Half Moon Street by Anne Perry Page A

faintest color rising to his cheeks.
    Lily Monderell threw her head back and roared with laughter.
    Tellman was shocked. Her lover was newly dead, she had heard the news only moments before, and here she was laughing! He tried to frown to convey his disapproval, and found he could not. There was a warmth about her which enveloped him in spite of himself.
    She glanced at him, and her mirth died away.
    “Don’t look like that, love,” she said gently. “You wouldn’t want anyone standing around with a face like the milk had gone off. He’d expect us to go on . . . me especially. I knew him, you see. You never did.”
    Tellman could not think how to answer her. She looked like all the images he had in his mind of such women, but inside she was different, more alive, more disturbing, and it confused him.
    But she was finished with Tellman. She turned back to Pitt, her face sharp with interest and amusement.
    “Powerful?” she said curiously. “How carefully you choose your words, Superintendent. Is that all?”
    Tellman watched Pitt, wondering what he would say. He suspected Pitt had seen far more than that in it.
    “Go on! Be honest,” Lily urged. “What kind of woman is she?”
    A half smile hovered around Pitt’s mouth. “In the picture—a sensuous, selfish woman,” he replied. “Impetuous, ruthless, very confident. A doubtful friend and a bad enemy.”
    She nodded her head very slowly, satisfaction bright in her eyes. “You see? It’s all there in the picture. You look at it once and you know her better than she wants to be known.” There was considerable pride in her. “That was his genius. He could do that time and time again. A light here or there, a shadow, something in the setting. You’d be surprised how often people like the sort of thing that shows up their real character. They forget that a photograph is taken in a very private place but the picture, when it’s finished, may be shown anywhere.”
    Pitt leaned forward a little. “What sort of things did he add?”
    Tellman could not see any reason for knowing. He thought Pitt was interested for himself.
    “Well, the snake, of course,” she started to recall. “And I remember some butterflies from one young society woman. She thought they were beautiful . . . which they were. They also reflected her nature rather too well.” She was smiling as she spoke. “And a looking glass, knives, fruit, wineglasses, stuffed animals, different kinds of flowers . . . all sorts of things. And where he put the lights made a lot of difference. A face lit from below doesn’t look anything like the same one as lit from the side or above.”
    Pitt was thoughtful. “And he made enemies with this perception?”
    “You can’t understand how strong vanity is if you have to ask that,” she answered, shaking her head at him. “Don’t you know people at all? And you are supposed to be a detective.”
    “As you said before, Miss Monderell, you knew Mr. Cathcart and I did not.”
    “You’re right, love, of course.” A sadness filled her for a moment, and Tellman was startled to see tears in her eyes. He did not know why, but he was pleased. A decent person grieved for death.
    Pitt suddenly changed his line of enquiry. “Did he inherit his wealth or earn it with his photography?”
    She looked momentarily startled. “He never spoke about it. He was generous, but I didn’t need him for that.” She said it quite casually, but Tellman felt she wished them to know it.
    Pitt looked down at his hands. “You weren’t dependent on him financially?” he said curiously. “Were you lovers or just friends?”
    She smiled at him, shaking her head a little, and the tears spilled over her cheeks. “I know what you’re saying, and you’re wrong. We were lovers. He liked women, and I never imagined I was the only one . . . but with me it was different. It was never a grand affair, but we liked each other . . . he was fun, that is more than you can say of everyone.