It was three days after this that Charlotte received another letter from Caroline touching on the same subject. This time she did speak of it to Pitt. They were sitting in front of the fire after Jemima had been put to sleep; Charlotte was sewing, and Pitt was gazing into the flames and sinking gently lower and lower into his chair.
"Thomas." Charlotte looked up from her work and held the needle in the air.
He turned his head and hitched himself a little higher before his feet slipped over the fender. The light flickered and jumped warmly in its glowing brass. -
"Yes?"
"I had a letter from Mama today," she remarked casually. "She is distressed about the recent loss of a piece of jewelry."
His eyes narrowed. He knew Charlotte a great deal better than she suspected.
"When you say 'loss,' I take it you do not mean that she misplaced it?" he inquired.
Charlotte hesitated. "I'm really not quite sure. She may have." She picked up her work again to give herself time to arrange her words. She had not expected him to perceive quite so quickly. Actually, she had thought he was very nearly asleep.
After a moment or two she looked across at him and found his eyes bright and waiting, watching her through his lashes. She took a long breath and abandoned the idea of subtlety.
"It was a locket and there was a picture of somebody inside it," she went on. "She would not say who, but I gathered it was someone whose presence she would prefer not to explain." She smiled a little self-consciously. "Perhaps it was an old love, someone she knew before Papa?"
He straightened up and took his legs off the fender; his feet were getting hot and he would scorch his slippers if he was not careful.
"And she thinks someone has taken it?" he asked the obvious.
"Yes," Charlotte said. "I think she does."
"Any idea who?"
She shook her head. "If she has, she won't say so. And pf course if she were to report the loss, it would cause far more unpleasantness than even having it returned would be worth.''
Pitt needed no further explanation. He was perfectly familiar with Society's feelings about having police in the house, with the attendant vulgarity. One reported a break-in, of course, and that was regrettable enough, but at least a break-in was an outside affair, a misfortune that could happen to anyone with goods worth the taking. Domestic crime was different; it was some shy;thing that might involve the questioning, and resultant embar shy;rassment, of one's friends, and therefore resorting to the police was unthinkable.
"Does she expect you to play discreet detective?" he asked with a broad smile.
"I'm not a bad detective," she said defensively. "In Paragon Walk I knew the truth before you did!" As soon as she had spoken, memory came back and brought with it ugliness and pain, and self-congratulation became ridiculous, almost indecent.
"That was murder," he pointed out soberly. "And you nearly got yourself killed for your cleverness. You can hardly go around asking your mother's friends, 'Do you happen to have stolen Mama's locket, and if so, would you please give it back unopened, because it contains some indiscretion, or a picture that might be interpreted as such.' "
"You're not being very helpful!" Charlotte said crossly. "If I could have done it as easily as that, I wouldn't have needed to ask you about it!"
He sat up straight and leaned forward to take her hand. "My darling, if it really does contain something private, then the less said about it the better. Leave it alone!"
She frowned. "It's more than that, Thomas. She feels some shy;one is watching her, and waiting!"
He screwed up his face. "You mean someone has already opened it and is waiting for an opportunity to apply a little blackmail?"
"Yes, I suppose I do." Her fingers grasped around his. "It's horrid, and I think she's really quite frightened."
"If I come in, it will only make it worse," he said softly. "And I can't officially anyway, unless she calls me."
"I know." Her fingers tightened.
"Charlotte, be careful. I know you mean well, but, my dear, you have a transparent face and a tongue about as subtle as an avalanche."
"Oh, that's unfair!" she protested, although at least half of her knew it was not. "I shall be very careful!"
"I still think it would be better if you left it alone-unless someone actually does try blackmail. There may be nothing to it-no more than your mother's own fears painting shadows on the wall. Perhaps a little conscience?"
"I can't do nothing," she said unhappily. "She has asked me to come see her, and I can't leave her so distressed without doing all I am able to."
"I suppose not," he conceded. "But for goodness' sake, do as little as you can. Questions will only arouse curiosity and are more likely than anything else to bring about the very specula shy;tions she is afraid of!"
Charlotte knew he was right and she nodded, but at the same time she was already making plans to call at Rutland Place the following day.
She found Caroline in and awaiting her anxiously.
"My dear, I'm so glad you were able to come," she said, kissing Charlotte on the cheek. "I have planned for us to make a few calls this afternoon, so you can meet some of the other people in the Place-particularly those I am best acquainted with myself, and to whose houses I have been, or who have come here."
Charlotte's heart sank. Obviously, Caroline intended to pursue the pendant.
"Do you not think it would be better to be quite casual about it, Mama?" she asked as lightly as she could. "You do not wish anyone to realize how important it is to you, or their curiosity will be aroused. Whereas if you say nothing, it may pass almost without remark."
Caroline's lips tightened. "I wish I could believe that, but I feel terribly sure that whoever it is already knows-" She stopped.
"Knows what?" Charlotte asked.
"Knows that it is mine, and that it is important to me," Caroline finished awkwardly. "I told you-I can feel them, feel their eyes on me. And don't say it's foolish! I know it is, but I'm as sure as I have ever been of anything that there is some- person-here who is watching, watching and laughing!" She shivered. "And hating! I–I have even felt once or twice as if they were following me, in the dusk." The red color burned uncomfortably in her cheeks.
"That person sounds like somebody mad," Charlotte said as levelly as she could. "Very unpleasant, but more to be pitied than feared."
\ Caroline shook her head sharply. "I would prefer to be sorry for madness at a much greater distance."
Charlotte was shaken. Her voice came far more roughly, more critically than she had intended.
"So would most people," she said, "I think that is what is called 'passing by on the other side.' " Then she stopped, aware of how unjust she was being. She was confused; she was afraid Caroline was hysterical, and she did not know how to treat it.
A look of amazement crossed Caroline's face, followed swiftly by anger.
"Are you suggesting I owe some Christian duty to this crea shy;ture who stole my pendant, and now is peeping at me and following me?" she said incredulously.
Charlotte was ashamed and angry with herself. She should not have spoken her thoughts so bluntly, especially since they had nothing to do with the problem, and would hardly be of comfort in what was now obviously a far deeper matter than she had appreciated.
"No," she said gravely. "I am trying to make you see that it is not as serious as you believe. If whoever stole or found the pendant is really watching you, and sniggering behind the curtains, then they are not quite right in their minds, and need not.be feared so much as viewed with revulsion, and some sense of pity as well. It is not like a personal enemy who wished you harm and had the ability to bring it about."
"You don't understand!" Caroline shut her eyes in exasperation, and the muscles in her face were tight. "They would not need to have any brains to cause me harm! Merely to open the locket and see the picture would be enough! One can be as mad as a bedlamite, and still be able to open a locket and see that the picture inside it is not of your father.''
Charlotte sat silent a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. There must be a great deal more to it that Caroline had not said. The picture must be more than some dim, romantic memory. Either the dream was still sharp, the event still capable of causing pain, or else the picture was of some man she knew now, here in Rutland Place!
"Who is it in the picture, Mama?" she asked.
"A friend." Caroline was not looking at her. "A gentleman of my acquaintance. There is no more to it than a-regard, but it could easily be misunderstood."
A flirtation. Charlotte was only momentarily surprised. She had learned a lot since her total innocence at the beginning of the Cater Street murders. Few people are immune to flattery, a little romance to flesh out the ordinariness of every day. Edward had not been, so why should Caroline?
And she had kept a picture in a locket. Foolish, but very human. People kept pressed flowers, theater or dance programs, old letters. A wise husband or wife allowed a little privacy for such things, and did not inquire or dig up old dreams to look for answers.
She smiled, trying to be gentler.
"Don't worry about it, Mama. Everyone has something private." She deliberately phrased it evasively. "I daresay that if you do not make much of it, other people won't. In fact, I don't suppose they will wish to. Quite apart from liking you, they probably have lockets themselves, or letters they would prefer not to lose."
Caroline smiled bleakly. "You have a charitable view, my dear. You have been out of Society too long. You see it from a distance, and lose the detail."
Charlotte took her arm and squeezed it for a moment.
"Above all things, Society is practical, Mama. It knows what it can afford. Now who is it you wish us to visit? Tell me something about them, so I don't say anything tactless and embarrass you."
"Good gracious! What a hope!" Caroline put her hand over Charlotte's in a little gesture of thanks. "First we are going to the Charringtons', to see Ambrosine. I told you about her before. Then I think on to Eloise Lagarde. I don't think I.said anything about her."
"No, but was that not a name Mrs. Spencer-Brown mentioned?"
"I don't recall. Anyway, Eloise is a charming person, but quite retiring. She has led a very sheltered life, so please, Charlotte, do give some thought to what you say."
From Charlotte's now wider viewpoint, everyone in Rutland Place had led a very sheltered life, including Caroline herself, but she forbore saying so. Pitt's broader, teeming world, with its vigor and squalor, farce and tragedy, would only be confusing and frightening to Caroline. In Pitt's world, realities were not softened by evasion and genteel words. Its raw life and death would horrify the inhabitants of Rutland Place, just as the myriad icebound rules of Society would appall a stranger to it.
"Is Eloise in delicate health, Mama?" Charlotte asked.
