by Anne Perry
“Then what?” Orlando faced him, standing with grace so deeply learned he did it without thought.
“Do you belong to a gentlemen’s camera club near Hampstead?” Pitt asked.
“What?”
Pitt began to repeat the question.
“Yes!” Orlando interrupted. “Yes, I do. . at least, I go there occasionally, not very often, but I do belong. Why?”
“Did you join them near the Serpentine last Tuesday quite early in the morning?” He watched Orlando’s face, and was not sure in the uncertain light whether he saw him pale or not.
“Yes. .” Orlando said guardedly. He swallowed and coughed. “Yes, I did. Why? Nothing unusual happened, so far as I am aware.”
“You met a Mr. Delbert Cathcart there, and had a heated disagreement with him.”
“No.” He looked startled, as if the question had taken him completely by surprise. “You-you mean the photographer who was killed? If he was there I certainly didn’t see him.”
“But you were there?”
“Yes, of course I was there. It was an excellent morning, clear early light with a sort of whiteness to it, and not many people about. I didn’t have to rehearse and I hadn’t been too late the night before. Who told you Cathcart was there?”
“Do you know him?”
“No.” The answer was very quick. Orlando’s eyes did not leave Pitt’s and they were unnaturally steady. But then he knew Cathcart had been murdered. Any normal man would be nervous. “No, I don’t,” he repeated. “He was a professional, one of the best, so everyone says. I am completely amateur. I just enjoy it. But I think I’ll have to give it up. I haven’t time.”
Pitt could believe that without the slightest difficulty. He could not even imagine the amount of mental and emotional energy needed to play a role like Hamlet, let alone the physical endurance.
“You quarreled with someone that morning and left in some heat. If it was not Cathcart, who was it?” he asked.
Orlando flushed. He hesitated several moments before replying, and when he did so he looked away first.
“A friend,” he said a touch defiantly. “A fellow I’ve known for a little while. I’d rather not get him concerned in this. It was a simple disagreement, that’s all. I daresay it looked more violent than it was. There was no ill will, just a. . a difference of opinion as to what was right. Not the sort of thing you would lose a friendship over, let alone come to blows.”
Pitt disliked what he had to do, but to omit it would be irresponsible, even though he half believed Orlando.
“Others have identified the man as Cathcart, Mr. Antrim. If it was not he, then I need to verify that. The name of your friend?”
Orlando hesitated again, then his face set. “I’m sorry.” He waited for a moment to gauge Pitt’s reaction. He must have seen no yielding. “Actually he is out of town anyway, and I couldn’t get in touch with him. So there would be no point in my giving you his name. . or address.”
“If he is out of town, Mr. Antrim, there would be no harm either, would there?” Pitt resumed.
“Well, yes there would. It might do his reputation some damage, and he would not be there to protect it.”
“Mr. Antrim, all I wish to do is confirm that it was he you quarreled with the morning of the day Mr. Cathcart was killed, no more than that.”
“Well, you cannot, because he is not here. But surely if a man of Cathcart’s standing and reputation had been at the camera club, of all places, some other member would be able to confirm it?”
That was unarguably true. It was also true that they ought to be able to tell him the identity of the man Orlando Antrim had spoken with so passionately. Why should he wish to hide it?
“Then I shall have to ask there,” Pitt accepted, looking very directly at Orlando. “No doubt they saw you as well, and if he is a member they will know his name. It would be a great deal easier if you were to tell me, but if I must draw it out by questioning other members, then I will do so.”
Orlando looked acutely unhappy. “I see you are not going to let it go. It has no bearing on your case, I swear. It was a diplomat with the French Embassy. . the situation is delicate. .”
“Henri Bonnard,” Pitt supplied.
Orlando stiffened, his chin jerking up a little, his eyes wide, but he did not speak.
“Where is he, Mr. Antrim?”
“I am not at liberty to say.” Orlando’s face set, hard and miserable, but completely resolute. It was apparent that he was not going to say anything further, no matter how hard he was pressed. “I have given my word.”
Nothing Pitt said would change his mind.
Bellmaine was apparently through with the scene to his satisfaction, or else was no longer prepared to remain in ignorance as to what Pitt wanted with his principal actor. He came around the corner into the cluttered space where they were standing, his face sharp, his eyes going first to Orlando, then to Pitt.
“ ‘Art is long and life is short,’ Superintendent,” he said with a wry half smile. “If we really can be of help, then of course we are at your disposal. But if, on the other hand, it is not a matter of urgency or importance, perhaps we could now continue with Hamlet?” He looked very carefully at Orlando, perhaps to assess if he were in any way disturbed sufficiently to damage his concentration. He seemed moderately satisfied with what he saw. He turned back to Pitt, waiting for his answer.
Orlando seemed vaguely relieved that Bellmaine had come. Perhaps unconsciously, he moved a step closer to him.
Bellmaine put a hand on his shoulder. “Work, my prince,” he said, still facing Pitt. “If the superintendent will allow?”
There was nothing further to be gained. He was breaking their rhythm of creation for no good reason.
“Of course,” he yielded. “Thank you for your time.”
Orlando shrugged it off.
