am.”
Pitt was assailed by a sudden, terrible coldness-Charlotte!
“What?” he shouted, grasping Stripe so fiercely the constable winced in spite of himself. But he did not look away, nor did anger show for even an instant, which frightened Pitt even more-so much so that his throat dried up and he could make no sound.
“There’s bin a murder at Cardington Crescent, sir,” Stripe said carefully, making no move to shake off Pitt’s viselike fingers. “A Lord Ashworth is dead. And Lady Ves-Ves-Lady Cumming-Gould especially asked if you’d be the one as goes. An’ to tell you as she’d already sent ’er own carriage for Miss Charlotte, sir. An’ I’m awful sorry, Mr. Pitt, sir.”
Relief flooded through Pitt like a hot tide, almost making him sick; then he felt shame for his selfishness, and lastly an overwhelmingly pity for Emily. He looked at Stripe’s earnest face and found it extraordinarily good.
He loosened his fingers. “Thank you, Stripe. Very thoughtful of you to tell me yourself. Lord Ashworth is-was my brother-in-law.” It sounded absurd. Lord Ashworth his brother-in-law! Stripe had astounding good manners not to laugh outright. “My wife’s sister married-”
“Yes, sir,” Stripe agreed hastily. “They did insist as it was you. And there’s an ’ansom waiting.”
“Then we’d better go.” He followed Stripe along the footpath a dozen yards beyond the station doorway, where a hansom cab was drawn in to the curb, horse standing head down, the reins loose. Stripe opened the door and Pitt climbed in, Stripe following immediately behind after directing the driver where to go.
It was not a long journey and Pitt had little time to think. His mind was in turmoil, all rationality drowned in grief for Emily and a surprising sense of loss for himself. He had liked George; there was an openness about him, a generosity of thought, a pleasure in life. Who on earth would want to kill George? A chance attack in the street he could have understood, even a quarrel in some gentleman’s club or at a sporting game which had gotten out of hand. But this was in a town house with his own family!
Why was the cab going so slowly? It was taking forever, and yet when they were there he was not ready.
“Mr. Pitt, sir?” Stripe prompted.
“Yes.” He climbed out and stood on the hot pavement in front of the magnificent facade of Cardington Crescent; the Georgian windows perfectly proportioned, three panes across, four down, the ashlar stone, the simple architraves and the handsome door. It looked like everything that was comfortable and centuries secure. It made it worse: there was nothing left inviolable anymore.
Stripe was standing beside him, waiting for him to move.
“Yes,” he repeated. He payed the cabbie and walked up to the front door, to Stripe’s acute discomfort. Police went to the tradesmen’s entrance. But that was something Pitt had always refused to do, though Stripe did not know that yet. He had only dealt with the criminal world of the tenements and rookeries, rat-infested labyrinths of the slums like St. Giles, a stone’s throw from Bloomsbury, or the petty bourgeoisie, clerks and shopkeepers, artisans grasping after respectability but boasting only one street entrance all the same.
Pitt pulled the bell, and a moment later the butler stood in the doorway, grave and calm. Of course. Vespasia would have told him that Pitt never went to the back. He regarded Pitt’s height, his unruly hair, the bulging pockets, and reached his conclusion immediately.
“Inspector Pitt? Please come in, and if you will wait in the morning room, Mr. March will see you, sir.”
“Thank you. But I will have Constable Stripe go to the servants’ hall and begin inquiries there, if you don’t mind.”
The butler hesitated for a moment, but realized the inevitability of it. “I will accompany him,” he said carefully, making sure they both realized that the servants were his responsibility and he intended to discharge it to the full.
“Of course,” Pitt agreed with a nod.
“Then if you will come this way.” He turned and led Pitt across the fine, rather ornate hallway and into a heavily furnished room; masculine, hide-covered armchairs by a rosewood desk, Japanese lacquer tables in startling reds and blacks, and an array of Indian weapons, relics of some ancestor’s service to queen and Empire, displayed haphazardly on the walls opposite a Chinese silk screen.
