“Have you?” Pitt was surprised, although it was surely not unreasonable. The men had been friends.
“But of course,” O’Neil said quickly. “After all, he lived here all his married life—which God bless him was only a couple of years.”
Pitt was surprised. There had been nothing about this in the notes he had read.
“This was Kingsley Blaine’s house?”
“Ah no.” O’Neil was obviously amused at Pitt’s confusion. “The house belongs to my father-in-law, Mr. Prosper Harrimore. And of course my grandmother-in-law, Mrs. Adah Harrimore, lives here too.” He smiled again with total candor. “I married Kingsley’s widow. You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Pitt admitted, rising to his feet also. “No, I didn’t. Did Mr. Stafford speak to any of the rest of your … family?”
“No—no, not at all. He came later in the day, about four o’clock. I was home from a most agreeable late luncheon. He had sent a message ’round to my club. I preferred to meet him here rather than there.” He went over to the door and opened it. “Didn’t know what he wanted then, except that it was to do with Kingsley. It was not something I wished to discuss in public, or to remind my friends of, if I were fortunate enough that they had forgotten.”
“And the other members of the family were not at home?” Pitt went through and into the hall.
O’Neil followed him. “No—my wife was out calling upon friends, my grandmother-in-law was taking a carriage ride, and my father-in-law was at his place of business. He has interests in a trading emporium in the City.”
Pitt stood back for O’Neil to lead the way across the very fine hall, flagged in black and white with a magnificent stair rising to a wide gallery above. “I should be obliged to see a photograph,” he said. He had no specific idea as to what he could learn from it, but he wanted to see Kingsley Blaine; he wanted at least an impression of the man who was at the heart of this tragedy which it seemed was still so dangerously alive five years after Blaine himself was dead and Aaron Godman hanged for his murder.
“Ah well, then,” O’Neil said cheerfully, his good humor apparently returned. “I’ll show you, with pleasure.” And he opened the door and led Pitt into another larger and warmer room where a fire burned in the hearth, crackling noisily, flames leaping, and a young woman with fair brown hair and unusually high cheekbones sat on a padded stool, beside her a dark, curly-haired child of about two years old. Another child, whom Pitt judged to be about four, sat on the carpet in front of her, a thin, brightly colored book in her hands. She was quite different in appearance: Her hair was ash fair with only the slightest wave in it, and she had solemn blue eyes.
“Hello, my pretty,” O’Neil said cheerfully, patting her head.
“Hello, Papa,” she replied happily. “I’m reading a story to Mama and James.”
“Are you indeed?” O’Neil said with admiration, not questioning her truthfulness. “What is it about, then?”
“A princess,” the child answered without hesitation. “And a fairy prince.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous, sweetheart.”
“Grandpapa gave me the book.” She held it up with pride. “He said I could be a princess like that, if I’m good.”
“And so you can, my love, so you can,” O’Neil assured her. “Kathleen, my dear,” he said to the woman, “this is Mr. Pitt, who has called on a matter of business. Mr. Pitt, may I present my wife.”
“How do you do, Mrs. O’Neil,” Pitt replied courteously. So this was Kathleen Blaine O’Neil. She was pretty, very womanly, and yet there was strength in the cast of her features, not masked by the soft chin and the gentle eyes.
“How do you do, Mr. Pitt,” she said without any expression except a slight curiosity.
“Mr. Pitt is interested in photography,” O’Neil said, keeping his back to Kathleen and facing Pitt. “There are one or two good pictures in here I wished to show him.”
“Of course.” Kathleen smiled at Pitt. “Please be welcome, Mr. Pitt. I hope they are of help to you. Do you take many photographs? I expect you have met some interesting people?”
Pitt hesitated only a moment. “Yes, Mrs. O’Neil, I have certainly met some very interesting people, with quite unique faces, both good and bad.”
She continued to regard him without making any further remark.
“This is one that you might like,” O’Neil said casually, and Pitt moved over beside him in front of a large, silver-framed photograph of a young woman, who was immediately recognizable as Kathleen O’Neil, in a very formal gown. Behind her was a man of apparently the same age, tall, still with the slenderness of youth, fair, wavy hair falling slightly over his left brow. It was a handsome face, good-humored, emotional, full of an easy, romantic sensuality. Pitt did not need to ask if it were Kingsley Blaine. He would ask O’Neil later, privately, if Blaine were the father of the elder child with the fair hair, but it would only be a formality; the answer was plain.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “An excellent picture. I am most obliged, Mr. O’Neil.”
Kathleen was regarding him with interest.
“Is it helpful to you, Mr. Pitt? He was my first husband. He died about five years ago.”
Pitt felt an abysmal hypocrite. Words raced through his mind. He should tell her he knew, but how without embarrassing O’Neil?
O’Neil came to his rescue.
“Mr. Pitt knows that, my dear,” he said to his wife. “I explained to him.”
“Oh. I see.” But obviously she did not.
The conversation was rescued by the door opening and a man coming in. He looked first at O’Neil, then at Pitt, with a question sharp in his powerful, hatchet-nosed face. He was heavily built, barrel-chested, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Briefly he glanced at the children, and there was intense pride in his eyes for that moment before he turned back towards Pitt.
“Ah, a good morning to you, Papa-in-law,” O’Neil said with a charming smile. “This is Mr. Pitt, a business acquaintance of mine.”
“Indeed!” Harrimore looked at Pitt civilly enough, but with a carefully guarded expression. He had a remarkable face; at one moment it was almost intimidating with its strength, and yet when he moved, and the intelligence lit his eyes, it was also vulnerable. His mouth was twisted a little, but it was impossible to say whether with cruelty or his own pain. “Good of you to come to us at home, Mr. Pitt, and save us the trouble of traveling at this hour. Have you eaten, sir, or may we offer you some refreshment?”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Harrimore, but I have eaten, thank you,” Pitt replied. Kathleen might have accepted an interest in photography as his reason for being there, but he did not think Prosper Harrimore would be taken in so easily.
“Devlin was showing Mr. Pitt the photograph of Kingsley and me at our wedding,” Kathleen said with a smile.
“Indeed?” Harrimore said, looking at Pitt narrowly.
“An excellent example of the art,” Pitt offered, glancing at O’Neil.
“Indeed it is,” O’Neil agreed, then turned to his wife. “Perhaps you had better take the children, my dear, and see to their morning walk, now the weather is so pleasant.”
She rose obediently, recognizing an order when she heard it. She excused herself to Pitt and her father, and followed by the two small children, she went out into the hallway and closed the door.
“Mr. Pitt is here about the recent and sudden death of Judge Stafford,” O’Neil said immediately, his face resuming its earlier gravity. “I saw the poor man the very day he died, so natural it is I should be asked.”
“Tactful of you, Mr. Pitt,” Harrimore said slowly, looking him up and down. “And why is it you are concerned with the matter, sir? You don’t look like a policeman.”