“Mr. Pitt? My parlormaid tells me you believe I may be of assistance to you. Pray, in what way?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Carswell. It is very gracious of you to give up your time,” he said quickly. “I hope I do not inconvenience you. I am from the metropolitan police. I am inquiring into several recent art thefts, perpetrated in a particularly ingenious manner. The thieves present themselves as gentlemen who are lovers of fine paintings and are here on behalf of certain small museums, both in England and abroad.” He saw the polite interest in her face, and continued. “They say they have heard you have some excellent and little-known works and they would be interested in borrowing them for exhibition, for which of course they would reimburse you accordingly. It would only be for a matter of two or three months, then your paintings would be returned to you-”
“That doesn’t sound dishonest to me,” she said frankly.
He smiled. “It is not, to this point,” he agreed. “Except that there is no museum. They take the paintings-and in three months’ time return to you not your own painting, but an excellent forgery. Unless you examine it closely you would not know. And since it is in your frame, and you believe them to be reputable people, there is no reason why you should look at it more than cursorily, as you replace it on the wall.”
Her face pinched very slightly.
“We have had no such gentlemen here, Mr. Pitt. I’m sorry I cannot be of any assistance to you at all.”
It was what he had expected. “At least, Mrs. Carswell, be prepared,” he said easily. “And if anyone does call with such an offer, refuse it, and inform me at the Bow Street police station, at your earliest opportunity.” He glanced at the walls. “I see in the room here you have some delightful work which such thieves would love to obtain. I hope your locks on the windows and doors are all in good condition? Perhaps I might look at them and advise you?”
“If you wish, but I assure you my husband is most careful about such things. He is a magistrate, you know, and quite aware of both the nature and the frequency of crime.”
“Indeed, ma’am. If you would prefer…” He left it hanging in the air, hoping she would not accept his withdrawal. He needed to see as much of the house as possible.
“Not at all,” she said graciously. “I shall have Gibson show you all the downstairs doors and windows.” And so saying she rang the bell to summon the butler. When he came, a small man with abundant whiskers, she explained to him Pitt’s office and his purpose.
“Certainly, ma’am.” He turned to Pitt. “If you will come this way, sir,” he said with chill civility. He did not approve of police persons inside the house, and he wished Pitt to realize he was doing this under sufferance.
Pitt thanked Mrs. Carswell again, and followed Gibson’s retreating figure to examine the security of the house.
As he had supposed, the window latches and door locks were all in excellent repair, and he was assured they were checked every night before the last servant retired. Not that he would have expected Gibson to admit to less. What was far more interesting to him was the furnishing and the decor.
The withdrawing room was large, but lacked a look of spaciousness because the walls were covered in patterned paper, and the furniture was of the most modern design, clean lined, but engraved and inlaid so the impression was still of complicated surfaces. The curtains were heavy velvet, tied back with gilded, embossed and fringed sashes.
Pitt felt overpowered with opulence, and yet he knew it was no more than he would have found in most homes of men similarly situated both as to wealth and social rank. He had seen many such fireplaces with marble pilasters up the sides and ornate carving over the top, other gilt and ormolu clocks, other surfaces covered with china. In this case it was a top-heavy, elaborately scrolled Minton potpourri vase of neo-rococo design: blue, gold and white with lush flowers. He thought it hideous, but knew it was well thought of by many, and certainly valuable.
More to his taste in its simple lines was a Bohemian-red etched glass goblet, a souvenir of the Great Exhibition of 1851. Another memento was a painted and gilded lacquer box with pictures of the Crystal Palace.
He inspected the windows to satisfy the story he had told, watched by Gibson, as was his job. At least the man seemed sensible to the fact that callers such as Pitt could be just as dishonest as the thieves they were detailed to prevent. He watched Pitt with eyes like a hunting cat, not missing a gesture. Pitt smiled to himself and inwardly praised the man.