Here, rather awkwardly, the butler hesitated, confused as to how he should deal with a policeman in the front of the house, and eventually left him without saying anything further. He must retrieve Stripe from the entrance and conduct him to the servants’ hall, making sure he did not frighten any of the younger girls, who were no more than thirteen or fourteen, and that the staff acquitted themselves honorably and in no way spoke out of turn.
Pitt remained standing. The room was like many he had seen before, typical of its station and period, except that it contained an unusual clash of styles, as if there were at least three distinct personalities whose wills had met in the decisions of taste: at a guess, a robust, opinionated man, a woman of some cultural daring, and a lover of tradition and family heritage.
The door opened again and Eustace March came in. He was a vigorous, florid man in his mid fifties, at this moment torn by profoundly conflicting emotions and forced into a role he was unused to.
“Good afternoon, er-”
“Pitt.”
“Good afternoon, Pitt. Tragedy in the house. Doctor’s a fool. Shouldn’t have sent for you. Entirely domestic matter. Nephew of mine, sort of cousin by marriage to be precise, great-nephew of my mother-in-law-” He caught Pitt’s eye and his face colored. “But I suppose you know that. Anyway, poor man is dead.” He drew in his breath and continued rapidly. “I regret to say it, but he had got himself into a hopeless situation in his marriage-seems he sank into a fit of depression and took his own life. Very dreadful. Family’s a bit eccentric. But you wouldn’t know the rest of them-”
“I knew George,” Pitt said coolly. “I always found him eminently sensible. And Lady Cumming-Gould is the sanest woman I ever met.”
The blood mounted even higher in Eustace’s mottled cheeks. “Possibly!” he snapped. “But then, you and I move in very different circles, Mr. Pitt. What is sane in yours may not be regarded so favorably in mine.”
Pitt could feel an unprofessional anger rising inside him, which he had sworn not to allow. He was used to rudeness; it ought not to matter. And yet his feelings were raw, because it was George who was dead. All the more important that he behave irreproachably, that he not give Eustace March an excuse to have him removed from the case-or worse, permit his own emotions to so cloud his judgment that he fail to discover the truth and disclose it with as much gentleness as possible. Investigation, any investigation, uncovered so much more than the principle crime; there was a multitude of other, smaller sins, painful secrets, silly and shameful things the knowledge of which maimed what used to be love and crippled trust that might otherwise have endured all sorts of wounds.
Eustace was staring at him, waiting for a reaction, his face flushed with impatience.
Pitt sighed. “Can you tell me, sir, what is likely to have caused Lord Ashworth such distress or despair that on waking up this particular morning he immediately took his own life? By the way, how did he do it?”
“Good God, didn’t that idiot Treves tell you?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, sir.”
“Ah, no, of course not. Digitalis-that’s a heart medicine my mother has. And he said some rubbish about foxgloves in the garden. I don’t even know if they’re in flower now. And I don’t suppose he does either. The man’s incompetent!”
“Digitalis comes from the leaves,” Pitt pointed out. “It is frequently prescribed for congestive heart failure and irregularity of heartbeat.”
“Oh-ah!” Eustace sank suddenly into one of the hide-covered chairs. “For heaven’s sake, man, sit down!” he said irritably. “Dreadful business. Most distressing. I hope for the sake of the ladies you will be as discreet as you can. My mother and Lady Cumming-Gould are both considerably advanced in years, and consequently delicate. And of course, Lady Ashworth is distraught. We were all extremely fond of George.”
Pitt stared at him, not knowing how to break through the barricade of pretense. He had had to do it many times before-most people were reluctant to admit the presence of murder-but it was different now when the people were so close to him. Somewhere upstairs in this house Emily was sitting numb with grief.
“What tormented Lord Ashworth so irreparably he took his own life?” he repeated, watching Eustace’s face.
Eustace sat motionless for a long time, light and shadow passing over his features, a monumental struggle