"I have never heard of any actual illness, but there are many things a person of taste does not discuss. It has occurred to me that she might be consumptive. She seems a little delicate, and I have noticed her faint once or twice. But it is so hard to tell with these fashions whether a girl is robust or not. I confess that when Mary does her best with my whalebone and laces to give me back the twenty-inch waist I used to have, I sometimes feel like fainting myself!" She smiled ruefully, and Charlotte felt another twinge of anxiety. Fashion was all very well, but at Caroline's age she should not care so much.
"I have not seen a great deal of Eloise lately," Caroline continued. "I think perhaps this inclement weather does not agree with her. That would not be hard to understand. It has been distressingly cold. She is quite lovely-she has the whitest skin and the darkest eyes you ever saw, and she moves marvelously. She reminds me of Lord Byron's poem-'She walks in beauty like the night.' " She smiled. "As fragile and as tender as the moon."
"Did he say that, about the moon?"
"No, I did. Anyway, you will meet her and judge for yourself. Her parents both died when she was very young-no more than eight or nine-and she and her brother were cared for by an aunt. Now that the aunt is dead also, the two of them live here most of the time, and only go back to the country house for a few weeks at a time, or perhaps a month."
"Mrs. Spencer-Brown described her as a child," Charlotte said.
Caroline dismissed it. "Oh, that's just Mina's turn of phrase. Eloise must be twenty-two or more, and Tormod her brother, is three or four years older at least." She reached for the bell and rang it for the maid to bring her coat. "I think it's about time we should leave. I would like you to meet Ambrosine before there are a number of callers."
Charlotte was afraid the matter of the locket was going to be raised again, but she did not argue. She pulled her own coat closed and followed obediently.
It was a very short walk, and Ambrosine Charrington wel shy;comed them with an enthusiasm that startled Charlotte. She was a striking woman, with fine features under a smooth skin only faintly wrinkled around the corners of the mouth and eyes. Her cheekbones were high and swept wide to wings of dark hair.,She surveyed Charlotte with interest and gradual approval as her instinct recognized another highly individual woman.
"How do you do, Mrs. Pitt," she said with a charming smile. "I'm delighted you have come at last. Your mother has spoken of you so often."
Charlotte was surprised; she had not realized Caroline would be willing to talk about her socially at all, let alone often! It gave her an unexpected feeling of pleasure, even pride, and she found herself smiling more than the occasion called for.
The room was large and the furnishings a little austere com shy;pared to the ornate and bulging interiors that were currently popular. There were none of the usual stuffed animals in glass cases or arrangements of dried flowers, no embroidered samplers, or elaborate antimacassars across the backs of chairs. By compari shy;son with most withdrawing rooms it seemed airy, almost bare. Charlotte found it rather pleasing, except for the phalanxes of photographs on the farthest wall, covering the top of the grand piano, and spread along the mantelshelf. They all appeared to include rather elderly people, and had been taken years before, to judge from the fashions. Obviously they were not of Ambrosine and her children, but rather of a generation earlier. Charlotte presumed the man who appeared in them so frequently was her husband-a vain man, she decided from the number of his pictures.
There were some half-dozen highly exotic weapons displayed above the fireplace.
Ambrosine caught Charlotte's glance. "Horrible, aren't they?" she said. "But my husband insists. His younger brother was killed in the first Afghan War, forty-five years ago, and he's set them up there as a sort of memorial. The maids are always complaining that they are the perfect devil to clean. Collect dust like mad, above the fire."
Charlotte looked up at the knives in their ornamental sheaths and scabbards, and had nothing but sympathy for the maids.
"Quite!" Ambrosine said fervently, observing her expression. "And they are in excellent condition. Bronwen swears someone will wind up with their throat cut one of these days. Although of course it is not her task to clean them. Heathen weapons, she calls them, and I suppose they are."
"Bronwen?" Caroline was at a loss.
"My maid." Ambrosine invited them all to be seated with a gesture of her arm. "The excellent one with the reddish hair."
"I thought her name was Louisa," Caroline said.
"I daresay it is." Ambrosine arranged herself gracefully on the chaise longue. "But the best maid I ever had was called Bronwen, and I don't believe in changing a good thing. I always call my personal maids Bronwen now. Also it saves confusion. There are dozens of Lilies and Roses and Marys."
There was no argument to this, and Charlotte was obliged to turn and look out of the window in order to hide her amusement.
"Finding a really good maid is quite an achievement," Caro shy;line said, pursuing the subject. "So often those who are compe shy;tent are less than honest, and those whom one can really trust are not as efficient as one would like."
"My dear, you sound most despondent," Ambrosine said with sympathy. "A current misfortune?"
"I'm really not quite sure," Caroline plunged on. "1 have missed a small article of jewelry, and I don't know whether it is a theft or merely mischance. It is a wretched feeling. I don't wish to be unjust when the whole affair may be quite accidental."
"Was it of value?" Ambrosine inquired with a little frown.
"Not especially, except that it was a gift from my mother-in-law, and she might be hurt that I had been careless with it."
"Or flattered that of all your pieces someone chose that to take," Ambrosine pointed out.
Caroline laughed without pleasure.
"I hadn't even thought of that. I'm obliged to you. If she makes any observation, I must say that to her."
"I still think you may have mislaid it, Mama," Charlotte said, trying to allow the subject to die. "It may well turn up in a day or two. If you let Grandmama think it has been stolen, she will begin to accuse people, and she will never let the-matter rest until someone is blamed."
Caroline caught the sharpness in her voice and perceived the danger she was inviting upon herself.
"You are quite right," she said. "It would be wiser to say nothing."
"People with not enough business of their own to mind will be quick enough to mind yours if you start word of things like theft," Charlotte added for good measure.
"I see your estimate of people's charity matches my own, Mrs. Pitt." Ambrosine reached for the bell cord and pulled it. "I hope you will take tea? As well as a good maid, I also have an excellent cook. I employed her for her ability with cakes and desserts. She makes the most dreadful soups, but then since I don't care for soup, I am perfectly happy to overlook that."
"My husband is extremely fond of soup," Caroline remarked absently.
"So is mine," Ambrosine said. "But one cannot have everything."
The parlormaid came and Ambrosine sent her for the tea.
"You know, Mrs. Pitt," Ambrosine continued, "your obser shy;vations about other people's curiosity are peculiarly apposite. I have had the disturbing sensation lately that someone is taking a marked interest in me-not a kindly one, but purely inquisitive. If anything, I have the feeling it is malicious."
Charlotte sat perfectly still. She was conscious of Caroline's body stiffening beside her. '
"How distressing," Charlotte said after a moment. "Have you any notion who it may be?"
"No, none at all. That is what makes it so unpleasant. It is merely a repeated impression."
The door opened, and the maid came in with tea and at least a dozen different kinds of cakes and tarts, many of them with whipped cream.
"Thank you," Ambrosine said, eyeing one particular fruit pastry with satisfaction. "Perhaps I am being fanciful," she went on as the maid disappeared again. "I daresay there is no one with as much interest in me as such a thing supposes."'
Caroline opened her mouth as if to speak, then said nothing after all.
"You are quite right," Charlotte said, hurrying to fill the silence, her eyes on the tea table. "You have a most accom shy;plished cook. I vow I should grow Out of every garment I possess if I were to live with such a woman."
Ambrosine observed Caroline's still slender figure.
"I hope that does not mean you will not call upon me again?"
Charlotte smiled. "On the contrary, it means that I shall now have two reasons for calling instead of one." She accepted her tea and an enormous cream sponge. No one bothered with the polite fiction of taking bread and butter first.
They had been at tea only a matter of five minutes or so when the door opened again and a gray-haired, middle-aged man came in. Charlotte immediately recognized the short-nosed, rather se shy;vere face from the photographs. This man was even wearing the same kind of stiff-winged collar and black tie as the man in the photographs. He had to be Lovell Charrington.
Introductions proved her correct.
"No sandwiches?" He looked at the plates critically.
"Didn't know you would be joining us," Ambrosine replied. "I can always call cook for some if you wish."
"Please! I cannot imagine that all this cream is good for you, my dear. And we should not restrict our visitors to indulging in your somewhat eccentric tastes."
"Oh, we are equally eccentric," Charlotte answered without thinking. Her impulse was to side with Ambrosine; moreover, she had quite enough bread at home. "I am delighted to be able to enjoy them in such happy company."
Ambrosine rewarded her with a smile of satisfaction and surprise.
"If you will not be offended by my saying so, Mrs. Pitt, you remind me of my own daughter, Ottilie. She enjoyed things so much and was not averse to saying so."
Charlotte did not know whether it would be all right to admit knowing of the girl's death, or if it might seem as if she had been talking of the Charringtons' affairs too familiarly. She was saved from her dilemma by Lovell.
"Our daughter has passed on, Mrs. Pitt. I'm sure you will understand if I say that we find it distressing to discuss."
Since Charlotte had not spoken, she thought his manner less than courteous, but for Ambrosine's sake she restrained herself.
"Of course," she said. "I myself seldom speak of those I have lost, for the same reason."
To her satisfaction, he looked a little taken aback. Obviously he had not considered the possibility that she might have feelings on the subject.
"Quite," he said hastily. "Quite!"
Charlotte deliberately took another cream cake, and was forced to spend the next few moments concentrating on eating it without dropping the cream down her bosom.
Conversation became polite and stilted. They discussed the weather, what the newspapers were reporting in the Society columns, and the possibility-or, in Lovell's opinion, the impossibility-of there being any lost treasures in Africa, such as those that were portrayed in Mr. Rider Haggard's novel King Solomon's Mines, published the previous year.
