Anne Perry - Resurrection Row

“I don’t know. Was Mr. Jones a photographer?”

The butler’s eyebrows shot up. “A photographer? Oh, no, sir, he was an artist. Sometimes watercolors and sometimes oil, but certainly not photographs!”

“Then whose camera is that?”

The butler looked startled. He had not noticed the contraption. “I really have no idea, sir. I have never seen it before.”

“Could someone else have borrowed his studio?”

“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Jones was most particular. Beside, if they had, I should have known. There have been no strangers here; in fact no caller has been inside this house since Mr. Jones-left.”

“I see.” Pitt was confused. The thing was becoming ridiculous. He wanted a mystery, something to investigate, but this was nonsensical. The camera had to have come from somewhere and belong to someone. “Thank you,” he said, standing up again. “Will you make me a list of all the people you can remember who came here to have their pictures painted, starting with the latest and going back as far as you can remember, with the best recollection you have as to dates?”

“Yes, sir. Has Mr. Jones no accounts you can check?”

“If he has, they are not here.”

The butler forbore from comment and retired to send in the next servant. Pitt interviewed them all, one by one, and learned nothing that seemed important. It was early afternoon when he had finished, and still time to visit at least one of the other houses in the Park. He chose the latest on the butler’s list of portraits-Lady Gwendoline Cantlay.

Obviously she had not heard the news. She received him with surprise and a hint of irritation.

“Really, Inspector, I see no purpose to be served by pursuing this unfortunate subject. Augustus is buried, and there has been no further vandalism. I suggest you now leave his family to recover as well as they may and do not refer to the matter again. Haven’t they been through enough?”

“I have no intention of raising the matter again, ma’am,” he said patiently. “Unless it should become necessary. I’m afraid I am here over something quite different. You were acquainted with the artist, Mr. Godolphin Jones, I believe?”

Did he imagine it, or was there a tightening of her fingers in her lap, a faint flush across her cheeks?

“He painted my picture,” she agreed, watching him. “He has painted many pictures and came highly recommended to me. He is a well-known artist, you know, and very much praised.”

“You think highly of him, ma’am?”

“I-” she drew in her breath-“I don’t really know sufficient to say. I am obliged to rest upon other people’s opinions.” She looked at him with a touch of defiance. Again her hands were tight in her lap, crunching the fabric of her dress. “Why do you ask?”

At last she had come to it. He had a sudden sense of anxiety, as if the knowledge might affect her more than he was prepared for.

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you, ma’am,” he began, unusually awkwardly for him. He had done this often before, and the words were practiced. “But Mr. Jones is dead. He had been murdered.”

She sat perfectly still, as if she did not understand. “He is in France!”

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry, but he is here in London. His body has been identified by his butler. There is no mistake.” He looked at her, then round the room to see where the bell was to call a maid, in case she should require assistance.

“Did you say murdered?” she asked slowly.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Who would murder him? Do you know? Are there any clues?” She was agitated now. He would have sworn it came to her as a complete shock, but she had changed. She was frightened, and it was not hysterical or nameless; she knew what she was frightened of. Pitt would have given quite a lot if he could have known also.

“Yes, there are several clues,” he said, watching her, her face, her neck, her hands grasping the arms of the chair.

Her eyes widened. “May I ask what they are? Perhaps if I knew, I could help. I knew Mr. Jones a little, naturally, having sat for the portrait.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “There are unfinished canvases that the butler does not recognize as ladies who ever called at the house for sittings, or any other purpose. And there is a camera-”

He was quite sure her surprise was genuine. “A camera! But he was an artist, not a photographer!”

“Exactly. And yet one presumes it was his. It is very improbable someone else’s camera would be there in his studio. The butler is quite positive he has not permitted anyone else to use it.”

“I don’t understand,” she said simply.

“No, ma’am, neither do we, as yet. I take it Mr. Jones never took photographs of you, say to work from when you were not available?”

“No, never.”

“Perhaps I could see the portrait, if you still have it?”

“Of course, if you wish.” She stood up and led him to the withdrawing room where a large portrait of her sat over the mantelpiece.

“Excuse me.” He went forward and began to study it carefully. He did not like it much. The pose was quite good, if rather stylized. He recognized several of the props from the studio, especially a piece of pillar and a small table. The proportions were correct, but the colors lacked something, a certain clarity. They seemed to have been mixed with a permanent undertone of ocher or sepia, giving even the sky a heavy look. The face was definitely Gwendoline’s; the expression was pleasant enough, and yet there was no charm in it.

He began to study the background and was just about to leave it when he noticed in the bottom left-hand corner a small clump of leaves quite clearly drawn with a beetle on one of them, distinct and stylized, precisely like one of those he had seen in the notebook at least four or five times.

“May I ask you what it cost, ma’am?” he said quickly.

“I cannot see what that has to do with Mr. Jones’s murder,” she said with marked coolness. “And I have already said he is an artist of excellent repute.”

Pitt was aware he had mentioned a subject socially crass. “Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged. “You did say so, and I have already heard that from others. Nevertheless, I have good reason for asking, even if only for comparison’s sake.”

“I do not wish half London to be familiar with my financial arrangements!”

“I shall not discuss it, ma’am; it is purely for police use, and then only should it be relevant. I would prefer to find it out from you rather than press your husband, or-”

Her face hardened. “You are overstepping your office, Inspector. But I do not wish you to disturb my husband with the affair. I paid three hundred and fifty pounds for the picture, but I don’t see what possible use that can be to you. It is quite a usual price for an artist of his quality. I believe Major Rodney paid something the same for his portrait, and that of his sisters.”

“Major Rodney has two pictures?” Pitt was surprised. He would not have imagined Major Rodney as a man who cared for, or could afford, such an indulgence in art.

“Why not?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “One of himself, and one of Miss Priscilla and Miss Mary Ann together.”

“I see. Thank you, ma’am. You have been very helpful.”

“I don’t see how!”

He was not quite sure of himself, but at least there were other places to search, and in the morning he would call on Major and the Misses Rodney. He excused himself and set out in the returning fog to go back to the police station, and then home.

If Lady Cantlay had been startled to hear of Godolphin Jones’s murder, Major Rodney was shattered. He sat in the chair like a man who has nearly been drowned. He gasped for breath, and his face was mottled with red.