last. “Of number eleven Rutland Place.”
Pitt sat up. “Did you say Rutland Place, Harris?”
“Yes, sir. Know it, do you, sir?” He added the “sir” only to keep from being impertinent; usually he did without such extra niceties, but Pitt was his superior and he wanted to work on this job. Even if it was not murder, and it probably was not, a death in Society was still a great deal more interesting than the run-of-the-mill crimes he would otherwise employ himself with. All too seldom did he find a genuine mystery.
“No,” Pitt answered him dourly. “I don’t.” He stood up and pushed his chair back, scraping it along the floor. “But I imagine we are about to. What do you know about Mrs. Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown?”
“Not a lot.” Harris fell in behind him as they collected hats, coats, and mufflers, and strode down the police station steps into the March wind.
“Well?” Pitt demanded, keeping his eye on the thoroughfare in hope of seeing an empty cab.
Harris doubled his step to keep up.
“Early thirties, very respectable, nothing said against her. Still,” he said hopefully, “there wouldn’t be, in that sort of address. Plenty of servants, plenty of money, by the looks. Although looks don’t always mean much. Known those as had three servants, bombazine curtains, and nothing but bread and gravy on the table. All appearance.”
“Did Mrs. Spencer-Brown have bombazine curtains?” Pitt inquired, moving sideways sharply as a carriage sped by him, splattering a mixture of mud and manure onto the pavement. He swore under his breath, and then yelled “Cabbie!” furiously at the top of his lungs.
Harris winced. “Don’t know, sir. Only just got the report. Haven’t been there myself. Do you want a cab, sir?”
“Of course I do!” Pitt glared at him. “Fool!” he muttered under his breath, then was obliged to take it back the next moment when Harris leapt into the street with alacrity and stopped a hansom almost in its tracks.
A moment later they were sitting in the warmth of the cab, moving at a sharp trot toward Rutland Place.
“How did she die?” Pitt continued.
“Poison,” Harris replied.
Pitt was surprised. “How do you know?”
“Doctor said so. Doctor called us. Got one of them new machines.”
“What new machines? What are you talking about?”
“Telephones, sir. Machine what hangs on the wall and—”
“I know what a telephone is!” Pitt said sharply. “So the doctor called on a telephone. Who did he call? We haven’t got one!”
“Friend of his who lives just round the corner from us—a Mr. Wardley. This Mr. Wardley sent his man with the message.”
“I see. And the doctor said she was poisoned?”
“Yes, sir, that was his opinion.”
“Anything else?”
“Not yet, sir. Poisoned this afternoon. Parlormaid found her.”
Pitt pulled out his watch. It was quarter past three o’clock.
“What time?” he asked.
“About quarter past two, or just after.”
That would be when the maid went to inquire whether they would be expecting callers for tea, or if Mrs. Spencer-Brown was going out herself, Pitt thought. He knew enough about the habits of Society to be familiar with the afternoon routine.
A few moments later they were in Rutland Place, and Pitt looked with interest at the quiet, gracious facades of the houses, set back a little from the pavement, areaways immaculate, some shaded by trees, windows catching the light. A carriage was drawn up outside one, and a footman was handing a lady down, closing the door behind her. Farther along another was leaving, harness glinting in the sun. One of those houses was Caroline’s. Pitt had never been there; it was a tacit understanding that such a call would be comfortable for neither the occupants nor Pitt. They met occasionally, but on neutral territory where no comparisons could be made, even though it would be the last thing either had intended.
The hansom stopped, and they climbed out and paid the fare.
“Eleven,” Harris said as they mounted the step.
The door opened even before they reached it and a footman hastened them in as forcefully as was consistent with his dignity. One did not desire police to wait on the doorstep so the whole neighborhood was aware one had been obliged to call them in! It was more than his promotion was worth to be clumsy in the handling of such a matter.
“Inspector Pitt,” Pitt announced himself quietly, conscious of the presence of tragedy, whatever its nature turned out to be. He was used to death, but it never failed to move him, and he still did not know what to say in the face of loss. No words could make any difference. He hated to sound trite or unfeeling, yet feared he often did, simply because he felt it from the outside. He was an intruder, a reminder of the darkest possibilities, the ugliest explanation.
“Yes, sir,” the footman said formally. “You’ll be wanting to speak to Dr. Mulgrew, no doubt. A carriage had been sent for Mr. Spencer-Brown, but he is not home yet.”
“Do you know where he is?” Pitt asked merely as a matter of course.
