Charlotte did not tell Pitt of her feelings regarding Paul Alaric and Caroline, or indeed that he was someone she had known previously; in fact, she could not have put it into words had she desired to. The encounter had left her more confused than ever. She remembered the heat of emotion and the jealousies he had engendered in Paragon Walk, the disquiet he had awoken even in her. She could understand Caroline's infatuation easily. Alaric was far more than merely charming, a handsome face upon which to build a dream; he had a power to surprise, to disturb, and to remain in the memory long after parting. It would be | blind to dismiss him as a flirtation that would wear itself out.
She could not explain it to Pitt, and she did not wish to have to try.
But of course she had to tell him that Tormod and Eloise Lagarde planned to leave Rutland Place the following day, so that if he wished to speak to them about Mina's death, he would have to do so immediately.
Since they had been the last people he knew of to see Mina alive, there was a great deal Pitt wished to ask them, although he; had not yet formed in his mind any satisfactory way of wording f his thoughts, which were still confused, conscious only of unex shy;plained tragedy. But chance allowed him no time to juggle with polite sympathies and suggestions. At quarter past nine, the earliest time at which it would be remotely civil to call, he was on the icy doorstep facing a startled footman, whose tie sat askew and whose polished boots were marred with mud.
"Yes, sir?" the man said, his mouth hanging open.
"Inspector Pitt," Pitt said. "May I speak with Mr. Lagarde, if you please? And then with Miss Lagarde when it is convenient?"
"It ain't convenient." In his consternation the footman forgot the grammar the butler had been at pains to instill in him. "They're going down to the country today. They ain't-they is not receiving no one. Miss Lagarde aren't well."
"I'm very sorry Miss Lagarde is unwell," Pitt said, refusing to be edged off the step. "But I am from the police, and I am obliged to make inquiries about the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown, who I believe was known to Mr. and Miss Lagarde quite closely. I am sure they would wish to be of every assistance they could."
"Oh! Well-" The footman had obviously not foreseen this situation, nor had the butler prepared him for anything of this sort.
"Perhaps it would be less conspicuous for me to wait some shy;where other than on the doorstep," Pitt said, glancing back into the street with the implicit suggestion that the rest of the Place knew his identity, and therefore his business.
"Oh!" The footman realized the impending catastrophe. "Of course, you'd best come into the morning room. There's no fire there-" Then he recollected that Pitt was the police, and explanations, let alone fires, were unnecessary for such persons. "You just wait in there." He opened the door and watched Pitt go in. "I'll tell the master you're here. Now don't you go a-wandering around! I'll come back and tell you what's what!"
Pitt smiled to himself as the door closed. He bore no rancor. He knew the boy's job depended on his proper observance of social niceties, and that an irritable butler, ill-served, could cost him very dear. There would be no recourse, no opportunity for explanations, and little tolerance of mistakes. To have the police in the house was most unfortunate, but to keep them at the front door arguing for all the world to see would be unpardonable. Pitt had seen a good deal of life belowstairs, beginning with his own parents' experience when his father had been gamekeeper on a large country estate. As a boy, Pitt had run through the house with the master's son, an only child glad of any playmate. Pitt had been quick to learn, to ape the manners and the speech, and to copy the school lessons. He knew the rules on both sides of the green baize door.
Tormod came quickly. Pitt had barely had time to look at the gentle landscape paintings on the walls and the old rosewood desk with its marquetry inlays before he heard the step on the polished floor outside the room.
Tormod was rather what he had expected: broad-shouldered, wearing a beautifully cut coat, his collar a little high- He had dark hair swept back from a broad white brow and a full mouth with a wide lower lip.
"Pitt?" he said formally. "Don't know what I can tell you. I really haven't the faintest idea what can have happened to poor Mina-Mrs. Spencer-Brown. If she had any anxiety or fear, unfortunately she did not confide it to either my sister or myself.''
It was a blank wall, and Pitt had no idea how he was going to make the slightest impression on it. Yet this was the only human clue he had.
"But she did call on you that last day, and left within an hour or so of her death?" he said quietly. His mind was racing, searching for something pertinent to ask, anything that might crack the smooth composure and reveal a hint of the passion that must have been there-unless it really had been only a chance and ridiculous accident.
"Oh, yes," Tormod said with a rueful little shrug. "But even with the wisdom of hindsight, I still cannot think of anything she said which would point to why she should take her own life. She seemed quite composed and in normally good spirits. I have been trying to think what we talked of, but only commonplaces come back to me." He looked at Pitt with a half smile. "Fashion, menus for the dinner table, some silly Society jokes-all the most ordinary things one talks about when one is passing the time and has nothing real to say. Pleasant, but one only partially listens."
