“And then destroyed them, or gave them away afterwards?” Pitt considered it. “Possible, but I would have thought he’d want to see them in color. After all, an artist works in color. Still, it could be.” He started to examine the camera, pressing the pieces experimentally. He had never worked one himself, although he had seen them used by police photographers a few times and had begun to appreciate their possibilities. He knew the imprint of the picture was made on a plate, which then had to be developed. It took him a little fiddling before he got the plate out of this one, carefully, keeping it wound in the black cloth away from the light, because he was not used to it and did not know how fragile it might be.
“What’s that?” the constable asked dubiously.
“The plate,” Pitt replied.
“Anything on it?”
“I don’t know. Have to have it developed. Probably not, or he wouldn’t have left it in there, but we might be lucky.”
“Probably only some woman ’e was painting.” The constable dismissed it.
“He may have been murdered because of some woman he was painting,” Pitt pointed out.
The constable’s face lit up hopefully. “ ’Avin’ an affaire? Well, now that’s a thought. Bit free with the posin’, you reckon?”
Pitt gave him a dry, humorous look.
“Go and get the servants one by one,” he ordered. “Starting with the butler.”
“Yes, sir.” The constable obeyed, but he was obviously turning over in his mind the limitless possibilities that had just dawned on him. He did not like effeminate men who made a great deal too much money by puddling around in smocks and painting pictures of people who ought to know better, but it was a good deal more interesting than the usual run-of-the-mill tragedies he saw. He did not want to be bothered with servants. He retired reluctantly.
The butler came in a few moments later, and Pitt invited him to sit down in the garden chair, while he himself sat in the one that had been beside the desk.
“Who was your master painting when he left?” he asked straightaway.
“No one, sir. He had just finished a portrait of Sir Albert Galsworth.”
That was a disappointment; not only someone Pitt had never heard of, but also a man.
“What about the picture on the floor?” he asked. “That’s a woman.”
The butler walked over and looked at it.
“I don’t know, sir. She appears to be a lady of quality by her clothes, but as you see, the face has not yet been filled in, so I cannot say who it may be.”
“Has no one been coming here for sittings?”
“No, sir, not that I am aware of. Perhaps she was due and had put it off until a more convenient time?”
“What about this one?” Pitt showed him the other, more nearly completed canvas.
“Oh, yes, sir. That is Mrs. Woodford. She did not care for the picture; she said it made her look lumpish. Mr. Jones never finished it.”
“Was there ill feeling?”
“Not on Mr. Jones’s part, sir. He is used to—certain persons’—vanity. An artist has to be.”
“He wasn’t prepared to alter it to suit the lady?”
“Apparently not, sir. I believe he had already made considerable adjustments to suit the lady’s view of herself. If he went too far, he would compromise his reputation.”
Pitt did not argue; it was academic now.
“Have you seen this before?” He pulled out the notebook and let it fall open.
The butler glanced at it, and his face went blank. “No, sir. Is it of importance?”
“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.”