"Nonsense," he said firmly. "Dangerous imagination. Fellow ought to employ his time to better purpose. Ridiculous way for a grown man to earn his living, spinning fantasies to beguile foolish women and girls who are susceptible enough to take him seriously. Overstimulating the minds of such persons is bad for their health. . and their morals!"
"I think it is an excellent way to employ oneself," said a young man of perhaps twenty-nine or thirty, coming into the room with a wave of his arm. He helped himself to the last cake, ate it almost in one gulp, and flashed a dazzling smile at Charlotte, then at Caroline. He picked up the teapot to test if there was anything still in it. "Harms no one and entertains thousands. Brings a little color into lives that might ordinarily never have a dream worth indulging. Without dreams their lives might be unbearable."
"Never heard such nonsense!" Lovell replied. "Panders to overheated imaginations, and to greed. If you wish for tea, Inigo, please ring for the maid and request it instead of swinging the pot around like that. That is what servants are for. I don't think you have been introduced to Mrs. Pitt?"
Inigo looked at Charlotte. "Of course not. If I had, I would most certainly have remembered. How do you do, Mrs. Pitt. I will not ask how you are. You are obviously in excellent health- and spirits."
"Indeed I am." Charlotte tried to keep up the front of dignity she knew Caroline would wish, if not expect. "And if you said less for yourself, I should find it hard to believe," she added.
"Oh!" His eyebrows went up with evident pleasure. "A woman of opinions. You would have liked my sister Tillie. She always had opinions. A few rather odd ones, mind, but she always knew what she thought, and usually said so."
"Inigo!" Lovell's face was deeply flushed. "Your sister has passed away. Kindly remember that, and do not speak of her in that flippant and overfamiliar manner!" He swung round. "I apologize, Mrs. Pitt. Such indelicacy must be embarrassing to you." His tone lacked conviction. In his mind, Charlotte was already hardly better than his son.
"On the contrary." Charlotte settled more comfortably into her seat. "I find it very easy to understand how one still thinks with great vividness and affection of those whom one has loved. We all bear our losses in different ways-however is easiest for us-and afford others the same comfort."
Lovell's face paled, but before he could reply Caroline stood up, setting her cup and saucer on the table.
"It has been most charming," she said to no one in particular. "But we have other calls it would be only civil to make. I trust you will excuse us? My dear Ambrosine, I do hope I shall see you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Charrington, Inigo."
Lovell rose from his chair and bowed. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison, Mrs. Pitt. So delightful to have made your acquaintance."
Inigo opened the door for them and followed them out into the hall.
"I'm so sorry if I caused you distress, Mrs. Pitt," he said with a little frown. "It was not my intention in the least."
"Of course not," Charlotte answered him. "And I think from what I have heard of her that I should have liked your sister very much indeed. I certainly find your mother the most comfortable person I have met for a long time."
"Comfortable!" he said in amazement. "Most people find her quite the opposite."
"I suppose it must be a matter of taste, but I assure you, I like her a great deal."
Inigo smiled broadly, all the anxiety slipping out of his face. He shook her hand warmly.
The footman was helping Caroline with her coat. She fastened it and Charlotte accepted hers. A moment later they were outside in the sharp March wind.
An open carriage rattled by, and the man inside raised his hat to them. Caroline had a brief impression of a dark, elegant head, with thick hair curving close to the nape of his neck, sleek and beautiful, and of dark, level eyes. She caught only a glimpse, and then the carriage had passed, but it woke a memory in her so sharp it left her tingling. The man in the carriage was Paul Alaric, the Frenchman who had lived in Paragon Walk, only a hundred yards from Emily, and who had stirred so many pas shy;sions that summer of the murders. Poor Selena had been so obsessed with him it had almost deranged her.
Against all her common sense, Charlotte herself had felt at shy;tracted by his cool wit, the charm that seemed almost unconscious, and the very fact that they all knew so little about him-no family, no past, no social category in which to fit him. Even Emily, with all her grace and elan, had not been entirely impervious.
Could it really have been he just now?
She turned and found Caroline standing very straight, her head high, the wind whipping color into her cheeks.
"Do you know him?" Charlotte asked incredulously.
Caroline began to walk again, her steps sharp on the pavement.
"Slightly," she replied. "He is Monsieur Paul Alaric."
Charlotte felt the heat flood through her-so it was he. …
"He is acquainted with quite a few residents in the Place," Caroline continued.
Charlotte was about to add that it seemed beyond question that Caroline was one of them; then, without being sure why, she changed her mind.
"He seems to be a person of leisure," she said instead. It was a pointless remark, but suddenly sensible words had left her.
"He has business in the city." Caroline walked more rapidly, and further conversation was whipped away from them by the wind. Twenty or thirty yards on, they were at the Lagardes' front entrance.
"Are they French?" Charlotte whispered under her breath as the door opened and they were conducted into the hall.
"No," Caroline whispered as the parlormaid went to an shy;nounce them. "Great-grandfather, or something. Came over at the time of the Revolution."
"The Revolution? That was nearly a hundred years ago!" Charlotte whispered back, then fixed her face in an appropriately expectant expression as they were ushered into the withdrawing room.
"All right, then it was further back. I have heard so much history from your grandmother I am tired of it," Caroline snapped.
"Good afternoon, Eloise. May I present my daughter Mrs. Pitt," she continued with a total change of voice and expression, without drawing breath.
The girl who faced Charlotte was indeed, as Caroline had said, darkly lovely, with the translucence of moonlight on water. Her hair was soft and full, without sheen, quite unlike Charlotte's, which gleamed like polished wood and was hard to keep pinned because of its weight.
"How delightful of you to call." Eloise stepped back, smiling and by implication inviting them to sit down. "Will you take tea?"
It was a little late, and perhaps it was merely a courtesy that she asked.
"Thank you, but we would not wish to be of inconvenience," Caroline said, declining in an accepted formula. It would be less than flattering to say that they had already taken tea elsewhere. She turned to the mantelshelf. "What a delightful picture! I don't believe I have noticed it before."
Personally, Charlotte would not have given it houseroom, but tastes varied.
"Do you like it?" Eloise looked up, a flicker of amusement in her face. "I always think it makes the house look rather dark, and it isn't really like that at all. But Tormod is fond of it, so I let it hang there."
"That is your country house?" Charlotte asked the obvious question because there was nothing else she could think of to say, and she knew that the reply would provide material for several minutes' polite discussion. They were still on the subject of town and country differences when the door opened and a young man came in who Charlotte knew immediately must be Eloise's brother. He had the same mass of dark hair and the same wide eyes and pale skin. The resemblance in features was not so great, however; he had a higher brow, with the hair sweeping away from it in a broad wave, and his nose was rather aquiline. His mouth was wide, quick to laugh, and, Charlotte judged, quick to sulk. Now he came forward with easy, quite natural grace.
"Mrs. Ellison, what a pleasure to see you." He slipped — his arm around Eloise. "I don't believe I have met your companion?"
"My daughter Mrs. Pitt." Caroline smiled back. "Mr. Tormod Lagarde."
He bowed very slightly.
"Welcome to Rutland Place, Mrs. Pitt. I hope we shall see you often."
"That is most kind of you," Charlotte replied.
Tormod sat next to Eloise on a broad sofa.
"I expect I shall call upon my mother more often as the spring approaches," Charlotte added.
"I'm afraid the winter is very grim," he answered. "One feels far more like remaining close to the fire than venturing out to go visiting. In fact, we quite often retreat altogether to our house in the country and simply close the doors all January and February."
Eloise's face warmed as if at some sweet and lingering memory. She said nothing, but Charlotte imagined she could see reflected in her eyes the light of Christmases with trees and lanterns, pinecone fires and hot toast, and long, happy companionship too easy to need the communication of words.
Tormod fished in his pocket and brought out a small package.
"Here." He held it out to Eloise. "To replace the one you lost."
She took it, looking up at him, then down at the little parcel in her hands.
"Open it!" he commanded. "It's not so very special."
Slowly she obeyed, anticipation and pleasure in her face.
Inside the parcel was a small, silver-handled buttonhook.
"Thank you, dear," she said gently. "That really was most thoughtful of you. Especially since it might so easily have been my own fault. I shall feel dreadfully guilty now if the other one turns up and I had merely been careless all the time." She looked over at Charlotte, apology and a touch of embarrassment in her face. "I lost my old one that I had for years. I think it went from my reticule, but I suppose I might have put it some shy;where else and forgotten."
Charlotte's desire to know was stronger than her good judg shy;ment to keep silent on the subject. "You mean you think it could have been stolen?" she asked, feigning surprise.
Tormod dismissed it. "These things happen sometimes. It's an unpleasant thought, but one must face reality-servants do steal from time to time. But since it appears to have happened in someone else's house, it is far better to say nothing. It would be in very poor taste to embarrass a friend by letting it be known. Besides, as Eloise says, it may turn up-although I doubt it now."
Caroline cleared her throat nervously. "But should theft be condoned?" she said a little hesitantly. "I mean-is that right?"
Tormod was still casual, his voice light. He smiled at her with a little twist of regret.
"I suppose not, if one knew for sure who it was and had proof that it had occurred," he said. "But we haven't. All we would do is rouse suspicion, and perhaps quite unjustly. Better to let the matter lie. Once one begins an inquiry into evil, one can start a train of events that is very difficult to stop. A silver-plated buttonhook is hardly worth all the anger and fear, and the doubts, that inquiry would raise."