Pitt knew the type of conversation perfectly well. Life was full of just such pointless exchanges. The fact that one spoke was what mattered; the words were immaterial. Could it really be that Mina had had no idea whatsoever that she had less than an hour left to live? Had accident occurred like lightning out of a still sky? No storm, no rumble of far thunder, no oppression mount shy;ing before? Murder was not like that. Even a lunatic had reasons for killing: insanity built its slow heat like spring thawing the long winter snows, till suddenly the one more gallon became too much and the dams burst with wild, destructive violence.
But Pitt had seen death caused by madmen, and they did not use poison-not on a woman alone in her own withdrawing room, neatly laid on the chaise longue.
If this was murder, it was perfectly sane-and there was sane reason behind it.
"I wonder," he said aloud, reverting back to the subject. "Could Mrs. Spencer-Brown have had some trouble on her mind and desired to confide it to you but, when faced with the necessity of expressing it in words, have found herself unable to? Might she have spoken only of commonplaces for just that reason?"
Tormod appeared to consider the possibility, his eyes blank as he examined his memory.
"I suppose so," he said at last. "I don't believe it myself. She did not seem other than her usual self. I mean, she was not agitated, as far as I can recall, or unconcerned with the conversation, as one might be if one were seeking an opportu shy;nity to speak of something else."
"But you said yourself that you were only half listening," Pitt pointed out.
Tormod smiled, pulling his face into a comic line.
"Well"-he stretched his hands out, palms up-"who listens to every word of women's conversation? To tell the truth, I had intended to be out, but my plans had been canceled at the last moment, or I should not even have been at home. One has to be civil, but how interested can one be in what color Lady Whoever wore to the ball or what Mrs. So-and-So said at the soiree? It's women's concern. I just didn't feel that it was anything different from usual. I heard no change of tone, caught nothing of anxiety- that's what I mean."
Pitt could only sympathize. It must have required hard discipline to remain courteous throughout. Only the rigid doctrine of good manners above all-from nanny's knee, through tutors and public school-had instilled a pattern of self-control that would allow Tormod to do so with apparent grace. All the same, Pitt took the opportunity it gave him.
"Then perhaps your sister may have observed something, heard some nuance that only a woman would understand?" he asked quickly.
Tormod raised his eyebrows a little, whether at the suggestion or at Pitt's use of words.
He hesitated. "I would rather you did not trouble her, Inspector," he said slowly. "The death has been a severe shock to her. In fact, I am taking her away from Rutland Place for a little while, to recover. The associations are most unpleasant. My sister and I are orphans. Death has hit us hard in the past, and I'm afraid Eloise still finds it difficult to bear. I suppose it may be that Mina did confide something to her that day. I was not present all the time. It may be that Eloise feels she should have understood how desperate the poor woman was, and done something, and that grieves her additionally. Although, in truth, if someone is determined to take their own life, one cannot do anything to prevent them-only put off the time of the inevitable.''
Then he brightened. "I'll tell you what-I shall ask Eloise. She will confide in me if there is anything-that I promise you-and I shall report it to you if it has any bearing whatsoever on Mina's death. Will you accept that? I'm sure you would not wish to distress anyone more than is absolutely necessary."
Pitt was torn. He remembered all the white, stricken faces he had ever seen of people who had encountered death, especially sudden and violent death. Those faces came back to him each time it occurred again: the surprise, the hurt, the slow acceptance that one cannot evade truth as the shock wears off and the reality remains, like growing cold, creeping deeper and deeper.
But he could not afford to let Tormod Lagarde make his judgments for him.
"No, I'm afraid that won't do."
He saw Tormod's face change, the mouth set hard and the eyes chill.
"I'm quite happy that you should be present," Pitt continued without changing his own expression or his voice. A smile remained fixed on his lips. "In fact, if you prefer to ask her yourself, I'm quite agreeable. I understand your concern that she should not be harrassed or reminded of other tragedies. But since I know facts that you cannot know about Mrs. Spencer-Brown's death, I must hear Miss Lagarde's answers for myself, and not as you interpret them to me with the best intention in the world."
Tormod met his eyes, stared at him for a few moments in surprise, then took a step backward and, with a swing of his arm, reached for the bell rope.
"Ask Miss Lagarde to come into the morning room, will you Bevan?" he said when the butler appeared.
"Thank you," Pitt said, acknowledging the concession.
