barely glancing at Charlotte to gain her permission. She was about detecting business, and that did not really require any additional sanction.
Tellman hesitated, but his desire to accept was far plainer than he could possibly have realized.
Gracie gave up, shrugging her shoulders. She treated him as she would seven-year-old Daniel; she took the decision out of his hands. She snatched the skillet from the rack and put it on the hob, poured water from the kettle into it, then went for the kipper.
“Yer ’avin’ it poached,” she said over her shoulder. “I in’t messin’ around wif fryin’. Anyway, tenderer poached.” And she disappeared into the larder to fetch it.
Tellman glanced up to Charlotte anxiously.
“You are very welcome, Mr. Tellman,” she said warmly. “I’m glad you have discovered General Balantyne is not involved in the death of Josiah Slingsby, and I am grateful to hear it.”
He bit his lip. He was still confused inside himself.
“He seems to be a good man, Mrs. Pitt, a good soldier. I spoke to quite a few men who served with him. They have a lot of … respect for him … more than that … a kind of … loyalty … affection.” The surprise and reluctance was still in his voice.
Charlotte found herself smiling, partly with sheer relief. She had not thought differently, but it was important to have Tellman say so. She was also amused to see his expression.
Gracie came back with a large kipper and, ignoring both of them, placed it in the simmering pan with satisfaction. Both cats immediately sat up, noses quivering, startled, and went eagerly towards the stove. Then Gracie went to the wooden breadbox and took out a loaf. Cutting them first from the end, she buttered several thin slices and laid them on a plate. She refilled the kettle and set it on the hob, working busily, as if she were alone in the room.
Still smiling to herself, Charlotte decided to leave them. Tellman could work through his awkwardness the best he was able. He gave her a quick, rather desperate look as she went to the door, but she pretended to have no idea of the emotion in the room, and excused herself to have a game of charades with Jemima and Daniel, leaving Gracie to finish the kipper.
Pitt was later than usual in to Bow Street the following morning; in fact, he had only just arrived when there was a sharp bang on his office door. Before he could answer, it opened to admit a breathless sergeant, his face filled with consternation.
“Sir … Mr. Cadell has been found shot!” He swallowed hard, catching his breath. “Looks like suicide. He left a note”
Pitt was stunned. Even as he sat motionless with the sense of shock sinking into him like ice, his brain told him that he should have expected it. The signs had been there; he had simply refused to recognize them because of the pain it would cause Vespasia. He thought of her now, and of Theodosia Cadell. For her this would be almost unbearable, except that one had to bear it because there was no alternative.
Was he to blame? Had his visit to Cadell yesterday evening precipitated this? Would Vespasia hold him responsible for it?
No, of course not. It would be unjust. If Cadell were guilty, then it was his own doing.
“Sir!” The sergeant shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and anxious.
“Yes.” Pitt stood up. “Yes. I’m coming. Is Tellman in?”
“Yes sir. Shall I get ’im?”
“Send him to the door. I’ll get a hansom.” He went straight past the sergeant, not even thinking to pick up his hat from the stand, only snatching his jacket off its hook.
Downstairs he met Tellman, coming from the back of the station, his face grave and pale. He did not say anything, and together they went out onto the pavement and walked in the sun smartly along to Drury Lane. Pitt stepped into the road waving his arms, startling a shire horse pulling a wagon full of furniture. He shouted at a hansom coming around the corner from Great Queen Street and started running towards it, holding up all the traffic and being very thoroughly sworn at.
He scrambled in, calling out instructions to the driver, and slid across the seat to make room for Tellman. Of course, it was pointless-a few minutes here or there in reaching Cadell’s house could make no difference now-but the urgency of action released some of the anger and misery inside him.
Two or three times as they rode, Tellman made as if to speak, then, seeing Pitt’s face, changed his mind.
When they arrived Pitt paid the driver and strode across the pavement to the front door. There was a constable posted outside, his face stiff, his body at attention.
“Mornin’, sir,” he said quietly. “Sergeant Barstone’s inside. He’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.” Pitt brushed past him, opened the door and went in. It was absurdly like yesterday evening. The elaborate long case clock in the hall still ticked loudly, the hand moving from second to second with a little jerk each time. The brass edge of the umbrella stand still gleamed, but now from the sunlight streaming under the closed withdrawing room door. The bowl of roses had not shed any petals, or the maid had picked them up already.
All the doors were closed. He had not thought to ask where Cadell’s body was, and he had let himself in. There was no one else in the hall. He went back to the door again and rang the bell, then returned to wait.
“Do you want me to speak with the servants?” Tellman asked. “Don’t know what we could find. This looks like the end of it. Not really what I expected.”
“I suppose you might as well,” Pitt agreed. “Somebody might tell us some small thing which will explain how it all happened. Yes … yes, of course.” He straightened up. He was being careless. “We don’t know it was suicide yet. We are assuming.”
“Yes sir.” Tellman went willingly. Pitt knew why. He hated having to face the families of the dead. Corpses did not trouble him the same way-they were beyond their pain-but the living, the shocked, bewildered, grieving, were different. He felt helpless and intrusive, even though he could have justified his role to anyone. Pitt understood exactly; he felt the same.
The butler appeared from the green baize door into the servants’ quarters. He looked startled and angry to see Pitt already in the hall. In the distress of the morning he had apparently forgotten who Pitt was.
“Good morning, Woods,” Pitt said gravely. “I’m sorry for Mr. Cadell’s death. Is Mr. Barstone in the withdrawing room?”
Woods recollected himself. “Yes sir.” He swallowed, moving his neck as if his collar were too tight. “The … the study is locked, sir. I assume you will be needing to go in?”
“Is that where Mr. Cadell is?”
“Yes sir … I …”
Pitt waited.
Woods searched for words. He was obviously troubled by profound emotions.
“I don’t believe it, sir!” he said gruffly. “I’ve been with Mr. Cadell for nearly twenty years, and I don’t believe he’d take his own life. It has to be something else, some other answer.”
Pitt did not argue. Denial was the natural response to something so ugly, and from this man’s point of view, so utterly inexplicable. How could it make any sense to him?
“Of course we’ll investigate every possibility,” he said quietly. “Would you let me into the study; Sergeant Tellman has gone to speak with the rest of the staff. Who found Mr. Cadell this morning?”
“Polly, sir. She’s the downstairs maid. Went in to dust and make sure the room was clean and tidy. I’m afraid you can’t speak to her yet, sir. She’s taken it terribly hard. Awful thing for a young girl to find.” He blinked several times. “She’s usually very sensible, good worker, no trouble, but she just fainted clear away. She’s in the housekeeper’s sitting room, and you’ll just have to give her time. Can’t help that, sir.”
“Of course. Perhaps you can tell me most of what I need to know to begin with.”
“If I can, sir,” Woods conceded, perhaps helped in the immediate moment by the fact that he was able to be engaged in doing something. He fished in his pocket and produced a small brass key. He stood with it in his hand, waiting.
“What time was that?” Pitt asked him.
“Just after nine, sir.”
“Was that the usual time for Polly to go into the study?”
“Yes sir. Things sort of fall into a routine. Best way. Then nothing gets forgotten.”
