It was several moments before a white-faced butler answered and looked at Pitt almost expressionlessly.
“Good afternoon,” Pitt said very soberly. “Superintendent Thomas Pitt, from Bow Street. I should appreciate a short interview with Mrs. Winthrop.” He produced his card, now with his rank engraved on it as well as his name, and dropped it on the butler’s silver tray. “I understand this is a most distressing time, but she may be able to help find the man who has brought about this tragedy, and speed is of the essence.”
“Yes, sir,” the butler conceded reluctantly. He looked Pitt up and down from his untidy hair to his beautiful boots. At any other time, when not suffering from shock, he might have been harder to override, but today he was not himself. “If you will come to the library, sir, I shall see if it is possible. This way, sir, if you please.”
Pitt followed him across the gracious flagstoned hallway into a very fine library, paneled in oak on one side, with bookshelves on two, and the remaining wall facing the garden, where deep windows were presently partly obscured by a tangle of coral-pink roses richly in bloom. Pitt thought only for the briefest moment of the new house Charlotte was so happy with, its broken plaster and peeling paper, and her profusion of dreams for it. Then he returned to the present, the somber shelves of unread books and the brilliantly patterned carpet, unmarked by the passage of feet. The desk in the corner was immaculate. No dust and no signs of use marred its virgin surface.
What manner of man had Captain Winthrop been? He gazed around the room seeking some clue as to character, some touch of individuality. He saw nothing. It was essentially a masculine place, dark greens and wines, leather upholstery, books, prints of ships on the wall, a heavy carved mantel with bronze statuary of lions at one end and two hunting dogs at the other. There was a heavy Waterford crystal whiskey decanter, a quarter full, on the side table. He had the powerful feeling of being in a room prepared for a man, rather than one a man had chosen for himself.
The door opened and the butler stood in the entrance.
“Mrs. Winthrop will see you, sir, if you care to come to the withdrawing room.”
Pitt left the library with a sense of incompleteness and followed the butler back across the hallway and towards the rear of the house, where the long withdrawing room stretched towards the open lawn and formal rose beds. He had time only to be aware of excellent architectural proportions, spoiled by curtains which were too ornate for the windows, and a heavy carved white-and-gray marble mantel. Wilhelmina Winthrop was dressed entirely in black, as was to be expected, but the totality of it startled him until he realized why. She was a very slender woman, in fact unkind judgment would have said thin. Her fairish hair was swept up in heavy coils, making her neck look even more fragile. Her black gown, swirling around the chair in which she sat, was adorned by a black lace fichu covering her throat up to her chin, and her long sleeves came down in lace points over the backs of her hands, almost to her knuckles. It was the most alarmingly somber garb he had ever seen, and it made her look vulnerable. He thought at first glance that she was much younger than he had supposed, perhaps in her twenties. Then as he approached her more closely he saw the fine lines in her face and the skin around her eyes. He adjusted his judgment. She was nearer her mid-thirties.
Behind her stood a man of medium height, not heavy but of athletic build, thickly curling brown hair, and a subtly aquiline face, the skin of which had been burned to a warm, deep color as from a climate where summer followed summer unceasingly.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Winthrop,” Pitt said gravely. “May I offer you my deepest sympathies upon your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pitt,” she answered; her voice was soft and her diction clear and most pleasing. Her smile was only the barest expression of good manners.
The man behind her frowned. “You must have some more profound purpose than expressing your condolences, Superintendent. I am sure you will understand if we ask that you make this as brief as possible. It is hardly a time when my sister wishes to receive people, however necessary or well-intentioned.”
“Please, Bart.” She put up a hand towards him. “Mr. Pitt, this is my brother, Bartholomew Mitchell. He has come to be with me at this most—most trying time. Please excuse his manner being a trifle abrupt, but he is solicitous for my welfare. He does not mean to be rude.”
“Certainly I shall not trespass on your time any longer than need be, ma’am,” Pitt agreed. There was no easy or pleasant way to do this, even if he came after Tellman and had no news, simply questions to ask. Still they were intrusive and painful when she would almost certainly rather be alone to allow her mind and her heart to absorb the shock and begin to realize her new situation, the reality of death, aloneness, the beginning of grief and the long road which from now on would be without companionship or support.
“Have you any further news for us?” Bart Mitchell asked, leaning forward over his sister’s chair.
“No—I am afraid not.” Pitt was still standing. “Inspector Tellman is busy asking people who were in the park and who might have seen something, and of course looking for material evidence.”
Mina Winthrop swallowed hard, as if she had some obstruction in her throat. “Evidence?” she said awkwardly. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t wish to hear, my dear,” Bart Mitchell said quickly. “The less you have to know about the details the better.”
“I am not a child, Bart,” she protested, but before she could add anything further, he rested both his hands on her shoulders and leaned a little over her, looking at Pitt.
“Of course you are not, my dear, but you are a woman newly bereaved, and it is my privilege to protect you from any further unnecessary pain, not to mention my duty.” This last was to Pitt, and his clear, very blue eyes were level and held an air of challenge.
Mina straightened up a fraction, lifting her chin.
“In what way may we help, Mr. Pitt? If there is anything I can do to assist you to find out who did this to my husband, please be assured I shall do it to the utmost of my ability.”
“What could you possibly know?” Bart said with a shake of his head. “You have already told Inspector Tellman what time you last saw Oakley.” He looked at Pitt again. “Which was late yesterday evening after supper. He said he was going to take a short walk for the good of his health. He never returned.”
Pitt ignored Bart Mitchell. “When did you become concerned by his absence, Mrs. Winthrop?”
She blinked. “When I awoke this morning and came down to breakfast. Oakley normally rises early—earlier than I. I saw that his place was still set at the table and had not been used.” She ran the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips. “I asked Bunthorne if the master were not well, and Bunthorne said he had not seen him this morning. Naturally I sent him upstairs to check, and he returned saying that Captain Winthrop’s bed had not been slept in.”