Tormod did not reply, turning instead to look out of the window at the gray drizzle that was beginning to thicken the air and dull the outlines of the houses across the Place. The laufel leaves outside hung glistening drops from their points.
When Eloise arrived, she was pale but perfectly composed. She kept her shawl close around her, and met Pitt's gaze candidly.
As soon as the door opened, Tormod went to her, putting his arm around her shoulders.
"Eloise, darling, Inspector Pitt has to ask you some questions about poor Mina. I'm sure you understand that since we were the last people to see her, he feels we may know something of her state of mind just before she died."
"Of course," Eloise said calmly. She sat down on the sofa and regarded Pitt steadily, only the bare interest of courtesy in her face. The reality of death was seemingly greater than any curiosity.
"There's no need to be afraid," Tormod said to her gently.
"Afraid?" She seemed surprised. "I'm not afraid," She lifted her head to look at Pitt. "But I don't think I can tell you anything that is of value."
Tormod glanced at him warningly, then back at Eloise.
"Do you remember I left you for a while?" he asked her, his voice very soft, almost as if encouraging a child. "You had been speaking of little things until then-fashion and gossip. Did she confide any other matter to you when you were alone? Anything of the heart? A love, or a fear? Perhaps someone she was becoming fond of?"
Eloise's mouth moved in a fraction of a smile. "If you mean did she love someone other than her husband," she said without expression in her voice, "I have no reason to think so. She certainly did not speak of it to me-then or at any other time. I'm not sure if she believed in love of the storybook kind. She believed in passions-lust and pity, and loneliness-but they are quite different things, not really love. They pass when the hun shy;ger is satisfied, or the need for pity removed-or.when one grows exhausted with loneliness. These things are not love."
"Eloise!" Tormod's arm tightened around her and his hand held the flesh of her arm so hard it made white marks on her skin that Pitt could see even through the muslin of her dress. "I'm so sorry!" His voice was soft, a whisper. "I had no idea Mina would speak of such things to you or I would never have left you alone with her." He swung around to stare at Pitt. "There's your answer, Inspector! Mrs. Spencer-Brown was a woman who was disillusioned in some tragic way, and she wished to unburden herself of it to someone. Unfortunately she chose my sister, an unmarried girl-which I find hard to forgive, except that she must have been desperate! God have pity on her!
"Now I think you have learned enough from us. I'm taking Eloise away from here, away from Rutland Place, until the worst of the shock is over, and she can rest in the country and put this from her mind. I don't know what Mrs. Spencer-Brown indi shy;cated to her about her private agonies, but I will not permit you to press her any further. It is obviously a-an intimate and extremely painful subject. I trust you are gentleman sufficient to understand that?"
"Tormod-" Eloise began.
"No, my dear, the Inspector can discover whatever else he needs to know in some other fashion. Poor Mina seems unques shy;tionably to have taken her own life. There was nothing you could have done about it, and I will not have, you blame yourself in any way at all! We may never know what it was that she could no longer bear, and perhaps it is better that we should not. A person's most terrible griefs should be buried decently with them. There are things that lie so close to the heart of a person, every decency of man or God demands they remain private!" He lifted his head and glared at Pitt, defying him to contend.
Pitt looked at them sitting side by side on the sofa. He would get nothing more from Eloise, and in truth he was inclined to agree that Mina's suffering, whatever it was, deserved to be buried with her, not turned over, weighed, and measured by other hands, even the impersonal ones of the police.
He stood up. ''Quite," he said succinctly. "Once I am sure that it was simply a tragedy and there has been no crime, even of negligence, then it would be far better if we all left the matter to be forgotten in kinder memories."
Tormod relaxed, his shoulders easing, the fabric of his coat falling back to its natural lines. He stood up also and extended his hand, holding Pitt's in a hard grip.
"I'm glad you see it so. Good day to you, Inspector.",
"Good day, Mr. Lagarde." Pitt turned a little. "Miss Lagarde. I hope your stay in the country is pleasant."
She smiled at him with uncertainty, something that struck her with doubt, even a presage of fear.
"Thank you," she said in a little more than a whisper.
Outside in the street Pitt walked slowly along, trying to com shy;pose his thoughts. Everything so far indicated some private grief, nursed to herself, that had finally overwhelmed Mina Spencer-Brown and driven her to take, quite deliberately, an overdose of something she already possessed. Probably it would prove to be her husband's medicine containing the belladonna, which Dr. Mulgrew had spoken of.
