angles of a cow’s body. It was uniquely restful.
The long green velvet curtains were splayed out on the floor and s wagged with braided sashes, the only thing in the room which jarred on him. He had no idea why, but he disliked the display of overlength curtains, even though he knew it was customary in houses of wealth. It was a conventional sign of plenty, that one had enough velvet to waste.
There was a large cut-glass bowl of roses on the low mahogany table between the chairs.
He walked over to the window and stood in the sun waiting for the footman to return.
However when the door opened it was Lady Byam herself who came in, closing it behind her, making it apparent she intended to speak with him in this room rather than conducting him elsewhere. She was taller than he had remembered, and in this sharp, hard light he could see she was also older, perhaps within a few years of his own age. Her skin was pale and clear and there was light color in her cheeks, and he could see a few very fine lines about her eyes. It made her seem more approachable, more vulnerable, and more capable of laughter.
“Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” she said with a faint smile. “I am afraid Lord Byam is out at the minute, but I expect he will return soon. May I offer you some refreshment until then?”
He had no need of either food or drink, but he heard himself accepting without hesitation.
She reached for the bell cord and pulled it. The footman appeared almost immediately and she sent him for tea and savories.
“Forgive me, Mr. Drummond,” she said as soon as the footman was gone. “But I cannot help but ask you if you have any information regarding the death of Mr. Weems?”
He noticed that in spite of the blackness of her hair, her eyes were not brown but dark gray.
“Very little, ma’am,” he answered apologetically. “But I thought Lord Byam would wish to hear how we have progressed, regardless that it is so slightly, and all of it merely a matter of elimination.”
“Elimination?” Her cool, level voice lifted with a moment of hope. “You mean reason why it was not my husband?”
He wished he could have told her it was. “No, I am afraid not. I mean people whom we had reason to suspect, people who had borrowed money from Weems, but whom we find can account for their whereabouts at the time of his death.”
“Is that how you do it?” Her brow was furrowed; there was anxiety in her eyes and something he thought was disappointment.
“No,” he said quickly. “No-it is merely a way of ruling out certain possibilities so we do not waste time pursuing them. When someone like Weems is killed it is difficult to know where to begin, he had so many potential enemies. Anyone who owed him money is at least a possibility.” He found himself talking too quickly, saying too much. He was aware of doing it and yet his tongue went on. “We have to establish who had a reason for wishing him dead and then who had an opportunity to commit the crime, and would have the means at their disposal. There will not be many who had all three. When we have thus narrowed it down we will try to establish from the evidence which of those people, assuming there are more than one, actually is guilty.” He looked at her to see if she understood not only his bare words, but all the meaning behind them; if it was of any reassurance to her that they knew their profession.
He was rewarded to see her doubt lessen, and her shoulders relax a trifle under the soft fabric of her gown, which was dark green like the room, reminding him of deep shade under trees in summer. But the anxiety was still there.
“It sounds extremely difficult, Mr. Drummond. Surely people must lie to you? Not only whoever is guilty, but other people as well?” Her brows furrowed. “Even if we have no part in it, and no knowledge of the murder, most of us have things we would rather were not known, albeit petty sins and uglinesses by comparison. How do you know what to believe?”
Before he could answer, the footman returned with tea and the requested small savories. Eleanor thanked him absently and he withdrew. She invited Drummond to partake of the food, and poured tea for him and herself.
The savories were delicious, tiny delicate pastries, merely a mouthful, and small crisp fingers of toast spread with pate or cheeses. The tea was hot and clean in the mouth. He sat opposite her, trying to balance himself and eat at the same time, feeling clumsy compared with her grace.
“It is difficult,” he said, taking up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. “And of course from time to time we make mistakes, and have to begin again. But Inspector Pitt is an excellent man and not easily confused.”
She smiled fully for the first time. “Such a curious man,” she said, looking down at the roses in their exquisite bowl. “At first I wondered who in heaven’s name you had brought.” She smiled apologetically. “His pockets must have been stuffed with papers, his jacket hung at such an odd angle, and I cannot believe he has seen a good barber in months. Then I looked at his face more closely. He has the clearest eyes I have ever seen. Have you noticed?”
Drummond was taken aback, unsure how to answer.
She smiled at herself.
“No, of course you haven’t,” she answered her own question. “It is not a thing a man would remark. I should feel ashamed if your Mr. Pitt caught me in an untruth. And I don’t find it hard to believe he would know. I hope he has a similar effect on other people he questions-” She stopped as she saw the doubt in his face. “You think I am fanciful? Perhaps. Or maybe I hope too much-”
“Oh no!” he said quickly, leaning forward without realizing it until he found he had nowhere to place the cup still in his hand. He put it down on the table self-consciously. “Pitt is extremely good at his job, I assure you. I would not have assigned him to this case did I not have fall confidence in him. He has solved some remarkably difficult murders in the past. And he is a man of both compassion and discretion. He will not seek his own fame, or to cause hurt by scandal.”
“He sounds a paragon,” she said quietly, looking not at Drummond but at her plate.
He was aware of having overpainted it.
“Not at all. He is perfectly human,” he said rather too quickly. “Frequently insubordinate, he detests being patronized and is the scruffiest man I know. But he is a man of both integrity and imagination, and he will find out who murdered Weems if anyone can.”
For the first time she looked directly at him with a candid smile full of warmth. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Yes I do,” he confessed. And it was a confession. A woman of Lady Byam’s social position would not expect a gentleman like Drummond to have personal feelings for a subordinate such as Pitt.
She said nothing in reply to that, but he had a sharp awareness that she was pleased, although he was uncertain as to why: whether it was simply that if Pitt was liked it made the whole unpleasantness a little more bearable, and she might also trust him not to be clumsy; or whether it had anything to do with her approval of him.
That was a rather ridiculous thought, and he dismissed it hastily. He drew in his breath to speak, but at the same moment she pushed the serving plate a fraction forward.
“Please take another savory, Mr. Drummond?” she offered. She seemed to search for something to say, and found it in a triviality, her voice losing the low-pitched melody it had had before. “I was at a ball the evening before last, given by Mr. and Mrs. Radley. She used to be Lady Ashworth, and has recently remarried. Her husband wishes to stand for Parliament and this was in the nature of introducing his campaign. But Mrs. Radley herself was unwell, and her sister, a Mrs. Pitt, was standing in her place for the evening. You know for a moment I could not think where I had heard the name recently.” Her voice was growing higher as if it were tight in her throat. “I wonder what those people would have thought had they known that today I should be sitting in my own home discussing a police investigation and hoping to clear my husband of suspicion of the murder of a usurer. I wonder how many of them would have spoken to me so civilly and been happy to court my company.”
A multitude of answers rose to his lips, the instinct to tell her who Charlotte was, which he dismissed reluctantly. It would be unfair to Charlotte, and possibly close an avenue of acquiring knowledge. Charlotte had certainly been acute enough in her judgment in the past. He wanted to assure Eleanor Byam that any friend who abandoned her because of such a thing was not worthy of her association, let alone her affection. Then he realized that she knew it as well as he, but she still needed the comfort of being accepted. She was afraid of scandal, of the unpleasantness of being cut, of the cruel whispers, the speculations, the unjust thoughts. Courage did not prevent the hurt, only helped one to endure it with dignity. Even the knowledge that those one had thought friends were