"I think you are quite right," Charlotte said quickly. "After all, a case of something missing-one has no idea where-is very different from actually knowing beyond question that a particular person has stolen it."
"How wise of you." Tormod flashed her a rapid smile. "Justice is not always best served by shouting 'thief.' "
Before Caroline could defend her view, the maid announced another caller.
"Mrs. Denbigh, ma'am," she said to Eloise. "Shall I say that you will receive her?"
Eloise's face tightened almost imperceptibly. In another light, farther from the window, the change in her expression might not have been visible at all.
"Yes, of course, Beryl, please do."
Amaryllis Denbigh was the sort of woman Charlotte felt quite uncomfortable with. She came into the room with assurance, carrying with her an air of always having been successful, always valued. She was not beautiful, but there was an appeal in her face of wide eyes and slightly too round, curved lips, the innocence of an adolescent who does not yet understand her own potential for excitement and hunger. She had an abundance of fair, wavy hair that was dressed just casually enough not to look unnatural. It required a very skilled maid to achieve such an effect. Her dress was undeniably expensive-not in the least ostentatious, but Charlotte knew how much it cost to have a dressmaker cut it so cleverly that the bust looked just that much fuller, the waist those few inches smaller.
Introductions were formal and very complete. Amaryllis weighed Charlotte to an exactness, and dismissed her. She turned to Tormod.
"Shall you be coming to Mrs. Wallace's soiree on Thursday? I do so hope so. I have heard the pianist she has invited is quite excellent. I'm sure you would enjoy it. And Eloise too, of course," she added as an afterthought, a politeness without conviction.
Charlotte noted the tone in her voice and drew conclusions of her own.
"I think we will," Tormod replied. He turned to Eloise. "You have nothing else prepared, have you, dear?"
"No, not at all. If this pianist is good, it will be a great pleasure. I only hope they do not all make such a noise we cannot hear him."
"My dear, you cannot expect conversation to cease just to listen to a pianist-not at a soiree," Amaryllis said gently. "After all, it is primarily a social event, and the music is merely a diversion, a pleasantness. And of course it gives people some shy;thing to talk about without having to think too hard for a suitable subject. Some people are so awkward, you know." She smiled at Charlotte. "Do you not think so, Mrs. Pitt?"
"Indeed, I am sure of it," Charlotte agreed frankly. "Some cannot think of anything suitable to say at all, while others speak far too much and at all the wrong times. I greatly like a person who knows how to be silent comfortably, especially when there is good music playing."
Amaryllis' face tightened. She ignored the implication.
"Do you play, Mrs. Pitt?" she asked.
"No," Charlotte answered blandly. "I regret I do not. Do you?"
Amaryllis regarded her chillingly.
"I paint," she replied. "I prefer it. So much less intrusive, I think. One can look or not, as one chooses. Oh"-she widened her eyes and bit her lip-"I'm so sorry, Eloise. I had forgotten that you play. I did not mean you, of course! You have never played at anyone's soiree!"
"No, I think I should be very nervous," Eloise said. "Although it would be an honor to be asked. But I rather think I should be irritated if everyone talked so much that no one else could listen." She spoke with some feeling. "Music should be respected, not treated like street sounds, or wallpaper, no more than a sort of background. Then one becomes bored with it, without ever having appreciated its beauty."
Amaryllis laughed, a high, pretty sound that irked Charlotte unreasonably-perhaps because she would have liked to have such a laugh, and knew she did not.
"How philosophical you are!" Amaryllis said brightly. "I warn you, my dear, if you start saying things like that at a soiree, you will become most unpopular. People will not know what to make of you!" /
Charlotte gave her mother a sharp nudge on the ankle, and as Caroline bent to touch the place, thinking something had fallen on her, Charlotte pretended to assume she was preparing to leave.
"May I help you, Mama?" she offered, then rose and gave Caroline her arm.
Caroline glanced at her. "I am not yet in need of assistance, Charlotte," she said crisply. But although the idea of sitting down again, out of contrariness, lingered quite clearly in her eyes, after a moment she excused herself politely, and a few minutes later they were both outside in the street again.
"I dislike Mrs. Denbigh," Charlotte said with feeling. "Very much!"
"That was obvious." Caroline pulled her collar up. Then she smiled. "Actually, so do I. It is completely unfair, because I have no idea why, but I find her most irritating."
"She has set her cap at Tormod Lagarde," Charlotte remarked by way of partial explanation. "And she is being very bold about it." I
"Do you think so?"!
"Of course she is! Don't tell me you had not noticed!"
"Of course I have noticed!" Caroline shivered. "But I have I seen a great many more women set their caps at men than you have, my dear, and I had not thought Amaryllis was particularly clumsy. In fact, I think she is really quite patient."
"I still do not care for her!"
"That is because you like Eloise and you cannot think what will happen to her if Tormod marries, since Amaryllis obviously is not fond of her. Perhaps Eloise herself will marry, and that will solve the problem."
"Then it would be a great deal cleverer of Amaryllis to find a suitable young man for Eloise than to sit there disparaging her, wouldn't it! It should not be hard-she is perfectly charming. What is the matter, Mama? You keep hunching your shoulders as if you were in a draft, but it is quite sheltered here."
"Is there anyone behind us?"
Charlotte turned. "No. Why? Were you expecting someoneT'
"No! No-I–I just have the feeling that someone is watching US: For goodness' sake, don't stare like that, Charlotte. You will have people think we are watching them, trying to see in through their curtains!"
"What people?" Charlotte forced herself to smile in an effort to hide her anxiety for Caroline. "There isn't anyone," she said reasonably.
"Don't be silly!" Caroline snapped. "There is always someone-a butler or a maid drawing curtains, or a footman at a door.''
"Then it is hardly anything to matter." Charlotte dismissed it with words, but in her mind she did not find it so easy. The sensation of being watched-not casually observed by someone about another duty, but deliberately and systematically watched- was extremely unpleasant. Surely Caroline was imagining it? Why should anyone do such a thing? What possible reason would there be?
Caroline had quickened her pace, and now she did so again. They were walking so rapidly Charlotte's skirts whipped round her ankles, and she was afraid that if she did not look where she was going she would trip over one of the paving stones and fall headlong.
Caroline whirled around the gatepost and up the steps to her own front door. She was there before the footman had seen them to open it, and was obliged to wait. She shifted from foot to foot, and once actually turned to stare back into the road.
"Mama, has someone accosted you in the street?" Charlotte asked, touching her arm.
"No, of course not! It's just-" She shook herself angrily. "I have the feeling that I am not alone, even when it would appear in every way that I am. There is someone I cannot see but who I am perfectly sure can see me."
The door opened and Caroline swept in, with Charlotte behind her.
"Close the curtains please, Martin," she said to the footman.
"All of them, ma'am?" His voice rose in surprise. It was still daylight for another two hours, and perfectly pleasant.
"Yes, please! In all the rooms that we shall occupy." Caro shy;line removed her coat and hat and gave them to him; Charlotte did the same.
In the withdrawing room Grandmama was sitting in front of the fire.
"Well?" She surveyed them up and down. "Is there any news?"
"Of what, Mama?" Caroline asked, turning toward the table.
"Of anything, girl! How can I ask for news of something if I do not know what it is? If I already knew it, it would not be news to me, would it?"
It was a fallacious argument, but Charlotte had long ago discovered the futility of pointing that out to her.
"We called upon Mrs. Charrington and Miss Lagarde," she said. "I found them both quite delightful."
"Mrs. Charrington Js eccentric." Grandmama's voice was tart, as if she had bitten into a green plum.
"That pleased me." Charlotte was not going to be bested. "She was very civil, and after all that is the important thing."
"And Miss Lagarde-was she civil too? She is far too shy for her own good. The girl seems incapable of flirting with any skill at all!" Grandmama snapped. "She'll never find herself a hus shy;band by wandering around looking fey, however pretty her face. Men don't marry just a face, you know!"
"Which is as well for most of us." Charlotte was equally acerbic, looking at Grandmama's slightly hooked nose and heavy-lidded eyes.
The old woman affected not to have understood her. She turned toward Caroline icily. "You had a caller while you were out."
"Indeed?" Caroline was not particularly interested. It was quite usual for at least one person to visit during the afternoon, just as she and Charlotte had visited others; it was part of the ritual. "I expect they left a card and Maddock will bring it in presently."
"Don't you even wish to know who it was?" Grandmama sniffed, staring at Caroline's back.
"Not especially."
"It was that Frenchman with his foreign manners. I forget his name." She chose not to remember because it was not English. "But he has the best tailor I have seen in thirty years."
Caroline stiffened. There was absolute silence in the room, so thick one imagined one could hear carriage wheels two streets away.
"Indeed?" Caroline said again, her voice unnaturally casual. There was a catch in it as if she were bursting to say more and forcing herself to wait so her words would not fall over each other. "Did he say anything?"
"Of course he said something! Do you think he stood there like a fool?"
Caroline kept her back to them. She took one of the daffodils out of the bowl, shortened its stalk, and replaced it.
"Anything of interest?"
"Who ever says anything of interest these days?" Grandmama answered miserably. "There aren't any heroes anymore. General Gordon has been murdered by those savages in Khartoum. Even Mr. Disraeli is dead-not that he was a hero, of course! Or a gentleman either, for that matter. But he was clever. Everyone with any breeding is gone."