But before he allowed it to rest, he must ask the other women who had known her. If anyone was aware of her secret, it would be one of them, either from some imparted confidence or merely from observation. He had learned how much a relatively idle woman could perceive in others simply because she had no business and few duties to occupy her. People were her whole concern: relationships, secrets, those to be told and those to be kept.
He called on Ambrosine Charrington first, because she was the farthest away and he wanted to walk. In spite of the thicken shy;ing rain he was not yet ready to face anyone else. Once, he even stopped altogether as a ginger cat stalked across the footpath in front of him, shook himself in disgust at the wet, and slipped into the shelter of the shrubbery. Perhaps, Pitt thought, he should not disturb the slow settling of grief. Maybe it was no subject for police, and he should go now, turn and walk away, catch the omnibus back to the police station, and deal with some theft or forgery until Mulgrew and the police surgeon put in their reports.
Still thinking about it, without having consciously made any decision, he began to walk again. The rain was gathering in vehemence and ran in cold streaks inside his collar and down his flesh, making him shudder. He was glad to reach the Charringtons' doorstep.
The butler received him with faint displeasure, as if he were a stray driven in by the inclement weather rather than a person who had any place there. Pitt considered the hair plastered over his forehead, the wet trousers flapping around his ankles, and the one bootlace broken, and decided that the butler's look of disap shy;proval was not unwarranted.
Pitt forced himself to smile. "Inspector Pitt, from the police," he announced.
"Indeed!" The butler's look of polite patience vanished like sun behind a cloud.
"I would like to see Mrs. Charrington, if you please," Pitt continued. "It is with regard to the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown."
"I don't believe-" the butler began, then looked more closely at Pitt's face and realized protestations were only going to pro shy;long the interview, not end it. "If you come into the morning room, I will see if Mrs. Charrington is at home." It was a fiction Pitt was well used to. It would be discourteous to say, "I will ask her if she will see you," although he had been told so bluntly often enough.
He had barely sat down when the butler returned to escort him to the withdrawing room, where there was a fine fire dancing in the grate and three bowls of flowers in jardinieres by the wall. k Ambrosine sat bolt upright on the green brocade love seat and looked Pitt over from hair to boots with interest.
"Good morning, Inspector. Do be good enough to sit down and remove your coat. You seem more than a little wet." '
He obeyed with pleasure, handing the offending garment to the butler, then arranging himself in an armchair so as to absorb the full benefit of the fire.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said with feeling.
The butler retired, closing the door behind him, and Ambrosine raised her fine eyebrows.
"I am told you are inquiring into poor Mrs. Spencer-Brown's death," she said. "I am afraid I know nothing whatsoever of interest. In fact, how little I know is quite amazing in itself. I would have expected to hear something. One has to be remarka shy;bly clever to keep a secret in Society, you know. There are many things that are not spoken of which would be in unforgivable taste to mention, but you will usually find that people know, all the same. There is a certain smugness in the face!" She looked at him to see if he understood, and was evidently satisfied that he did. "It is infinitely pleasing to know secrets, especially when others are aware that you do-and they do not."
She frowned. "But I have not observed this attitude lately in anyone but Mina herself! And I never really knew whether she had any great knowledge or merely wished us to think so!"
He was equally puzzled. "Do you not think that someone might be prepared to speak now that a death is involved," he said, "to avoid misunderstandings, and perhaps even injustice?"
She gave a weary little smile. "What an optimist you are, Inspector. You make me feel very old-or at least as if you must be very young. Death is the very best excuse of all to hide things forever. Few people have the least objection to injustice-the world is run on it. And, after all, it is part of the creed: 'De mortuis nil nisi bonum.' "
He waited for her to explain, although he thought he knew what she meant.
" 'Speak no ill of the dead,' " she said bleakly. "Of course I mean Society's creed, not the Church's. A very charitable idea, at first glance, but it leaves all the weight of the blame upon the living-which, of course, is what it is designed to do. Whoever took any joy from hunting a dead fox?"
"The blame for what?" he asked her soberly, forcing himself not to be diverted from the issue of Mina.
"That depends upon whom we are discussing," she replied. "In the case of Mina, I really do not know. It is a field in which I would have expected you to be far more knowledgeable than I. Why are you concerned in the matter at all? To die is not a crime. Of course I appreciate that to kill oneself is-but since it is obviously quite unprosecutable, I fail to see your involvement."
"My only interest is to make certain that that is what it is," he answered. "A matter of her having taken her own life. No one appears to know of any reason whatsoever why she should have done so."