Bellmaine spread his hands in an eloquent and graceful gesture, then led the way back to the stage, where everyone was waiting for them. Pitt took one last look at the actors as they took up their own world again and lost themselves in it, then he turned and walked away.
He saw Tellman briefly and told him what little he had learned.
“That embassy’s hiding something,” Tellman replied, sitting in the chair at the other side of Pitt’s paper-strewn desk. “I still think it’s got something to do with them. There’s only Mrs. Geddes that says the body was Cathcart. Maybe it isn’t? Maybe it is the Frenchman. The whole thing looks more like actors and foreigners anyway.”
“It looks more like passion than greed,” Pitt answered. “But all sorts of people are capable of that, not only Frenchmen and eccentrics.”
Tellman gave him a look of silent disdain.
“We’ll go back to the embassy in the morning,” Pitt conceded. “We need to know what happened to Henri Bonnard, even if it is only to exclude him from the investigation.”
“Or what happened to Cathcart,” Tellman added.
“I think we know what happened to him,” Pitt said sadly. “He was murdered in his own house, and then sent down the Thames on a last, obscure journey. What I don’t know is by whom, and exactly why.”
Tellman did not answer.
However, Monsieur Villeroche was just as adamant as he had been the first time they saw him, only on this occasion he managed to conduct the meeting in the privacy of his own neat office.
“No! No, absolutely!” he repeated. “He has not returned nor sent any word, so far as I know, and I am at my wits’ end to know what has happened to him.” His face was pink, and he waved his hands jerkily to emphasize his distress. “It is now well over a week and there is no account of him at all. His work is piling up, and I am simply told not to worry. I am worried sick! Who would not be?”
“Have you been in contact with his family in France?” Pitt asked him.
“In France? No. They live in the south-Provence, I believe. He would hardly go all the way there without telling me. If a crisis arose it woul
d be simple enough to ask for leave. The ambassador is not unreasonable.”
Pitt did not pursue it. Tellman had already ascertained that Bonnard had not taken the packet boat across the Channel but had returned from Dover to London.
“Could it be a romantic affair?” he said instead.
Villeroche shrugged. “Then why not simply say so?” he asked reasonably. “He has not taken a normal leave of absence, a holiday, that is certain. What kind of a man pursues a secret romantic affair by abandoning his position, where he is trusted and respected, and disappearing into. . God knows where?. . and without a word to anyone?”
“A man who is pursuing someone he should not be,” Pitt said with a slight smile. “A man in the grasp of a passion so intense he loses all sense of propriety or duty towards his colleagues.”
“A man who does not desire to keep his position,” Villeroche responded. “And thus be in a situation to afford to marry this secret love.” He bit his lip. “So I suppose we must speak of an illicit affair, a woman who is already married or is the daughter of someone who does not find him an acceptable suitor. Or, I suppose, a woman of low class he could not marry? Or. .” He did not name the last alternative, but both Pitt and Tellman knew what he was thinking.
“Is that likely?” Pitt asked, avoiding Tellman’s eye. The green velvet gown was sharp in his memory.
Villeroche frowned. “No!” He was obviously surprised that it should even be considered. “Not in the least. I know that one seldom understands a person as well as one imagines, but Bonnard seemed as natural a man as any I know.” He shook his head slightly. “But I wish you could find him. He was distressed before he left, laboring under some. . some difficulty, some pressure, although I have no idea what. I am afraid some harm has come to him.”
Pitt obtained a list of clubs and other places Bonnard frequented, and where he would almost certainly call were he in London. Then he thanked Villeroche and he and Tellman took their leave.
“Well, what do you reckon, then?” Tellman said as soon as they were out in the windy street again.
An omnibus clattered past them, women on the open top deck clasping their hats. A man on the footpath jammed his bowler on more firmly.
A newspaper seller shouted headlines about a government bill and the forthcoming visit of some minor royalty to London, doing his best to make it sound interesting. An elderly man smiled at him goodnaturedly and shook his head, but he bought a newspaper and tucked it under his arm.
“Bless yer, guv!” the seller called after him.
Tellman was waiting, his face keen.
“I think we’ve got to look a great deal harder for Bonnard,” Pitt said reluctantly. “It may be a romance that for some reason he had to keep in complete secrecy.”
“You don’t believe that!” Tellman looked at him with scorn. “Villeroche is his friend. He’d know if there were something like that going on. Anyway, what kind of a man just drops everything and goes off after a woman without telling anyone, however he feels? He’s not a poet or an actor-this is a man supposed to deal with governments. I know he’s French, but even so!”
Pitt agreed with him, but there was no reasonable alternative. Together they set off to visit the places on Villeroche’s list, asking questions as discreetly as possible without being so vague as to be meaningless.
No one knew where Bonnard was or had heard him make any mention at all of leaving London. Certainly no one knew of any romantic interest in particular. He had given them all the impression that he enjoyed the company of a number of young ladies, more than a few of whom were of questionable reputation. Marriage was the last thing on his mind at the moment. Romantic pleasure was something that lay far in the future.