The dining room was equally splendid, and the porcelain in evidence was of excellent quality. There was a certain amount of Chinoiserie, as was popular, but these examples were blue and white and one at least, Pitt thought, was quite old-either Ming or a very good copy. Certainly if Addison Carswell wished to sell something and raise a little money, he could have found many times the amount Weems’s books had him owing.
The ladies’ sitting room, known as the boudoir, was quite different, perhaps decorated according to Mrs. Carswell’s taste rather than her parents-in-law, from whom she had possibly inherited the house. Here were pre- Raphaelite paintings, all brooding and passionate faces, clean lines of design and dark, burning colors. Figures of legend and dream were depicted in noble poses. All sorts of ancient stories were brought to memory and their effect was curiously pleasing. The furniture was William Morris, simple lines and excellent workmanship; perhaps some were even genuine rather than imitations.
Here there were more pictures of the daughters, the three fair-haired girls in carefully decorous poses, features stylized to show large eyes and small, delicate mouths, the passion carefully ironed out-or perhaps it had never been there, but Pitt doubted that. Few young women were as childishly pure as this artist had drawn. These were pictures designed to portray them as the marriage market wished them to be seen.
A fourth girl, dark haired, looked much more natural. There was a streak of individuality in her face as if the artist had not felt the pressure to convey a message. Pitt looked down and saw she had a wedding ring on her slender hand. He smiled to himself, and moved on to the next room.
The remainder of the house was as he would have expected, well furnished in traditional style, unimaginative, comfortable, full of ornaments, paintings, tapestries and mementos of this and past generations, small signs of family life, pride in the only son, gifts from parents, old samplers stitched by the daughters as young girls, a variety of books.
By the time he had seen the kitchen as well, and the servants’ quarters that were on the ground floor, Pitt had a very clear idea of a close, busy, rather bourgeois family, undisturbed by scandal. The tragedies and triumphs were largely of a domestic sort: the dinner party that succeeds; the invitations extended and accepted; the suitor who calls, or does not call; the dress which is a disaster; the awaited letter which never arrives.
From the servants he picked up small remarks about callers when he asked about outsiders with entry to the house. He was told of dressmakers, milliners, women friends coming to tea or leaving cards. And of course the family entertained. There were parties of many sorts. Right now there were invitations to a ball in return to one they had only recently given.
Pitt left Addison Carswell’s house feeling really very little wiser with regard to the death of William Weems. He had a strong sense of an agreeable upper-middle-class family: affectionate, pleasantly domestic, no more obtuse than was normal in wishing their daughters to marry well both socially and financially. That much he had gathered quite easily. He smiled and thought how much more Charlotte would have read into it, the subtleties and refinements he could only guess at vaguely. But none of this led him any further towards knowing if Carswell was in heavy debt to Weems, or whether the issue might be one of blackmail, as it was with Byam. The household was not on the surface any more extravagant than he would have expected for a man in Carswell’s position. And it was always possible Mrs. Carswell had a little money of her own to contribute, which might account for the very excellent pictures.
He walked along Curzon Street in the sun, his hands in his pockets, his mind deep in thought, scarcely noticing the carriages with their liveried footmen passing him by. He could go to Cars well’s associates and ask them certain trivial questions, on some pretext or other, but even so, what would the answers tell him? That he played cards, perhaps? If he did, what of it? They would not admit if he had lost heavily lately. That was the sort of thing one gentleman did not reveal about another.
He turned the corner into South Audley Street then left along Great Stanhope Street into Park Lane.
Was Carswell worried or anxious lately? If he had confided in anyone, the confidant would not betray him by repeating the matter, least of all to a stranger he would recognize instantly as not one of their own, even if Pitt did not identify himself as a policeman. And worry indicated nothing. It could be about any number of things that had nothing whatever to do with William Weems. It could be a matter of health, or a Carswell daughter being courted by someone unsuitable, or, perhaps as bad, being courted by no one at all. It could be a complicated case he had been required to judge, a decision he was unhappy over, a friend in difficulties, or simply indigestion.
