She stopped abruptly, her face suddenly very pale.
Bart’s hand tightened on her shoulder.
Pitt was going to ask the obvious question, about her and her husband having separate rooms, but it seemed unnecessary. He knew that many families, who could afford to, had separate bedrooms for husband and wife, with connecting doors. It had never appealed to him; he was used to the closeness of smaller spaces, the gentle intimacy, and found in it one of his greatest pleasures. But then few people were as fortunate in their marriages as he, and he knew it. To share even the privacy and vulnerability of sleep with someone one did not love must be a refinement of misery which would destroy the best in either person. And to one accustomed to the freedom to choose whether to have the window open or closed, the curtains drawn or wide, the counterpane this way or that, consideration for another must be a strange and uncomfortable restriction.
“Had that ever happened before?” he asked.
“No—not that I recall. I mean …” She looked at him anxiously. “I mean not without his saying where he would be and when he would be back. He was always most particular about keeping people informed. He was very exact, you know. I expect it comes from his naval training.” She opened her eyes a little wider. “I daresay one cannot command a ship at sea if one allows mistakes, or people to wander off and come back as they please.”
“I imagine not, although it is outside my experience,” Pitt equivocated. “I take it, ma’am, that he was a very precise man, used to keeping an exact order in things?”
“Yes,” Bart said rather quickly, and then closed his mouth in a thin line. “Yes he was.”
“Please do not misunderstand us.” Mina looked at Pitt. She had very fine blue eyes with dark brown lashes. “He was not without humor. I would not like you to think he was a martinet.”
The idea had not occurred to Pitt, but the fact that she denied it raised the question in his mind.
“Did he have friends in the neighborhood upon whom he might have called?” He asked this not because he thought it helpful—Tellman would already have asked—but because he wanted some clue to Winthrop’s character. Was he sociable or reclusive? Whom did he consider his equals?
Mina glanced up at her brother, then back at Pitt.
“We are not aware of any,” Bart replied. “Oakley was a naval captain, Superintendent. He spent a great deal of his time aboard his ship. When he was ashore he preferred to be at home with his wife. Or so it seemed. If he had the sort of acquaintance upon whom he would call alone in the evening, then my sister was not aware of it.”
“He said he was going to take a walk for his health,” she repeated, looking anxiously at Pitt. “He had eaten rather well at dinner. I—I imagine he walked farther than he realized, and found himself in the park, and was set upon by …” She bit her lip. “I don’t know—a madman!”
“That may indeed be the case,” Pitt agreed, although already he was aware of an undercurrent of something else, a sense of fear with the shock and the grief, and other emotions more complex, harder to define. “I expect Inspector Tellman already asked you if you were aware of anyone who might have quarreled with Captain Winthrop or held any grudge against him.”
“Yes—yes, he did ask that.” Mina’s voice was husky and she was very pale. “It is a fearful question. It makes me quite ill to think anyone one knows could have felt so dreadful a hatred as to do such a thing.”
“Superintendent, you are distressing my sister quite unnecessarily,” Bart said in a hard voice. “If either of us knew of such a person, we would have said so. We have nothing we can add to what we have already told your inspector. Now I really think that is enough. We have tried to be civil and as helpful as lies within our power. I would—”
He got no further because there was a knock on the door and a moment later the butler appeared.
“Mrs. Garrick and Mr. Victor Garrick have called, ma’am,” he said somberly. “Shall I tell them you are not receiving visitors?”
“Oh no,” Mina responded with a look of relief. “It is only Thora. I will always see Thora, she is so—so—yes, Bunthorne, please ask them to come in.”
“Really, my dear, do you not think you should rest?” Bart remonstrated.
“Rest? How on earth can I rest?” she demanded. “Oakley was murdered last night.” Her voice choked. “His head—cut off! The last thing on earth I wish is to be left alone in a dark room with my eyes closed and my imagination free! I would immeasurably rather talk to Thora Garrick.”
“If you are quite sure?”
“I have not a doubt in my mind!” she insisted with a rising note close to panic.
“Very well—yes, Bunthorne, ask her to come in,” Bart acceded, a look of pain in his face.
“Very good sir.” Bunthorne withdrew immediately.
A moment later the door opened again and a handsome woman with shining fair hair came in. She was followed immediately by a man in his early twenties with a broad-browed face which at first seemed blandly amiable but on closer regard was of unusual softness and imagination. And yet also there was a certain indiscipline in it, a vulnerability about the mouth, as if he might easily be hurt, and quick to anger. Perhaps he might also be as quick to laugh. It was an interesting face, and Pitt found himself staring, and he had to withdraw his gaze for fear of being offensive.
The woman’s attention went first to Mina Winthrop, full of sympathy, then after acknowledging Bart Mitchell she turned to Pitt, poised either to welcome him or to join battle, depending upon how he was introduced.
Bart seized the initiative. “Thora, this is Superintendent Pitt, from the Bow Street police station. He is in charge of the case.” He looked at Pitt with raised eyebrows. “At least that is what I understand.”
“Correctly,” Pitt said as he inclined his head towards Thora Garrick. “How do you do, ma’am.” He looked at Victor. “Mr. Garrick.”
Victor stared at him out of very wide dark gray eyes. He seemed still to be suffering from shock at the events, or else he was embarrassed by the situation. Pitt thought it quite likely it was the latter. It was never easy to know what to say to the bereaved. When the death is violent and as fraught with darkness as this one, it was doubly so.