“Not Henri,” one young man said vehemently and with a slightly nervous laugh. “He’s far too ambitious to marry badly, let alone chase after another man’s wife, and when he’s on foreign soil as well. Oh no.” He glanced from Pitt to Tellman and back again. He was- is-the sort of man to enjoy himself, perhaps not always with the discretion one would wish in a diplomat, but only. . convivially, if you like? Temporarily. . I don’t really know how to put it. .” he trailed off.
“He likes to wine and dine but make no commitment,” Pitt interpreted.
“Precisely,” the other man agreed. “A man of the world. . or perhaps I should say a man of the city, the bright lights and the music, and yet not so worldly-wise as might be.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself. They were all trying so hard to avoid the blunter way of expressing Bonnard’s indulgences. “Thank you. I believe I understand. You have been very helpful. Good day, sir.”
They visited several more of the people whose names Villeroche had given them, but no one added anything new. By the middle of the evening they had begun to call in at the various clubs he was known to frequent.
It was half past nine; they were tired and discouraged when they came to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, in an alleyway next to a tailor and a barber’s shop.
“Is it worth it?” Tellman protested, wrinkling his nose in distaste as they stood together on the step, the gaslight making their shadows long across the stones.
“Probably not,” Pitt answered. “I’m beginning to accept that he’s either gone into the country somewhere after a romance which he managed to keep so well hidden even his closest friends didn’t know about it, or he is involved in something darker, perhaps illegal, perhaps even Cathcart’s murder, although I don’t see any connection. Come on, we’ll make this the last place. The fellow is probably in a warm bed somewhere with someone unsuitable, and thoroughly enjoying himself, while we tramp around half London wondering what’s happened to him.” He turned and pushed the door open, and was immediately inside a warm, close atmosphere smelling of wine and tobacco smoke. A score of young men and a few older sat around in groups with glasses or tankards at their elbows, many talking eagerly, others listening, leaning forward to catch every word.
Pitt must have looked a trifle Bohemian with his untidy clothes and hair seriously in need of a barber’s attention, because no one questioned his presence. He was not sure whether that pleased him or not. He was certain it would not have pleased his superiors.
Tellman drew a few glances, but since he was obviously with Pitt, he was suffered to pass without question. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers around inside his collar, as if it were too tight and restricted his breath, and plunged in.
Pitt passed the first table, the conversation being so earnest he thought interrupting it would earn him no favor. At the second, where the company was far more relaxed, he saw a face he thought in some way familiar, although he was not sure from where. It was heavyset, with thick, dark hair and dark eyes.
“Lesser men will always criticize what they do not understand,” the man said vehemently. “It is their only way of feeling that they have in some way made themselves masters of the subject, whereas in truth they have only displayed their failure to match it. It is a ceaseless source of amazement to me that the greater the fool, the more he is compelled to acquaint everyone with his shortcomings.”
“But doesn’t it anger you?” a fair young man asked, his eyes wide and bright.
The darker man raised his eyebrows. “My dear fellow, what would be the point? For some men, another man’s work of art is simply a mirror. They see a reflection of themselves in it, according to their obsession of the moment, and then criticize it for all they are worth, which admittedly is very little, because they do not like what it shows them. So Mr. Henley believes I am advocating the love of beauty above all things, precisely because he has no love for it. It frightens him. It is clear, yet ungraspable, it taunts him by its very elusiveness. In attacking The Picture of Dorian Gray, he is in some way of his own finding a weapon to attack his personal enemy.”
Another of the company seemed fiercely interested. “Do you believe that, Oscar? You could reduce him to pieces if you wanted to. You have everything with which to do it, the wit, the
perception, the vocabulary. .”
“But I don’t want to,” Oscar argued. “I admire his work. I refuse to allow him to turn me into something I do not wish to be. . namely, an artist who has lost sight of art and will descend to criticizing in public, for retaliation’s sake, what he truly admires in private. Or even worse, to deny myself the pleasure of enjoying what he has created because he is foolish enough to deny himself the enjoyment of what I have made. That, my dear friend, is a truly stupid thing to do. And when an ignorant or frightened man calls me immoral it hurts me, but I can tolerate it. But were an honest man to call me stupid, I should have to consider the possibility that he was right, and that would be awful.”
“We live in an age of Philistines,” another young man said wearily, pushing back a heavy quiff of hair. “Censorship is a creeping death, the beginning of a necrosis of the soul. How can a civilization grow except with new ideas, and any man who suffocates a new idea is a murderer of thought and the enemy of the generations who follow him, because he has robbed them of a little of their life. He has diminished them.”
“Well said!” Oscar applauded generously.
The young man blushed with pleasure.
Oscar smiled at him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wilde. .” Pitt seized the lull in the conversation to interrupt.
Wilde looked up at him curiously. There was no hostility in his eyes, not even a guardedness as to a stranger.
“You agree, sir?” he asked warmly. He looked Pitt up and down, his eyes resting a moment on Pitt’s untidy hair and on his crooked shirt collar, less well cared for than usual in Charlotte’s absence. “Let me assay a guess. You are a poet whom some narrow and grubby-minded critic has censored? Or are you an artist who has painted his view of the reality of the soul of man, and no one will hang it in public because it challenges the comfortable assumptions of society?”