"No," she said thoughtfully. "We know so little about each other, I sometimes wonder if we even know why we do the important things. I don't suppose it is the reason that appears- like money, or love."
"Mrs. Spencer-Brown seems to have been very well provided for." He tried a more direct approach. "Do you suppose it could have been anything to do with an affaire of love?"
Her mouth quivered with a suppressed smile.
"How delicate of you, Inspector. I have no idea about that, either. I'm sorry. If she had a lover, then she was more discreet than I gave her credit for."
"Perhaps she loved someone who did not return her feelings?" he suggested.
"Possibly. But if all the people who ever did were to kill themselves, half of London would be occupied burying the other half!" She dismissed it with a lift of her fingers. "Mina was not a melancholy romantic, you know. She was a highly practical person, and fully acquainted with the realities of life. And she was thirty-five, not eighteen!"
"People of thirty-five can fall in love." He smiled very slightly.
She looked him up and down, judging him correctly to within a year.
"Of course they can," she agreed, with the shadow of an answering smile. "People can fall in love at any age at all. But at thirty-five they have probably had the experience several times before and do not mistake it for the end of the world when it goes amiss."
"Then why do you think Mrs. Spencer-Brown killed herself, Mrs. Charrington?" He surprised himself by being so candid.
"I? You really wish for my opinion, Inspector?"
"I do."
"I am disinclined to believe that she did. Mina was far too practical not to find some way out of whatever misfortune she had got herself into. She was not an emotional woman, and I never knew anyone less hysterical."
"An accident?"
"Not of her making. I should think an idiotic maid moved bottles or boxes, or mixed two things together to save room and created a poison by mistake. I daresay you will never find out, unless your policeman removed all the containers in the house before the servants had any opportunity to destroy or empty them. If I were you, I shouldn't worry myself-there is nothing whatsoever you can do about it, either to undo it or to prevent it happening again somewhere else, to somebody else."
"A domestic accident?"
"I would think so. If you had ever been responsible for the running of a large house, Inspector, you would know what extraordinary things can happen. If you were aware what some cooks do, and what other strange bodies find their way into the larder, I daresay you would never eat again!"
He stood up, concealing an unseemly impulse to laugh that welled up inside him. There was something in her he liked enormously.
"Thank you, ma'am. If that is indeed what happened, then I expect you are right-I shall never know."
She rang the bell for the butler to show Pitt out.
"It is one of the marks of wisdom to learn to leave alone that which you cannot help," she said gently. "You will do more harm than good threshing all the fine chaff to discover a grain of truth. A lot of people will be frightened, perhaps made unemploy shy;able in the future, and you will still not have helped anyone."
He called on Theodora von Schenck and found her an utterly different kind of woman: handsome in her own way, but entirely lacking the aristocratic beauty of Ambrosine or the ethereal delicacy of Eloise. But more surprising than her appearance was the fact that, like Charlotte, she was busy with quite ordinary household chores. When Pitt arrived, she was counting linen and sorting into a pile the things that required mending or replacement.
In fact, she did not seem to be ashamed that she had put some aside to be cut down into smaller articles, such as pillowcases from worn sheets, and linen cloths for drying and polishing from those pieces that were smaller or more worn.
However, for all her frankness, she was unable to offer him any assistance about the reasons for Mina's death. She found the idea of suicide pitiful, expressing her sorrow that anyone should reach such depths of despair, but she did not deny that some shy;times it did happen. On the other hand, since she had not known Mina well, she was aware of nothing at all to bring her to such a state. Theodora herself was a widow with two children, which reduced her social connections considerably, and she preferred to devote her time to her home and children rather than making social calls or attending soirees and such functions; therefore she heard little gossip.
Pitt left no wiser, and certainly no happier. If he could feel certain that there was some unresolved tragedy, as Tormod Lagarde had seemed convinced, then he would be satisfied to leave it decently alone. On the other hand, Ambrosine Charrington had been sure that such a thing was utterly out of character. If it had been some preposterous accident, should he persist until he had done all he could to discover precisely what? Did he owe it to Mina herself? To be buried in a suicide's grave was a disgrace, a stigma not easy to bear for her survivors. And did he perhaps owe it to Alston Spencer-Brown to show him that his wife had not been so unhappy as to prefer death to life? Might not Spencer-Brown go on torturing himself with hurt and confusion in the belief that she had loved someone else and found life insupportable without him? And other people-would they be shy;lieve something secret and perhaps obscure about Alston that had driven his wife to such an end?
Was it possible that no matter how ugly, or how expensive, the facts were better? The truth deals only one wound, but suspicions a thousand.