"Was Monsieur Alaric discourteous?" Charlotte asked in surprise. He had been so perfectly at ease in Paragon Walk, good manners innate in his nature, even if she had frequently seen humor disconcertingly close beneath.
"No," Grandmama admitted grudgingly. "He was civil enough, but he is a foreigner. He cannot afford not to be civil. If he'd been born forty years earlier, I daresay he would have made something of himself in spite of that. There isn't even a decent war now 'where a man could go and prove his worth. At least there was the Crimea in Edward's time-not that he went!"
"Crimea is in the Black Sea," Charlotte pointed out. "I don't see what it has to do with us."
"You have no patriotism," Grandmama accused. "No sense of Empire! That's what is wrong with the young. You are not great!"
"Did Monsieur Alaric leave any message?" Caroline turned around at last. Her face was flushed, but her voice was perfectly steady now.
"Were you expecting one?" Grandmama squinted at her.
Caroline breathed in and out again before replying.
"Since I do not know why he called," she said, walking over to.the door, "I wondered if he left some word. I think I'll go and ask Maddock." And she slipped out, leaving Charlotte and the old lady alone.
Charlotte hesitated. Should she ask the questions that were teeming in her head? The old woman's sight was poor; she had not seen Caroline's body, the rigid muscles, the slow, controlled turn of her head. Still her hearing was excellent when she chose to listen, and her mind was still as sharp and as worldly as it had ever been. But Charlotte realized that there was not anything Grandmama could tell her she had not already guessed for herself.
"I think I will go and see if Mama can spare the carriage to take me home," she said after a moment or two. "Before dark."
"As you please." Grandmama sniffed. "I don't really know what you came for-just to go calling, I suppose."
"To see Mama," Charlotte answered.
"Twice in one week?"
Charlotte was not disposed to argue. "Goodbye, Grandrnama. It has been very nice to see you looking in such good health."
The old lady snorted. "Full of yourself," she said dryly. "Never did know how to behave. Just as well you married beneath you. You'd never have done in Society."
All the way home, rolling smoothly through the streets in her father's carriage, Charlotte was too consumed by her thoughts to take proper pleasure in how much more comfortable the carriage was than the omnibus.
It was painfully apparent that Caroline's interest in Paul Alaric was not in the least casual. Charlotte could recall too many of the idiotic details of her own infatuation with her brother-in-law Dominic, before she had met Thomas, to be deceived by this. She knew just that affectation of indifference, the clenching of the stomach in spite of all one could do, the heart in the throat when his name was mentioned, when he smiled at her, when people spoke of them in the same breath. It was all incredibly silly now, and she burned with embarrassment at the memory.
But she recognized the same feeling in others when she saw it; she had seen it before for Paul Alaric, more than once. She understood Caroline's stiff back, the overly casual voice, the pretense of disinterest.that was not strong enough to stop her from almost running to Maddock to find out if Alaric had left a message.
It had to be Paul Alaric's picture in the locket. No wonder Caroline wanted it back! It was not some anonymous admirer from the past, but a face that might be recognized by any resident of Rutland Place, even the bootboys and the scullery maids.
And there was no possible way she could explain it! There could be no reason but one why she should carry a locket with his picture.
By the time Charlotte reached home, she had made up her mind to tell Pitt something about it and to ask his advice, simply because she could not bear the burden alone. She did not tell him whose picture was in the locket.
"Do nothing," he said gravely. "With any luck, it has been lost in the street and has fallen down a gutter somewhere, or else it has been stolen by someone who has sold it or passed it on, and it will never be seen again in Rutland Place, or by anyone who has the faintest idea who it belonged to, or whose picture it is."
"But what about Mama?" she said urgently. "She is obviously flattered and attracted by this man, and she doesn't intend to send him away."
Pitt weighed his words carefully, watching her face. "Not for a little while, perhaps. But she will be discreet." He saw Char shy;lotte draw breath to argue, and he closed his hand over hers. "My dear, there is nothing you can do about it, and even if there were you have no right to interfere."
"She's my mother!"
"That makes you care-but it does not give you the right to step into her affairs, which you are only guessing at."
"I saw her! Thomas, I'm perfectly capable of putting together what I saw this afternoon, the locket, and what will happen if Papa finds out!"
"Then do what you can to make sure that he doesn't. Warn her to be careful, by all means, and to forget the locket, but don't do anything more. You will only make it worse."
She stared back at him, into his light, clever eyes. This time he was wrong. He knew a lot about people in general, but.she knew more about women. Caroline needed more than a warning. She needed help. And whatever Pitt said, Charlotte would have to give it.
She lowered her eyes. "I'll warn her-about pursuing the locket," she agreed.
He understood her better than she knew. He would not press her into a position where she was obliged to lie. He sat back, resigned but unhappy.
Pitt was too busy with his own duties to harass his mind with anxieties over Caroline. Previous cases had led him into associa shy;tion with people of similar positions in Society, but the circum shy;stances in which he had seen them had necessarily been unusual, and he was aware that these past associations gave him little real understanding of their beliefs or their values. He understood even less of what might be acceptable to them in their relationships, and what would cause irreparable harm.
Pitt felt it was dangerous for Charlotte to get mixed up in the Rutland Place thefts, but he knew that most of his reaction sprang from his emotions rather than his reason: he was afraid she would be hurt. Now that she had moved from Cater Street and left her parents' home, she had absorbed new beliefs, albeit some of them unconsciously, and she had forgotten many as shy;sumptions that used to be as natural to her as they still were to her parents. She had changed, and he was afraid that she had not realized how much-or that she had expected them to have changed also. Her loyal, fiercely compassionate, but blind inter shy;ference could so easily bring pain to them all.
But he did not know how to persuade her from it. She was too close to see.
He was sitting at his brown wood desk at the police station looking at an unpromising list of stolen articles, his mind on Charlotte, when a sharp-nosed constable came in, his face pinched, eyes bright.
"Death," he said simply.
Pitt raised his head. "Indeed. Not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. Why does this one interest us?" His mind pic shy;tured the alleys and creaking piles of rotting timber of the rookeries, the slums that backed onto the solid and spacious houses of the respectable. People died in them every day, every hour: some died from cold, some from disease or starvation, a few from murder. Pitt could afford to concern himself only with the last, and not always with them.
"Whose?" he asked.
"Woman." The constable was as sparing with words as with his money. "Wealthy woman, good address. Married."
Pitt's interest quickened. "Murder?" he said, half hopeful, and ashamed of it. Murder was a double tragedy-not only for the victim and those who cared for her, but for the murderer also, and whoever loved or needed or pitied the tormented soul. But it was less gray, less inherently part of a problem too vast to begin, than death from street violence, or poverty, which was innate in the very pattern of the rookeries.
"Don't know." The constable's eyes never moved from Pitt's face. "Need to find out. Could be."
Pitt fixed him with a cold stare.
"Who is dead?" he demanded. "And where?"
"A Mrs. Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown," the constable answered levelly, a faint ring of anticipation in his voice at last. "Of number eleven Rutland Place."
Pitt sat up. "Did you say Rutland Place, Harris?"
"Yes, sir. Know it, do you, sir?" He added the "sir" only to keep from being impertinent; usually he did without such extra niceties, but Pitt was his superior and he wanted to work on this job. Even if it was not murder, and it probably was not, a death in Society was still a great deal more interesting than the run-of-the-mill crimes he would otherwise employ himself with. All too seldom did he find a genuine mystery.
"No," Pitt answered him dourly. "I don't." He stood up and pushed his chair back, scraping it along the floor. "But I imag-
rutland place
ine we are about to. What do you know about Mrs. Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown?"
"Not a lot." Harris fell in behind him as they collected hats, coats, and mufflers, and strode down the police station steps into the March wind.
"Well?" Pitt demanded, keeping his eye on the thoroughfare in hope of seeing an empty cab.
Harris doubled his step to keep up.
"Early thirties, very respectable, nothing said against her. Still," he said hopefully, "there wouldn't be, in that sort of address. Plenty of servants, plenty of money, by the looks. Although looks don't always mean much. Known those as had three servants, bombazine curtains, and nothing but bread and gravy on the table. All appearance."
"Did Mrs. Spencer-Brown have bombazine curtains?" Pitt inquired, moving sideways sharply as a carriage sped by him,1 splattering a mixture of mud and manure onto the pavement. He swore under his breath, and then yelled "Cabbie!" furiously at the top of his lungs.
Harris winced. "Don't know, sir. Only just got the report. Haven't been there myself. Do you want a cab, sir?"
"Of course I do!" Pitt glared at him. "Fool!" he muttered under his breath, then was obliged to take it back the next moment when Harris leapt into the street with alacrity and stopped a hansom almost in its tracks.
A moment later they were sitting in the warmth of the cab, moving at a sharp trot toward Rutland Place.
"How did she die?" Pitt continued.
"Poison," Harris replied.
Pitt was surprised. "How do you know?"
"Doctor said so. Doctor called us. Got one of them new machines."
"What new machines? What are you talking about?"
"Telephones, sir. Machine what hangs on the wall and-"
"I know what a telephone is!" Pitt said sharply. "So the doctor called on a telephone. Who did he call? We haven't got one!"
"Friend of his who lives just round the corner from us-a Mr. Wardley. This Mr. Wardley sent his man with the message."
"I see. And the doctor said she was poisoned?"
"Yes, sir, that was his opinion."
"Anything else?"
