least.
He followed her obediently up the back stairs, watching the tilt of her head and the swish of her skirt and finding he was daydreaming when they came to the pantry. She had spoken to him twice before he pulled his attention to the subject at hand and looked round at the tables where the trays were laid.
“Where was Lord Ashworth’s tray with the coffee?” he asked, clearing his throat painfully.
“Aren’t you listening to me?” she said, shaking her head. “I just told you, it was there.” She pointed to the end of the table nearest the door.
“Was that usual? I mean …” Her eyes were the color of the sky above the river on a summer day. He coughed hard and began again. “I mean, did you put them in the same places each morning, miss?”
“That one, yes,” she replied, apparently unaware of his gaze. “Because it was coffee, and the others were tea.”
“Tell me again what happens every morning.” He knew what she had already said, but he wanted to listen to her again and he could think of no more relevant questions.
Dutifully she repeated the story, and he noted it down again.
“Thank you, miss,” he said politely, closing his notebook and putting it in his pocket. “Now, would you show me Mrs. March’s medicine cupboard, if you please.”
She looked a little pale, forgetting her general umbrage at having the police in the house at this sudden reminder of death.
“Yes, of course I will.” She led the way through the upstairs baize door onto the main landing and along to old Mrs. March’s room. She knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, opened it and went in.
The room was like no other Stripe had ever imagined, let alone seen. It was as pink and white as an apple blossom. Everywhere he looked there were frills: laces, doilies, ribbons, photographs with satin bindings, a suffocating sea of pillows, pink velvet curtains drawn and swagged to reveal white net ruching beneath.
Stripe was robbed of words; the air seemed motionless and hot, and it clogged his lungs. Awkwardly, in case he left a large footprint in it, he tiptoed across the pink carpet behind Lettie to the ornate cupboard painted pink and white, where she opened a little drawer and looked into it, her face grave.
Stripe stood behind her, smelling a slight flower perfume from her hair, and peeked down at the little space packed with bottles, twists of paper, and cardboard pillboxes.
“Is the digitalis there?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“No, Mr. Stripe,” she said very quietly, her hand trembling above the drawer. “I know what all these are, and the digitalis is gone.”
She was frightened, and he wanted to reassure her, promise he would look after her himself, personally see that no one ever hurt her. But that would offend her so much the very idea was painful to him. She would be outraged by his temerity. Doubtless she already had admirers-that thought, too, was extraordinarily unpleasant. He pulled his wits together.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a businesslike manner. “Could it be in another drawer, or on the bedside table?” He looked round the cloying room. There could be an entire apothecary’s shop hidden in all these billowing frills and folds.
“No,” Lettie said decidedly, her voice high. “I have tidied this room this morning. The digitalis is gone, Mr. Stripe. I-” She shivered.
“Yes?” he said hopefully.
“Nothing.”
“Thank you, miss.” He began back towards the doorway, still careful not to knock anything. “Then I think that’ll be all for the moment. I’d better send a message to Mr. Pitt.”
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Stripe?”
“Yes, miss?” He stopped and turned to face her, aware of the blood burning up his cheeks.
She was trying to hide her fear, but it was there in her eyes, dark and shivery. “Mr. Stripe, is it true Lord Ashworth was murdered?”
“We think so, miss. But don’t you worry, we’ll take good care o’ you. An’ we’ll find whoever did it, be sure.” Now he had said it. He waited for her reaction.
Relief flooded into her face; then she remembered herself, her position, and her loyalties. She drew herself up and lifted her chin very high. “Of course,” she said with dignity. “Thank you, Mr. Stripe. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll be about my business.”
“Yes, miss,” he said regretfully, and allowed her to guide him downstairs again to resume his own duties in the butler’s pantry.
Pitt saw Sybilla March also, and the moment she walked into the room he understood why George had behaved with such abandon. She was a beautiful woman, vivid and sensuous. There was a warmth about her face, a grace in her movement utterly different from the cool elegance of fashion. And yet, for all the curves of her body, the fragility in the slenderness of her neck, the smallness of her wrists, made her also seem vulnerable and robbed him of the anger he had wanted to feel.
She sat down on the green sofa exactly where Tassie had been an hour earlier. “I don’t know anything, Mr. Pitt,” she said before he had time to ask. Her eyes were shadowed, as if she had been weeping, and there was a tightness about her which he thought was fear. But there had been a murder in the house, and whoever had committed it was still here. Only a fool would not be afraid.
“You may not appreciate the value of what you know, Mrs. March,” he said as he sat down. “I imagine anyone had the opportunity to put the digitalis in Lord Ashworth’s coffee. We shall have to approach it from the point of discovering who might wish to.”
She said nothing. The white hands in her lap were clenched so tightly the knuckles were shining.
He found it unexpectedly difficult to go on. He did not want to be brutal, and yet skirting round the subjects that were painful would be useless, and would only prolong the distress.
“Was Lord Ashworth in love with you?” he said bluntly.
Her head jerked up, eyes wide, as if she had been startled by the question, and yet she must have known it was inevitable. There was a long silence before she replied-so long, Pitt was about to ask again.
“I don’t know,” she said in a husky voice. “What does a man mean when he says ‘I love you’? Perhaps there are as many answers as there are men.”
It was a reply he had not foreseen at, all. He had expected a blushing admission, or a defiant one, or even a denial. But a philosophical answer that was a question itself left him confused.
“Did you love him?” he asked, far more brashly than he had planned.
Her mouth moved in the slightest of smiles, and he suspected there was an infinity of meaning in it he would never grasp. “No. But I liked him very much.”
“Did your husband know the true nature of your regard for Lord Ashworth?” He was floundering now, and he was acutely aware of it.
“Yes,” she admitted. “But William was not jealous, if that is what you imagine. We mix in Society a great deal. George was not the first man to have found me attractive.”
That Pitt was obliged to believe. But whether William was jealous or not was another matter. How far had the affair gone, and did William know its extent? Was he either ignorant of it, or truly a complacent husband? Or was there nothing to mind?
There was certainly no point in asking Sybilla.
“Thank you, Mrs. March,” he said formally.
Now he could no longer put it off. He must go and see Emily, face her grief.
He stood up and excused himself, leaving Sybilla alone in the green withdrawing room.
In the hall he found a footman and requested to be taken to see Emily. The man was reluctant at first, having more respect for grief than the necessities of investigation. But common sense overcame him, and he led the way up the broad stairs to the landing, with its jardinieres of ferns, and knocked on Vespasia’s bedroom door.
It was opened by a middle-aged maid with a plain, wise face, at the moment creased with pity. She stared up at Pitt grimly, quite prepared to stand her ground and defy him. She would protect Emily at any cost, and Pitt could see it in the shape of her shoulders and the square planting of her feet.
“I’m Thomas Pitt,” he said loudly enough for Emily, beyond the door, to hear him. “My wife is Lady Ashworth’s sister. She will be here soon, but I must speak to Lady Ashworth first.”
