“So everyone would know that Polly would go into the study at that time?”
“Yes sir.” Woods looked deeply troubled. It was easy to understand, and his thoughts were plain in his face. Cadell himself would have to have been aware of the almost certainty that a young maid would be the one to find him.
“And the door was unlocked ….” Pitt stated the obvious, but with surprise. People who intended killing themselves very often ascertained that they would have privacy.
“Yes sir.”
“Did anyone hear the shot? It must have made a considerable noise.”
“No sir, not that we realized, if you know what I mean?” Woods looked embarrassed, as if he had been at fault; if they had heard it they might have prevented the tragedy. It was irrational, but grief and incomprehension had numbed his faculties. “You must understand, sir, most of the staff were busy about their duties that hour of the day. The kitchen was full of comings and goings. There were tradesmen’s boys in the yard with deliveries and the like, wagons and carts and things clattering up and down the road, and with the windows open to air the house, there was a certain amount of noise anyway. I expect we heard it but never realized what it was.”
“Did Mr. Cadell have breakfast this morning?”
“No sir, just a cup of tea.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?”
“No sir, not lately. I’m afraid Mr. Cadell was not himself as far as his health was concerned.” He blinked again, stirring to govern his emotions. “He seemed very preoccupied, if you understand me. I daresay there is some foreign business that gives cause for concern. It is an extremely responsible …” He tailed off, suddenly remembering again that his master was dead. His eyes filled with tears and he turned away, embarrassed to lose such control of himself in front of a stranger.
Pitt was used to distress. He had been in situations like this countless times. He affected not to have noticed.
“Where did Mr. Cadell take his tea?”
It was a moment before Woods replied. “I believe Didcott the valet took it up to his dressing room, sir,” he said at last.
“And then he went down to the study?”
“I believe so. Didcott would know.”
“We’ll ask him. Thank you. Now I’ll go to the study, if you will let me in.”
“Yes sir, of course.” And with slightly shaky steps, Woods led the way across the hall and down a fairly long passage to an oak door which he opened with the key. He remained outside while Pitt went in.
Leo Cadell was slumped forward over the desk, his hands on top of it a trifle awkwardly, his head on one side. Blood from a wound to his right temple spilled out over the wooden surface of the writing top. A dueling pistol lay touching his right hand, two inches from a quill pen, the ink dried. There was also a cushion on the floor near the chair. Pitt bent and picked it up, putting it to his nose and sniffing. The smells of gunpowder and charring were plain. That explained why nobody had heard the sharp report of the shot.
It did not explain why Cadell had not locked the door from the inside, so people would know there was something wrong, and it would not be a young maid, or even his wife, who would be the first to find him.
But then a man capable of the kind of blackmail which had been practiced was hardly likely at this point to consider the feelings of a maid or of anyone else. How easy it is to be totally and disastrously mistaken in one’s judgment of people. Pitt still found it hard to accept, and Vespasia possibly never would. Apparently, even as wise and shrewd as she was, she could be utterly wrong.
He looked at the papers on the top of the desk. Half a dozen in a neat pile were letters and minutes from the Foreign Office; one, alone, to the left of the pile, was composed of pieces clipped from newspapers … probably the
I know the police are close behind me now. I cannot succeed, and I will not wait for them to arrest me. I could not face that.
This is a quick, clean end, and I shall not be aware of what happens after I am gone, except that the case is ended. It is all over.
Leo Cadell
It was terse; no regrets, no apologies. Perhaps there was another letter somewhere to Theodosia. Pitt could not believe she had known his guilt.
He looked closely at it again. It appeared exactly the same as the others he had seen. The spacing was a trifle different, less precise, but then in the circumstances that was unsurprising.
There were scissors along with a paper knife, a stick of sealing wax, a small ball of string and two pencils in a holder on the desk. He could not see any glue or paste. Perhaps it had been used up and the container thrown away.
Where was the newspaper from which the words and letters had been cut? It was not on the desk or on the floor. He looked in the wastepaper basket. It was there, folded neatly. He took it out. Yesterday’s copy of the
He let it fall again. There seemed little more to say. Cadell was right; as far as the police were concerned, the case was complete. For the victims, most of all for Theodosia, it never would be.
The sharp morning sunlight fell through the clear glass of the French doors into the garden. The maid had been too distraught to think of closing the curtains. There was no one in sight. He moved across and did it now, closing the latch on the door and then drawing the heavy velvet across.
He went out and locked the hall door behind him. He must speak with Theodosia. Speaking to the family of the victim, and the ultimate arrest of someone, the shock and anguish of their family, were the two worst times in any investigation. In this one they were bound together in one occasion, and the grief in one person.
She was sitting in the withdrawing room, gray-faced, her body stiff, her hands clenched together in her lap so hard her knuckles shone where the skin was stretched tight. She stared at him wordlessly out of eyes almost black. She was alone, no maid or footman with her.
He came in quietly and sat down opposite her. Not only had she lost her husband, a man Vespasia said she truly loved, and her future was gone, but-immeasurably more painful-her past was destroyed as well. The whole precious image of her world and all it had meant was shattered. The foundation upon which she had built her beliefs was gone. Everything about her husband that truly mattered, that formed the structure of her relationships, even of her understanding of herself and her own judgments, was proved a lie. She had been misled, deceived in everything. What was left?
How often do we perceive the world and those we love not as they are but only as we want them to be?
He wished he could offer her any comfort at all, but there was none.
“Would you like me to call Vespasia for you?” he asked her.
“What? Oh.” She remained silent for a few moments, struggling within herself. Then she seemed to reach some inner conviction. “No … thank you. Not yet. She will find this very difficult. She was-” Her voice cracked. “She was fond of Leo. She thought well of him. Please wait until I am more composed. Until I have a better idea of what happened so that I can tell her.”
“Would you like me to tell her?” he offered. “I can go to her home. Otherwise she will read it in the newspapers.”
The very last vestige of blood drained from her face, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to collapse. She struggled for breath.
Instinctively, ignoring conventions, he moved forward to kneel on the floor beside her, holding her hands where they were knotted iron hard on her lap. He put his other arm around her. “Slowly!” he commanded. “Breathe slowly. Don’t gasp.”
She obeyed, but even so it was several minutes before she regained physical control of herself.
“I am sorry,” she apologized. “I beg your pardon. I had barely thought of the newspapers.”
“I’ll call on Vespasia as I leave here,” he said decisively. “I am sure she will wish to be with you. It will be easier for her to face this if she is not alone.”
She looked at him, and there was a warmth of gratitude momentarily in her eyes. She did not question his decision. Perhaps she was glad to have any step taken for her, anything that relieved a bit of the weight she must bear alone from now on.