"Not yet, sir. Poisoned this afternoon. Parlormaid found her."
Pitt pulled out his watch. It was quarter past three o'clock.
"What time?" he asked.
"About quarter past two, or just after."
That would be when the maid went to inquire whether they would be expecting callers for tea, or if Mrs. Spencer-Brown was going out herself, Pitt thought. He knew enough about the habits of Society to be familiar with the afternoon routine.
A few moments later they were in Rutland Place, and Pitt looked with interest at the quiet, gracious facades of the houses, set back a little from the pavement, areaways immaculate, some shaded by trees, windows catching the light. A carriage was drawn up outside one, and a footman was handing a lady down, closing the door behind her. Farther along another was leaving, harness glinting in the sun. One of those houses was Caroline's. Pitt had never been there; it was a tacit understanding that such a call would be comfortable for neither the occupants nor Pitt. They met occasionally, but on neutral territory where no compari shy;sons could be made, even though it would be the last thing either had intended.
The hansom stopped, and they climbed out and paid the fare.
"Eleven," Harris said as they mounted the step.
The door opened even before they reached it and a footman hastened them in as forcefully as was consistent with his dignity. One did not desire police to wait on the doorstep so the whole neighborhood was aware one had been obliged to call them in! It was more than his promotion was worth to be clumsy in the handling of such a matter.
"Inspector Pitt," Pitt announced himself quietly, conscious of the presence of tragedy, whatever its nature turned out to be. He was used to death, but it never failed to move him, and he still did not know what to say in the face of loss. No words could make any difference. He hated to sound trite or unfeeling, yet feared he often did, simply because he felt it from the outside. He was an intruder, a reminder of the darkest possibilities, the ugliest explanation.
"Yes, sir," the footman said formally. "You'll be wanting to speak to Dr. Mulgrew, no doubt. A carriage had been sent for Mr. Spencer-Brown, but he is not home yet."
"Do you know where he is?" Pitt asked merely as a matter of course.
"Yes, sir. He went to the city as usual. He has several interests, I believe. He is on the board of directors of a number of important business houses, and a newspaper. If you will come this way, sir, I will show you tef the morning room where Dr. Mulgrew is waiting."
Pitt and Harris followed him along the hall toward the back of the house. Pitt eyed the furnishings and noted that a great deal of money had been invested in them, whether purely for appearance's sake or not. If the Spencer-Browns had any financial worries, a few of the pictures on the staircase and hall would have given them an income the like of which Pitt could have lived on for several years. He had come to be a fair judge of the price of a painting in the course of his professional connections with the art world.
The morning-room fire was banked high, and Mulgrew stood so close to it Pitt fancied he could smell his trousers singeing in the heat. He was a stocky man with white, heavy hair and a fine white mustache. At present his eyes were watery and his nose distinctly red. He sneezed loudly as they came in, and withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket.
"Cold," he said in completely unnecessary explanation. "Filthy thing. No cure for it. Never has been. Name's Mulgrew. I suppose you are the police?"
"Yes, sir. Inspector Pitt and Constable Harris."
"How do you do. Hate a spring cold-nothing worse, except a summer one."
"I understand the parlormaid found Mrs. Spencer-Brown dead when she came to inquire about the afternoon's arrangements?" Pitt asked. "Did the maid call you?"
"Not precisely." Mulgrew put his handkerchief away. "She told the butler, which is natural, I suppose. Butler came to look for himself, then sent the footman round for me. Only live round the corner. I came straightaway. Wasn't a thing I could do. Poor creature was stone dead. I used the telephone to call a friend of mine, William Wardley. He sent a message to you." He sneezed again and whipped out his handkerchief.
"You ought to take something for that," Pitt said, moving a step back. "Hot drink and a mustard poultice."
"No cure for it." Mulgrew shook his head and waved his hands. "No cure at all. Poison, but I can't say what yet-not for certain."
"You are quite sure?" Pitt did not want to insult him by Cj lestioning his competence too obviously. "Couldn't be any form of illness?"
Mulgrew narrowed his eyes and looked at Pitt closely.
"Couldn't take my oath on it, but don't want to wait until I can before I tell you! Too late for you to see the scene if I do! Not a fool, you know?"
Pitt found himself wanting to smile and had to force his mouth into a more appropriate expression.
"Thank you!" It seemed the most civil thing to say. "I take it you are Mrs. Spencer-Brown's regular physician?"
"Yes, naturally. That's why they called me. Perfectly healthy woman. Usual small ailments from time to time, but then haven't we all?"
"Had she any medicine that you know of which she might have taken in excess, by accident?"
"Nothing I've given her. Only ever had the occasional cold or fit of the vapors. No cure for them, you know? Just part of life-best to put up with it gracefully. A little sympathy, if you can get it, and a good sleep."
Pitt again controlled his desire to smile at the man.
"What about anyone else in the house?" he,asked.
"What? Oh. Doubt she'd be stupid enough to take anyone else's medicine. Not a silly woman, as women go! But then I suppose she could have, at that. Not a lot of sense when it comes to medicine, most people." He sneezed again, fiercely. "Gave Mr. Spencer-Brown some stuff for pain in the stomach. Though I think he brings it on himself for the most part. Tried to tell him that and got a flea in my ear for my trouble."
"Pain in his stomach?" Pitt inquired.
"Diet, mostly." Mulgrew shook his head and blew his nose. "Eats all the wrong things, no wonder it gives him a pain. He's an odd fellow-no use for that either!" He looked at Pitt out of the corner his eye, as if waiting to be argued with.
"Quite," Pitt said. "Anything in this stuff of Mr. Spencer-Brown's that could have killed anyone if taken in excess?"
Mulgrew pulled a face. "I suppose so-if you mixed the whole lot arid drank it.''
"No possibility of an overdose by accident? If Mrs. Spencer-Brown had a stomach pain, for example, and thought she would relieve it by borrowing some of her husband's medicine?"
"Told him to keep it locked in his cabinet, but I suppose if he didn't, she could have taken it. Still, don't think she could take enough to kill herself by mistake."
"Instructions on the bottle?"
"Box. It's a powder. And yes, of course there are. Don't go handing out poisons willy-nilly, you know."
"Poisons?"
"Has belladonna in it."
"I see. But we don't know what she died of yet. Or at least if we do, you haven't said so?" He watched hopefully.
Mulgrew looked at him over the top of his handkerchief and blew his nose solemnly. He fished in his pocket for another and failed to find one. Pitt pulled out his own spare and soberly handed it over.
"Thank you." Mulgrew took it. "You're a gentleman. That's what makes me unhappy. Can't swear to it yet, but I've a strong suspicion it was belladonna that killed her. Looks like it. Appar shy;ently she didn't complain of feeling unwell. She had just come in from making an early call somewhere close by, and she was dead within fifteen or twenty minutes of going into the withdraw shy;ing room. All pretty sudden. No vomiting, no blood. Not much in the way of convulsions. You can see the dilated pupils, dry mouth-just what you'd expect from belladonna. Heart stops."
Suddenly the reality hit. Pitt could almost feel it himself: a woman dying alone, the tightness of breath, the pain, the world receding, leaving her to face the darkness, the paralysis, and the terror.
"Poor creature," Pitt said aloud, surprising himself.
Harris coughed in embarrassment.
Mulgrew's face softened, and a flicker of appreciation showed in his eyes as he looked at Pitt.
"Could have been suicide," he said slowly. "At least in theory. Don't know of any reason, but then one usually doesn't. God only understands what private agonies go on behind the polite faces people show. So help me, / don't!"
There was nothing for Pitt to say; silence was the only decent answer. He must remember to send Harris to find Mr. Spencer-Brown's medicine box and see precisely how much was gone.
"Do you want to see her?" Mulgrew asked after a moment.
"I suppose I had better," Pitt said.
Mulgrew walked slowly to the door, and Pitt and Harris followed him out into the hall, past the footman standing gravely to attention, and into the withdrawing room, curtains drawn in acknowledgment of death.
It was a large room, with elegant, pale-covered chairs and sofas in a French style, bowed legs and lots of carved wood. There was much petit-point embroidery in evidence, artificial flowers made of silk in profuse arrangements, and some pleasant pastoral watercolors. In other circumstances, it would have been a charming, if rather overcrowded, room.
Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown was on the chaise longue, her head back, eyes wide, mouth open. There was none of the peace of sleep about her.
Pitt walked over and looked, without touching. There was no spirit left, no privacy to invade, no feelings to hurt, but still he regarded the woman as if there were. He knew nothing about her, whether she had been kind or cruel, generous or mean, brave or a coward; but for himself as much as for her, he wished to accord her some dignity.
"Have you seen all you wish?" he asked Mulgrew without turning around.
"Yes," Mulgrew replied.
Pitt eased her forward a little so she appeared to have been relaxing, folded her hands although he could not unclench them, and closed her eyes.
"She was here only fifteen or twenty minutes before the maid found her like this?" he asked.
"So she says."
"So whatever it was, it acted quickly." He turned and looked around; there was no glass or cup to be seen. "What did she eat or drink?" He frowned. "It doesn't seem to be here now. Did the maid remove anything?"
"Asked her." Mulgrew shook his head. "She says not. Doesn't seem like a flighty girl. Don't see why she should lie. Too shocked when she found her mistress dead to think of tidying up, I would imagine."
"So she didn't take it here," Pitt concluded. "Pity. That would have made it easier. Well, you'll have to do a postmor shy;tem and tell me what it was, and if possible how much, and when."