Because Theodora had mentioned that Amaryllis and she were sisters, Amaryllis Denbigh was a complete surprise to Pitt. With shy;out giving it conscious thought, he had been expecting someone similar, and it was a faintly unpleasant readjustment to meet a woman younger, not only in years but jarringly so in fashion, manner, and deportment.
She met him with cool civility, but the spark of interest was in her eyes and in the suppressed tightness of her body. He never for a moment feared that she might decline to talk. There was something hungry in her, something seeking, and yet at the same time contemptuous of him. She had not forgotten that he was a policeman.
"Of course I understand your situation, Inspector-Pitt?" She sat down and arranged her skirts with white fingers that stroked the silk delicately; he could almost feel its rippling softness himself, as if it slid cool beneath his own skin.
"Thank you, ma'am." He eased himself into the chair across the small table from her.
"You are obliged to satisfy yourself that there has been no wrong done," she reasoned. "And naturally that requires you to discover the truth. I wish I could be of more assistance to you." Her eyes did not leave his face, and he had the feeling she knew every line of it, every shade. "But I fear I know very little." She smiled coolly. "I have only impressions, and it would be less than fair to represent them as facts."
"I sympathize." He found the words hard to say, for no reason that he could frame. He made an effort to concentrate his mind upon Mina, and his reason for being here. "Yet if anyone had known facts, surely they would have prevented the tragedy? It is precisely because there are only impressions and understand shy;ings that have come with the wisdom of hindsight that these things occur so startlingly, and we are left with mysteries and perhaps unjust beliefs." He hoped he was not being sententious, but he was trying to follow her own line of reasoning and convince her to speak. He believed he could judge what to trust and what to discard as malicious or unrelated.
"I had not thought of it like that." Her eyes were round and blue and very direct. She must have looked much like this in feature and expression when she was still in pigtails and dresses to her knees: the same frankness, the same slightly bold interest, the same softness of cheek and throat. ' 'Of course you are quite right!"
"Then perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me of your impressions?" he invited, disliking himself for it even as he spoke. He despised the sort of mischievous speculation that he was encouraging-indeed would listen to with the same eager shy;ness as a gossip selecting dirt to relish and refine before whisper shy;ing it with laughter and deprecation to the next hungry ear.
She was too subtle to excuse herself again; to do so would imply she needed excuse. Instead she fixed her eyes on a bowl of flowers on a side table against the wall and began to speak.
"Of course Mina-that is, Mrs. Spencer-Brown-was very fond of Mr. Lagarde, as I expect you know." She did not look back at him. The temptation was there; he saw it in the tighten shy;ing of her neck, but she resisted it. "I do not, for one moment, mean to imply anything improper. But there are always people who will misunderstand even the most innocent of friendships. I have wondered once or twice if there was someone who so misunderstood Mina's regard, and perhaps was caused great unhappiness by it."
"Such as who?" he asked, a little surprised. It was a possibil shy;ity he had not thought of: a simple misunderstanding leading to jealousy. He had only considered an unrequited love.
"Well, I suppose the obvious answer is Mr. Spencer-Brown," she replied, facing him at last. "But then the truth is not always the obvious, is it?"
"No," he agreed hastily. "But if not him, then who?"
She breathed a deep sigh and appeared to reflect for a few moments.
"I really don't know!" She lifted her head suddenly as if she had newly made up her mind about something. "I imagine it is possible-" She stopped. "Well, all sort of other things-other people? I know Inigo Charrington was very attached to Eloise at one time. She would not even consider him. I've no idea why! He seems pleasing enough, but to her it was as if he did not exist in that sense. She was civil enough to him, naturally. But then one is!"
"I don't see what that has to do with Mrs. Spencer-Brown's death," he said frankly.
"No." She gave him a wide, blue look. "Neither do I. I expect it has nothing at all. I am only seeking possibilities, people who might have said something at one time or another which could have given rise to misunderstanding. I did tell you, Inspector, that I knew nothing! You asked me for my impressions."
"And your impression is that Mrs. Spencer-Brown was in normally good spirits as far as you knew?" Without intending to, he had used Tormod's words.
"Oh yes. If something happened to distress her, it must have occurred quite suddenly, without any warning. Maybe she learned something appalling?" Again her eyes were wide and round.
"Mr. Lagarde says she was not at all upset when she left his house," he pointed out. "And from the hour her servants have reported, it appears she went straight home."
"Then perhaps she met someone in the street? Or there was a letter waiting for her when she arrived?"
