“Not so far as I know,” Pitt said dryly. “I should doubt it; he’s for Home Rule.”
Tellman grunted again, and muttered something under his breath.
Pitt did not bother to ask him what it was.
They had to wait nearly an hour for Rose Serracold to come in. They were left in a deep red morning room with a crystal bowl of pink roses on the table in the center. Pitt smiled to himself as he saw Tellman wince. It was an unusual room, almost overpowering at first, with its lush, delicate paintings on the walls and its simple white fireplace. But as he was in the room over a space of time he found it increasingly pleasing. He looked at the scrapbooks set out on the low table. They were beautifully made, put there to while away the time of callers. The first was of botanical specimens, and beside each in neat, rather eccentric handwriting was a short history of the plant, its native habitat, when it was introduced into Britain and by whom, and the meaning of its name. Fond of his own garden, when he had the time, Pitt found it totally absorbing. His imagination was fired by the extraordinary courage of the men who had scaled mountains in India and Nepal, China and Tibet, in search of yet one more perfect bloom, and lovingly brought them back to England.
Tellman paced the floor. He dipped into the other scrapbook, of watercolors of various seaside towns in Britain; very pretty but less interesting to him. Perhaps if it had included the hamlet in Dartmoor where Gracie and Charlotte were staying it would have been a different matter. But Pitt had not told him the name of it anyway. He let his mind wander, trying to picture what they might be doing now, as he was standing here in this alien room. Would Gracie be having to work much, or would she be free to enjoy herself, walk over the hills in the sun? In his mind’s eye he saw her, small, very straight, her hair pulled back from her sharp, bright little face, gazing at everything with interest. She would never have seen such a place before, a hundred miles from the narrow city streets in which she had grown up, crowded, noisy, smelling of old cooking, drains, wood rot, smoke. He imagined the countryside around the hamlet would be wide open, almost like a nakedness of the land.
Come to think of it, he had never been in a place like that himself, except in dreams, and while looking at pictures like this.
Would she even think of him while she was there? Probably not. . or not often. He was still not certain what she felt about him. During the Whitechapel affair it had seemed as if at last she had softened. They still disagreed about a hundred things, important things like justice and society and what it was appropriate for a man or a woman to do. All his teaching and his experience said she was wrong, but he could not put into words any specific instance of precisely in what way. He certainly could not explain it to her. She just looked at him with that withering, impatient air, as if he were an obstreperous child, and went on with whatever she was doing, cooking or ironing, immensely practical-as if women kept the world going while men just argued about it.
Should he write to her while she was away?
That was a difficult question. Charlotte had taught her to read, but only fairly recently. Might the necessity of replying be an embarrassment to her? Worse, if there were something she could not read, might she show his letter to Charlotte? The thought made him cringe with embarrassment. No! Definitely he would not write. Better not to take the risk. And perhaps better not to have her address written anywhere-just in case.
He still had the scrapbook open when Rose Serracold came in at last and both he and Pitt stood to attention. Tellman did not know what kind of a person he had been expecting, but not the striking woman who stood in the doorway dressed in lilac and navy stripes with huge sleeves and a tiny waist. Her ash-fair hair was dressed in an unusually straight style, swirled around on her head rather than piled in curls, her azure-blue eyes very pale, staring at them both in surprise.
“Good morning, Mrs. Serracold,” Pitt said after the first moment’s silence. “I am sorry to intrude upon you without notice, but the tragic circumstances of Miss Maude Lamont’s death didn’t allow me the time to seek an appointment. I realize you must be very busy during the parliamentary election, but this will not wait.” There was a steel in his tone which cut off argument.
She stood strangely motionless, not even turning to notice Tellman, although she could not have been unaware of him only a few feet from her. She stared at Pitt. It was impossible to tell if she had already known of Maude Lamont’s death. When she spoke at last it was very softly.
“Indeed. And exactly what is it you think I can say that will help, Mr. . Pitt?” She was obviously remembering his name from what the butler had told her, but with an effort. It was not intended as rudeness, simply that he was not part of her world.
“You were one of the last people to see her alive, Mrs. Serracold,” Pitt replied. “And you also saw the others who were present at the seance, and must know what took place.”
If she wondered how Pitt was aware of that, she did not say so.
Tellman was curious to see how Pitt was going to speak to this woman to draw everything of use from her. They had not discussed it and he knew it was because Pitt was uncertain himself. She was part of his new role in Special Branch. Her husband was standing for Parliament. Pitt would not share with Tellman exactly what his task was, but Tellman guessed it was to keep her out of scandal, or if that proved to be impossible, then to deal with it discreetly, and perhaps rapidly. He did not envy him. Solving a murder was simple by comparison.
She raised elegant eyebrows very slightly. “I don’t know how she died, Mr. Pitt, or if anyone was responsible, or could have acted to prevent it.” Her voice was perfectly level but she was very pale and so still that the mastery of emotion in her could be judged simply by the absence of any sign. She dared not allow it to be seen.
Tellman was aware of a very slight air of perfume from her, and that were she to move he would hear the rustle of silks, as he had when she came in. She was a kind of woman who alarmed and disturbed him. He was acutely conscious of her presence, and he understood nothing of her life at all, her feelings or her beliefs.
“Someone was responsible.” Pitt’s voice cut across his thoughts.
She made no gesture to indicate that they should be seated.
“She was murdered,” Pitt finished.
She took a very long, slow breath and let it out in a barely audible sigh. “Did someone break in?” She hesitated a second. “Perhaps she forgot to lock the side door to Cosmo Place? The last person to arrive came in that way, not through the front door.”
“She was not robbed,” Pitt replied. “No one had broken anything.” He was watching her intently. His eyes never moved from hers. “And the manner in which she was killed seemed to be peculiarly personal.”
She brushed past him and sank into one of the dark red chairs, her skirts billowing around her in a soft swish of silk on silk. She was so white Tellman thought that she had at last realized the meaning of what Pitt had told her.
Did it startle her? Or was it that she already knew, and this was remembrance, and the moment of grasping the fact that others knew also, specifically the police?
Or could it be that the knowledge that it had been personal betrayed to her who was responsible?
“I don’t think I wish to know about it, Mr. Pitt,” she said quickly. She seemed to be completely in command of herself again. “I can tell you only what I observed. It appeared to me a perfectly ordinary evening. There were no quarrels, no ill feeling of any kind that I saw, and I believe I would have seen it had it been there. In spite of what you say, I can’t believe it was one of us. It was certainly not I. .” Now her voice cracked a little. “I. . I was most indebted to her skill. And I. . liked her.” She seemed about to add something, then changed her mind and stared at Pitt, waiting for him to continue.
He did not wait any longer to be invited, but sat down opposite her, leaving Tellman free to do the same. “Can you describe the evening for me, Mrs. Serracold?”
“I suppose so. I arrived a short while before ten. The soldier was already in the room. I know nothing about him, you understand, but he is most concerned about battles. All his questions are about Africa and war, so I assume he is a soldier, or was.” Her face registered momentary pity. “I formed the opinion that he had lost someone he loved.”
“And the third person?” Pitt prompted.
“Oh.” She shrugged. “The grave robber? He came last.”
Pitt looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
She pulled a little face, an expression of dislike. “I call him that in my mind because I think he is a skeptic, trying to take from us the belief in a resurrection of the spirit. His questions were. . academic, in a cruel way, as if he were probing a wound. . ” She searched Pitt’s eyes, trying to gauge with what exactness he understood, if he were capable of grasping at least an idea of what she was describing, or if she were laying herself open to