"Naturally."
Pitt looked at the body once more. There was nothing else to learn from it. There were no signs of force, but then since she had been alone he would not have expected any. She had taken the poison willingly; whether or not she had known what it was remained to be discovered.
"Let's go back to the morning room," he suggested. "I can't see anything here to help us."
Gratefully, they returned to the fire. The house was not cold, but there was a chill in the mind that communicated itself to the flesh.
"What sort of woman was she?" Pitt asked when the door was closed. "And don't hide behind professional confidences. I want to know if this was suicide, accident, or murder, and the sooner I do, with the fewest questions of the family, the easier it will be for them. And they'll have enough to bear."
Mulgrew pulled an unhappy face and blew his nose on Pitts handkerchief.
"I can't imagine an accident," he said, staring at the floor. "Not a silly woman-very capable, in her own way, very quick, noticed things. Least absentminded woman I ever knew."
Pitt did not like the sort of question he had to ask, but there was no way to avoid it, or to make it sound any better.
"Do you know of any reason why she might have taken her own life?"
"No, or I'd have said so."
"She looks as if she was an attractive woman, feminine, delicate. Could she have had a lover?"
"I daresay, if she'd wanted one. But if you mean do I know of one, no, I don't. Never heard any gossip about her whatsoever-even in confidence." He gave Pitt a very direct look.
"What about her husband?" Pitt pressed. "Could he have had a woman, a mistress? Could she have been driven to suicide over that?"
"Alston?" Mulgrew's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the idea. Obviously it was one he had never considered before. "I should think it highly unlikely. Bloodless sort of creature. Still- you never know-the flesh is full of surprises! Nothing odder about the human animal than his predilections in that area. I'm fifty-two years old, and I've been a doctor for twenty-seven of them. Nothing ought to surprise me-but it does!"
Other, uglier thoughts occurred to Pitt, thoughts about other men-boys, even children. Knowledge of such a thing might drive a wife to feel her life was insupportable. But that was only a wild speculation.
Then again there were other thoughts, perhaps more likely, things that Charlotte had spoken about: thefts, a sense of being watched. Could this woman have been the thief and then, when she realized the watcher knew about it, have killed herself in the face of the overwhelming shame? Society was cruel; it seldom forgave, and it never, ever forgot.
Pitt was touched by a breath of misery as cold as January sleet.
Poor woman.
If he discovered that to be the truth, he would find some way to avoid saying so.
"Don't lay too much on what I say, Inspector." Mulgrew was looking at him soberly. "I don't mean anything by it-just generalizing."
Pitt blinked. "That's all I took it for," he said carefully. "Just that nothing is certain when we come to such things."
There was a commotion out in the hall, a rising and falling of voices, and then the door burst open.
They all turned simultaneously, knowing what it was and dreading it. Only Harris stood straight up, because he knew he would not have to say anything.
Alston Spencer-Brown faced them, bristling with shock and anger.
"Who the devil are you, sir?" He glared at Pitt. "And what are you doing in my house?"
Pitt accepted the anger for what it was, but there was still no way of dealing with it that took away the hurt or the embarrass shy;ment afterward.
"Inspector Pitt," he said without pretense. "Dr. Mulgrew called me, as was his duty."
"Duty?" Alston demanded, swinging round to face Mulgrew. "I have the duty in this house, sir. It is my wife who is dead!" He swallowed. "God rest her soul. It is no concern of yours! There is nothing you can do for her now. She must have had a heart attack, poor creature. My butler tells me she had passed away before you even arrived. I cannot think why you are still here. Except perhaps as a courtesy to inform me yourself, for which I thank you. You may feel yourself released from all obligation now, both as physician and as friend. I am obliged to you."
No one moved.
"It was not her heart," Mulgrew said slowly, then sneezed and fished for a handkerchief. "At least it was, but not of itself." He blew his nose. "I'm afraid it was caused by poison."
All the color drained from Alston's face, and for a moment he swayed on his feet. Pitt believed no man could act such a total and paralyzing shock.
"Poison?" Alston spoke with difficulty. "What in heaven's name do you mean?"
"I'm sorry." Mulgrew raised his head slowly to stare at him. "I'm sorry. But she ate or drank something that poisoned her. I think either belladonna or something very like it, but I can't be sure yet. I had to call the police. I had no choice."
"That's preposterous! Mina would never have-" He was lost for words; all reason seemed to have betrayed itself and he abandoned the attempt to understand.
"Come." Mulgrew went toward him and eased him to the big, padded chair.
Pitt went to the door and called the footman for brandy. It came; Pitt poured it and gave it to Alston, who drank without taste or pleasure.
"I don't understand," he repeated. "It's ridiculous. It cannot be true!"
Pitt hated the necessity that drove him to speak.
"I presume you know of no tragedy or fear that could have driven your wife to such a state of distress," he began.
Alston stared at him.
"What are you suggesting, sir? That my wife committed suicide? How-how dare you!" His chin quivered with outrage.
Pitt lowered his voice. He could not look the man in the eyes.
"Can you imagine any circumstance in which your wife would take poison by accident, sir?" he asked.
Alston opened his mouth, then closed it again. The full impli shy;cation of the question reached him: He let several moments tick by as he fought to see another answer.
"No," he said at length. "I cannot. But then neither can I conceive of any reason whatsoever why she should take it knowingly. She was a perfectly happy woman, she had every shy;thing she desired. She was an excellent wife to me, and I was happy to give her everything she wanted-comfort, a place in Society, travel when she desired it, clothes, jewels, whatever she wished. And I am a most moderate man. I have neither ill temper nor any excesses of nature. Wilhelmina was well liked and respected, as indeed she deserved to be."
"Then the answer must be in something we do not yet know." Pitt put the reasoning as gently as he could. "I hope you will understand, sir, that we must persist until we discover what that is."
"No-no, I don't understand! Why can't you let the poor woman rest in peace?" Alston sat more upright and set the brandy glass down on the table. "Nothing any of us can do can help her now. We can at least let her memory rest with dignity. In fact, I demand it!"
Pitt hated this part. He had expected it; it was natural. It was what most people would feel and do, but that did not make it any easier. It was familiar to him: he had said his part more times than he could count, but it was always the first time for the hearer.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer-Brown, but your wife died in circum shy;stances that have not yet been explained. It may have been an accident, although, on your own word, that seems unlikely. It may have been suicide, but no one knows of a reason why she should do such a thing. It may have been murder." He looked at Alston and met his eyes. "I have to know-the law has to know."
"That is ridiculous," Alston said quietly, too appalled for anger. "Why on earth should anyone wish Mina harm?"
"I have no idea. But if anyone did, then the person must be found."
Alston stared at the empty glass in front of him. All the answers were equally impossible to him, and yet his intelligence told him one of them must be the truth.
"Very well," he said. "But I would be obliged if you would remember that we are a house in mourning, and observe what shy;ever decencies you can. You may be accustomed to sudden death, and she was a stranger to you-but I am not, and she was my wife."
Pitt had not warmed to him instinctively-he was a fussy, deliberate little man, where Pitt was extravagant and impulsive- but there was a dignity about him that commanded respect.
"Yes, sir," Pitt said soberly. "I have seen death many times, but I hope I never find myself accepting it without shock, or a sense of grief for those who cared."
"Thank you." Alston stood up. "I presume you will wish to question the servants?"
"Yes, please."
They were duly brought in one by one, but none of them could furnish anything beyond the simple, facts that Mina had arrived home on foot a few minutes after two o'clock, the footman had Jet her in, she had gone upstairs to her dressing room to prepare herself for the afternoon, and a little after quarter past two the parlormaid had found her dead on the chaise, longue in the withdrawing room where Pitt and Mulgrew had seen her. No one knew of any reason why she should be distressed in any way, and no one knew of anyone who wished her harm. Certainly no one knew of anything she had eaten or drunk since her breakfast, which had been at midmorning-far too early for her to have ingested the poison.
When they were gone, and Harris had been dispatched to find the box of Alston's stomach medicine and to perform a routine inspection of the kitchen and other premises, Pitt turned to Mulgrew.
"Could she have taken something at whatever house she was visiting between luncheon and her return home?" he asked.
Mulgrew fished for another handkerchief.
"Depends on what it was. If I'm wrong and it wasn't belladonna, then we start all over again. But if it was, then no, I don't think so. Works pretty quickly. Can't see her taking it in another house, walking all the way back here, going upstairs, tidying herself up, coming down here, and then being taken ill. Sorry. For the time being you'd better assume she took it here."
"One of the servants?" Pitt did not believe it. "In that case it should not be hard to find which one brought her something- only why!"
"Glad it's your job, not mine." Mulgrew looked at his hand shy;kerchief with disgust, and Pitt gave him his own best one. "Thanks. What are you going to do?"
Pitt tightened his muffler and thrust his hands into his pockets.
"I'm going to pay a few calls," he said. "Harris will make arrangements to have the body removed. The police surgeon will attend the autopsy, of course. I daresay you'll need to help Mr. Spencer-Brown. He looks pretty shaken."
"Yes." Mulgrew held out his hand, and Pitt shook it.
Five minutes later he was outside on the street feeling cold and unhappy. There was only one realistic step to take now, and he could not reason himself out of it. If Charlotte was right, there was something very unpleasant going on in Rutland Place: petty theft, and perhaps some person peeping and staring with a malicious interest in the private lives of others. He could not overlook the likelihood that Mina's death was a tragic result of some part of this.