A letter was something that had not occurred to him. He should have asked the servants if there had been any messages. Perhaps Harris had thought of it.
It was too late to cover his mistake; she had seen it in his face. Her smile became surer.
"If she destroyed it, as indeed would be the natural thing," she said softly, "then we shall never know what it contained. And perhaps that is best, do you not think?"
"Not if it was blackmail, ma'am!" he said tartly; he was angry with himself, and with her for seeing what he had not, and for the feeling he had that it amused her.
"Blackmail!" She looked startled. "What a terrible idea! I can hardly bear to think you are right. Poor Mina! Poor, poor woman." She took a deep breath and tightened her fingers on the silk across her thighs, clasping till the knuckles shone pale. "But I suppose you know more about these things than we do. It would be childish to close one's eyes. The truth will not go away for ignoring it, or we could get rid of everything unpleasant simply by refusing to look at it. You must have patience with us, Inspector, if we see only reluctantly, and more slowly than we should. We have been used to the easier things in life, and such ugliness cannot always be acknowledged without a little period of adjustment. Perhaps even some force?"
He knew what she said was true, and his reason applauded her. Perhaps he had been unfair in his judgment. Prejudice was not confined to the privileged. He knew it in himself: the bitter aftertaste of opinions forced back and found unjust, formed in envy or fear, and the need to rationalize hate.
"Of course." He stood up. He wanted no more of the interview. She had already given him more than enough to consider. And he had mentioned blackmail rather to shock her than because he really thought it a possibility. Now he was obliged to recognize it. "As yet I know of no truth, pleasant or unpleasant, so the less that is said the less pain that will be caused. It may well have, been no more than a tragic accident."
Her face was quite calm, almost serene, with its pink and white coloring and girlish lines.
"I do hope so. Anything else will increase the distress for everyone. Good day to you, Inspector."
"Good day, Mrs. Denbigh."
He had put the matter out of his mind and was working on a number of fires, two of which were in his area and were proba shy;bly arson, when at half past four in the afternoon a constable with black hair plastered neatly to his head with water knocked on his door and announced that there was a visitor, a gentleman of quality.
"Who is it?" Pitt was expecting no one, and his immediate thought was that the man had been misdirected from the Chief Superintendent's office and they would be able to be rid of him with a few words of assistance.
"A Mr. Charrington, sir," the constable answered. "A Mr. Lovell Charrington, of Rutland Place."
Pitt put the paper he was reading aside, facedown, on the desk.
"Ask him to come in," he said with a feeling of misgiving. He could imagine no reason at all why Lovell Charrington should come to the police station, unless it was to impart some shy;thing both secret and urgent. Regarding any ordinary event, he could either have sent for Pitt to attend upon him or simply waited until he returned in the ordinary course of the investigation.
Lovell Charrington came in with his hat still on, beaded with rain, and his umbrella folded but untied, hanging from his hand. His face was pale, and there was a drop of water on the end of his nose.
Pitt stood up. "Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"
"You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?" Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.
"Yes, sir." Pitt tried to help him. "Would you like to sit down?" He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. "Is it something to do with the death' of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?"
Lovell sat reluctantly. "Yes. Yes, I have been-considering- weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not." It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time-like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. "One desires to do one's duty, however painful!" He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.
Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.
"Of course," he answered. "Not always easy."
"Quite." Lovell coughed. "Quite so."
"What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?"
Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.
"You have quite the wrong word. I do not wish to say it, Inspector; I feel an obligation, which is quite different!"
"Indeed." Pitt breathed out patiently. "Of course it is. Ex shy;cuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?"
"Mrs. Spencer-Brown …" Lovell sniffed and kept the hand shy;kerchief knotted up in his fingers for a moment before folding it and replacing it in his pocket. "Mrs. Spencer-Brown was not a happy woman, Inspector. Indeed I would go so far as to say, speaking frankly, that she was somewhat neurotic!" He spoke the word as if it were faintly obscene, something to be kept between men.
Pitt was startled, and he had difficulty in preventing its show shy;ing in his face. Everyone else had said the opposite, that Mina was unusually pragmatic, adjusted very precisely to reality.
"Indeed?" He was aware of repeating himself, but he was confused. "What makes you say that, Mr. Charrihgton?"
"What? Oh-well, for goodness' sake, man." Now Lovell showed impatience. "I've had years of observing the woman. Live in the same street, you know. Friend of my wife. Been in her house and had her in mine. Know her husband, poor man. Very unstable woman, given to strong emotional fancies. Lot of women are, of course. I accept that, it's in their nature."
