found out from Innes, and by general inquiry. And there was some emotion in him far stronger than fear, at least than fear of Pitt.

“What is it I can tell you, Inspector?” Caulfield urged, his face eager, his manner wavering between the dignified and deferential, as though he was uncertain of his role. “I know very little of the man, except he did his job well. Never gave me any trouble. Although he was an odd one.” He shook his head, then when Pitt was silent, pursued his thoughts regardless. “Struck up some strange friendships, or perhaps acquaintances would be a better term for it. I suppose a music hall is a good place for meeting people casually, unobserved, as it were, if you know what I mean?” He looked at Pitt questioningly.

Pitt found himself disliking him, and instinct fought with reason. He was being unfair. The man was probably anxious for his livelihood. There had already been one policeman inquiring about his employees. If he now suspected there had been some criminal activity on his premises he had every reason to be worried. An innocent man would behave this way.

Caulfield was watching Pitt’s face closely.

“Do you want to see the room he used?” he asked, licking his lips.

“Used?” Pitt said with a frown. “For what purpose?” Caulfield looked uncomfortable.

“Well-perhaps ‘room’ is a bit of a grand term for it.” He shrugged elaborately. “More of a cubbyhole, really. He-he asked to keep things now and then.” He looked sideways at Pitt rapidly then away again. “So of course I said ’E could. No harm in obliging.” He seemed to feel some need to explain himself as he led Pitt along a narrow, airless corridor and unlocked the door of a room very spartanly furnished with a wooden table, an unframed glass on the wall above it, two wooden chairs and a set of cupboards against the far wall, several tall enough to serve as wardrobes, and an uncurtained window looking into the blind wall of the next building.

“We use it for changing rooms for extra artistes,” Caulfield explained, waving his arm vaguely at the table.

Pitt said nothing.

Caulfield seemed to feel compelled to go on talking, his face growing pinker.

“Your man used that cupboard at the end there.” He pointed with a well-manicured hand.

Pitt looked, but did not move towards it.

Caulfield took a deep breath and licked his lips again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to take a look inside?”

Pitt raised his eyebrows.

“Is there something in it?”

“I-well-I, er…” Caulfield was plainly caught in some embarrassment. Why? If he had looked that was not hard to understand. It was his cupboard and the man to whom he had lent its use had gone without warning. It would be usual to look and see if he had left anything behind. Such an act needed no explanation and certainly no apology.

Pitt regarded him unblinkingly and Caulfield colored.

“No,” he denied. “I don’t know if there’s anything there. I just thought-you bein’ police, and interested in the man, like, you’d want to see.”

“I do,” Pitt agreed, certain now that he would find something. It was unfair to be angry with the manager. It should have been Urban; it was Urban who had been greedy for the pictures and Urban who had gone moonlighting to get the money. No one had pushed him into ruining his career, certainly not this curiously uncomfortable man with his red face and constantly moving hands. “By the way, why was the room locked? There hardly seems anything worth stealing.”

Again Caulfield was thrown off balance. He shifted his feet.

“I-er-well-habit, I suppose. Sometimes people leave things…” He tailed off. “Do you want to see in the cupboard? Don’t mean to be uncivil, sir, but I do have duties…”

“Of course.” Pitt went over to the corner and opened the cupboard door. Inside was a large parcel, about two feet by three feet tall, but barely two inches thick, and wrapped in brown paper tied with string. He did not need to undo it to know what it was.

For once Caulfield kept silent. There was not even an in-drawn breath of surprise.

“Did he often leave pictures here?” Pitt asked.

Caulfield hesitated.

“Well?” Pitt asked.

“He often had parcels that size with ’im,” Caulfield said nervously. “He didn’t say what they were, an’ I didn’t ask. It did cross my mind as he was an artist, maybe, an’ that was why ’E needed the work extra.”

“An artist carrying his pictures about with him to work at a music hall?” Pitt sounded dubious.

“Well-yes.” Caulfield rose to his feet and his eyes were very wide as he gazed at Pitt. “ ’E did come with one picture sometimes, an’ leave with a different one.”

“How do you know? At first you didn’t even know they were pictures. You said ‘parcels.’ ”

“Well-I mean-the parcel ’E left with was a different size. an’ I just supposed they were pictures cause o’ the shape.” His voice grew sharper with irritation. “An’-An’ he carried them very careful, like. And because he asked to keep ’em safe, I took it as they was of value to ’im. What else could they be?”

Slowly Pitt undid the string and the paper and disclosed a large, very ornate, carved and gilded frame, containing nothing but a bare wood backing.

“Frames?” he said with a lift of bleak astonishment in his voice.

“Well I never!” The response was not wholly convincing. “What’d ’E do that for? I wonder what ’appened to the picture? Looks like there was one, don’t it?”

“It does,” Pitt conceded reluctantly. The frame was far from new and the backing was dark with age. It was probably the frame and backing from an old work of value. He ran his fingers over it and felt the smooth surfaces. He was not sure, but he thought it was probably gold leafed, not merely gilt paint.

“You reckon it’s stolen?” Caulfield said from close behind him.

“A stolen picture frame?” Pitt said with surprise.

“Well obviously there was a picture in it. Whoever it was he sold it to didn’t want the frame.”

“Or maybe he found an old frame for someone and brought it for them?” Pitt suggested, not believing it himself for a moment.

“Well it’s your business,” Caulfleld said resignedly. “You do as you like. I got my own affairs to run. If you seen what you need, maybe you’ll take that with you and I’ll call it an end to the matter.”