He knocked on Caroline's door with his hands shaking. There was no pleasant way of asking her the questions he had to. She would regard the questioning as intolerable prying, and the fact that it was he who was doing it would make it worse, not better.
The parlormaid did not know him.
"Yes, sir?" she said in some surprise. Gentlemen did not usually call at this hour, especially strangers, and this loose-boned, untidy creature on the step, with his wind-ruffled hair and coat done up at sixes and sevens, was certainly not expected.
"Will you please tell Mrs. Ellison that Mr. Pitt is here to see her?" He walked in past her before she had time to protest. "It is a matter of some urgency."
The name was familiar to her, but she could not immediately place it. She hesitated, uncertain whether to allow him in any farther or to call one of the menservants for help.
"Well, sir, if you please to wait in the morning room," she said dubiously.
"Certainly." He was herded obediently out of the hallway into the silence of the back room, and within moments Caroline came in, her face flushed.
"Thomas! Is something wrong with Charlotte?" she demanded. "Is she ill?"
"No! No, she is very well." He put out his hands as if to touch her in some form of reassurance, then remembered his place. "I'm afraid it is something quite different," he finished.
All the anxiety slipped away from her. Then suddenly, as if hearing a cry, it returned, and without anything said, he knew she was afraid Charlotte had told him about the locket with its betraying picture. It would have been better police work if he had allowed her to go on thinking so, since she might have made some slip, but the words came to his tongue in spite of reasoning.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Spencer-Brown has died this afternoon, and the cause is not yet apparent."
"Oh dear!" Caroline put her hand to her mouth in horror. "Oh, how dreadful! Does poor Alston-Mr. Spencer-Brown- know?"
"Yes. Are you all right?" Her face was very pale, but she seemed perfectly composed. "Would you like me to call the maid for you?"
"No, thank you." Caroline sat on the sofa. "It was very civil of you to come to tell me, Thomas. Please sit down. I dislike having to stare up at you like that-you make me feel uncom shy;fortable. '' She took a breath and smoothed her skirts thoughtfully. "I presume from the fact that you are here it was not an entirely natural death? Was it an accident? Involving some kind of negligence, perhaps?"
He sat down opposite her,
"We don't know yet. But it was not a carriage accident or a fail, if that is what you mean. It appears to have been poison."
She was startled; her eyes widened in disbelief.
"Poison! That's horrible-and ridiculous! It must have been a heart attack, or a stroke or something. It's just a hysterical maid with too many penny novels in her bedroom-" She stopped, her hands clenched on her knees. "Are you trying to say it was murder, Thomas?"
"I don't know what it was. It could have been-or an accident-or suicide." He was obliged to go on. The longer he evaded it the more artificial it would seem, the more pointed. "Charlotte told me there have been a number of small thefts in the neighborhood, and that you have had the unpleasant sensa shy;tion of being watched."
"Did she?" Caroline's body stiffened, and she sat upright. "I would prefer she had kept my confidence, but I suppose that is academic now. Yes, several people have missed small articles, and if you want to chastise me about not having called the police-''
"Not at all," he said, more sharply than he intended. He resented the criticism of Charlotte. "But now that there is death involved, I would like to ask your opinion as to whether you believe it possible Mrs. Spencer-Brown could have been the thief?"
"Mina?" Caroline opened her eyes in surprise at the thought.
"It might be a reason why she should have killed herself," he reasoned. "If she realized it was a compulsion she could not control."
Caroline frowned.
"I don't know what you mean-'could not control'? Stealing is never right. I can understand people who steal because they are in desperate poverty, but Mina had everything she needed. And anyway none of the things that are missing are of any great value, just little things, silly things like a handkerchief, a buttonhook, a snuffbox-why on earth should Mina take those?"
"People sometimes take things because they cannot help it." He knew even as he said it that explanation was useless. Her values had been learned in the nursery where good and evil are absolute, and although life had taught her complexity in human relationships, the right to property was one of the cornerstones of Society and order, the framework for all morality, and its pre shy;cepts had never been questioned. Compulsions belonged to fear and hunger, were even accepted, if deplored, where certain appetites of the flesh were concerned, at least in men-not in women, of course. But compulsions of loneliness or inadequacy, frustration, or other gray pains without names were beyond consideration, outside the arc of thought.
"I still don't know what you mean," she said quietly. "Perhaps Mina knew who it was who had been taking things. She did give certain hints from time to time that she was aware of rather more than she felt she ought to say. But surely no one would murder just to hide a few wretched little thefts? I mean, one would certainly dismiss a servant who had stolen, but one might not prosecute because of the embarrassment-not only to oneself but to one's friends. No one wishes to have to make statements and answer questions. But where murder is concerned one has no choice-the person is hanged. The police see to it."
"If we catch them-yes." Pitt did not want to go into the morality of the penal system now. There was no possibility of their agreeing on it. They would not even be talking of the same things; their visions would be of worlds that did not meet at the fringes of the imagination. She had never seen a treadmill or a quarry, never smelled bodies crawling with lice, or sick with jail fever, or seen fingers worked to blood picking oakum-let alone the death cell and the rope.
She sank deeper into the sofa, shivering, thinking of past terrors and Sarah's death.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, realizing where her memories were. "There is no reason yet to suppose it was murder. We must look first for reasons why she might have taken her own life. It is a delicate question to ask, but suicide is not a respecter of feelings. Do you have any idea if she had a romantic involvement of any nature that could have driven her to such despair?" At the back of his mind was beating Charlotte's conviction of the depth of Caroline's own affairs, and he felt it so loudly he almost expected Caroline to answer these thoughts instead of the rather prim words he actually spoke. He felt guilty, as if he had peeped in through someone's dressing-room window.
If Caroline was surprised, she did not show it. Perhaps she had had sufficient warning to expect such a question.
"If she had," she replied, "I certainly have heard no word of it. She must have-been extraordinarily discreet! Unless-;"
"What?"
"Unless it was Tormod," she said thoughtfully. "Please, Thomas, you must realize I am giving voice to things that are merely the faintest of ideas, just possibilities-no more."
"I understand that. Who is Tormod?"
"Tormod Lagarde. He lives at number three. She had known him for some years, and was certainly very fond of him."
"Is he married?"
"Oh no. He lives with his younger sister. They are orphans."
"What sort of a person is he?"
She considered for a moment before replying, weighing the kind of facts he would want to know.
"He is very handsome," she said deliberately. "In a romantic way. There is something about him mat seems to be unattainable- lonely. He is just the sort of man women do fall in love with, because one can never get close enough to him to spoil the illusion. He remains forever just beyond one's reach. Amaryllis Denbigh is in love with him now, and there have been others in the past."
"And does he-" Pitt did not know how to phrase acceptably what he wanted to say.
She smiled at him, making him feel suddenly clumsy and very young.
"Not so far as I know," she answered. "And I believe if he did, I should have heard. Society is very small, you know, especially in Rutland Place."
"I see." He felt his face grow warm. "So Mrs. Spencer-Brown might have been suffering an unrequited affection?"
"Possibly."
"What do you know about Mr. Spencer-Brown?" he asked, moving on to the other major avenue for exploration. "Is he the sort of man who might have become involved with other women and caused Mrs. Spencer-Brown sufficient grief, if she discov shy;ered it, to take her own life?''
"Alston? Good gracious, no! I should find that almost impossi shy;ble to believe. Of course he's pleasant enough, in his own way, but certainly not possessed of any passion to spare." She smiled bleakly. "Poor man. I imagine he is very upset by her death-by the manner of it as much as the event. Do clear it up as soon as you can, Thomas. Suspicion and speculation hurt more deeply than I think sometimes you know."
He did not argue. Who could say how much anyone under shy;stood the endless ripples of one pain growing out of another?
"I will," he promised. "Can you tell me anything else?" He knew he ought to ask her about being watched, and whether the watcher, whoever it was, could have known about Mina and Tormod Lagarde, if there was anything to know; or if Mina was the thief. Or the other great possibility: if Mina knew who was the thief, and had been killed for it.
Or yet another thought: that Mina was the thief, and in her idle pickings had taken something so potentially dangerous for the owner that she had been killed in order to redeem it silently. Something like a locket with a telltale picture in it, or more damning than that! What else might she have stolen? Had she understood it, and tried her hand at blackmail-not necessarily for money, perhaps, but for the sheer power of it?
He looked at Caroline's smooth face with its peachbloom cheeks, the high bones and slender throat that reminded him of Charlotte, the long, delicate hands so like hers. He could not bring himself to ask.
"No," she said candidly, unaware of the battle in him. "I'm afraid I can't, at the moment."
Again he let the opportunity go.
"If you recall anything, send a message and I'll come straightaway." He stood up. "As you say, the sooner we know the truth the less painful it will be for everyone." He walked over to the door and turned. "I don't suppose you know where Mrs. Spencer-Brown went early this afternoon? She called upon someone close by, because she walked."
Caroline's face tightened a little and she drew in her breath, knowing the meaning.
"Oh, didn't you know? She went to the Lagardes'. I was at the Charringtons' a little later and someone mentioned it-I don't remember who now."
"Thank you," he said gently. "Perhaps that explains what happened. Poor woman. And poor man. Please don't speak of it to anyone else. It would be a decency to let it pass unknown-if possible."
"Of course." She took a step toward him. "Thank you, Thomas."