Pitt had found most women, especially in Society, to have fancies of an astoundingly practical nature, and to be most excellently equipped to distinguish reality from romance. It was men who married a pretty face or a flattering tongue. Women- and Charlotte had showed him a number of examples-far more often chose a pleasant nature and a healthy pocket.
"Romance?" Pitt said, blinking.
"Quite," Lovell said. "Quite so. Live in daydreams, not used to the harsh facts of life. Not suited for it. Different from men. Poor Mina Spencer-Brown conceived a romantic attachment for young Tormod Lagarde. He is a decent man, of course, upright! Knew she was a married woman, and years older than he is into the bargain-"
"I thought she was about thirty-five?" Pitt interrupted.
"So she was, I believe." Lovell's eyes opened wide and sharp. "Good heavens, man, Lagarde is only twenty-eight. Be looking for a girl of nineteen or twenty when he decides to marry. Far more suitable. Don't want a woman set in her ways- shy;no chance to correct her then. One must guide a woman, you know, mold her character the right way! Anyhow, all that's beside the point. Mrs. Spencer-Brown was already married. Stands to reason she realized she was making a fool of herself, and was afraid her husband would find out-and she couldn't bear it anymore." He cleared his throat. "Had to tell you. Damned unpleasant, but can't have you nosing around asking questions and raising suspicions against innocent people. Most unfortunate, the whole affair. Pathetic. Great deal of suffering. Poor woman. Very foolish, but terrible price to pay. Nothing good about it." He sniffed very slightly and dabbed at his nose.
"There very seldom is," Pitt said dryly. "How do you come to know about this affection of Mrs. Spencer-Brown's for Mr. Lagarde, sir?"
"What?"
Pitt repeated the question.
Lo veil's face soured sharply.
"That is a highly indelicate question, Inspector-er-Pitt!"
"I am obliged to ask it, sir." Pitt controlled himself with difficulty; he wanted to shake this man out of his narrow, idiotic little shell-and yet part of him knew it would be useless and cruel.
"I observed it, of course!" Lovell snapped. "I have already told you that I have known Mrs. Spencer-Brown for several years. I have seen her over a vast number of social occasions. Do you think I go around with my eyes closed?"
Pitt avoided the question. "Has anyone else remarked this- affection, Mr. Charrington?" he asked instead. '
"If no one else has spoken of it to you, Inspector, it is out of delicacy, not ignorance. One does not discuss other people's affairs, especially painful ones, with strangers." A small muscle twitched in his cheek. "I dislike intensely having to tell you myself, but I recognize it as my duty to save any further distress among those who are still living. I had hoped you would under shy;stand and appreciate that! I am sorry I appear to have been mistaken." He stood up and hitched the shoulders straight on his jacket by pulling on both lapels. "I trust, however, that you will still comprehend and fulfill your own responsibility in the matter?''
"I hope so, sir." Pitt pushed his chair back and stood up also. "Constable Mclnnes will show you out. Thank you for coming, and being so frank."
He was still sitting looking at the closed door, the reports of the arson untouched and facedown, when Constable Mclnnes returned twenty minutes later.
"What is it?" Pitt said irritably. Charrington had disconcerted him. What he had said about Mina jarred against everything else he had heard. Certainly Caroline had told him of the affection for Tormod Lagarde, but hand in hand with the conviction that Mina was unusually levelheaded. Now Charrington said she was flighty and romantic.
"Well, what is it?" he demanded again.
"The reports from the doctor, sir." Mclnnes held out several sheets of paper.
"Doctor?" For a moment Pitt could not think what he meant.
"On Mrs. Spencer-Brown, sir. She died of poisoning. Of belladonna, sir-a right mass of it."
"You read the report?" Pitt said, stating the obvious.
Mclnnes colored pink. "I just glanced at it, sir. Interested, like-because. ." He tailed off, unable to think of a good excuse.
Pitt held out his hand for it. "Thank you." He looked down and his eye traveled over the copperplate writing quickly. On examination, it had proved that Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown had died of heart failure, owing to a massive dose of belladonna, which, since she had not eaten since a light breakfast, appeared to have been consumed in some ginger-flavored tonic cordial, the only substance in the stomach at the time of death.
Harris had taken the box of medicinal powder supplied to Alston Spencer-Brown by Dr. Mulgrew, and it was still three-quarters full. The total amount absent, including the dosages Spencer-Brown said he had taken, was considerably less than that recovered in the autopsy.
Whatever had killed Mina was not a dose of medicine, taken either accidentally or by her own intention. It came from some other, unknown source.