“I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer-Brown, but your wife died in circumstances that have not yet been explained. It may have been an accident, although, on your own word, that seems unlikely. It may have been suicide, but no one knows of a reason why she should do such a thing. It may have been murder.” He looked at Alston and met his eyes. “I have to know—the law has to know.”
“That is ridiculous,” Alston said quietly, too appalled for anger. “Why on earth should anyone wish Mina harm?”
“I have no idea. But if anyone did, then the person must be found.”
Alston stared at the empty glass in front of him. All the answers were equally impossible to him, and yet his intelligence told him one of them must be the truth.
“Very well,” he said. “But I would be obliged if you would remember that we are a house in mourning, and observe whatever decencies you can. You may be accustomed to sudden death, and she was a stranger to you—but I am not, and she was my wife.”
Pitt had not warmed to him instinctively—he was a fussy, deliberate little man, where Pitt was extravagant and impulsive— but there was a dignity about him that commanded respect.
“Yes, sir,” Pitt said soberly. “I have seen death many times, but I hope I never find myself accepting it without shock, or a sense of grief for those who cared.”
“Thank you.” Alston stood up. “I presume you will wish to question the servants?”
“Yes, please.”
They were duly brought in one by one, but none of them could furnish anything beyond the simple facts that Mina had arrived home on foot a few minutes after two o’clock, the footman had let her in, she had gone upstairs to her dressing room to prepare herself for the afternoon, and a little after quarter past two the parlormaid had found her dead on the chaise longue in the withdrawing room where Pitt and Mulgrew had seen her. No one knew of any reason why she should be distressed in any way, and no one knew of anyone who wished her harm. Certainly no one knew of anything she had eaten or drunk since her breakfast, which had been at midmorning—far too early for her to have ingested the poison.
When they were gone, and Harris had been dispatched to find the box of Alston’s stomach medicine and to perform a routine inspection of the kitchen and other premises, Pitt turned to Mulgrew.
“Could she have taken something at whatever house she was visiting between luncheon and her return home?” he asked.
Mulgrew fished for another handkerchief.
“Depends on what it was. If I’m wrong and it wasn’t belladonna, then we start all over again. But if it was, then no, I don’t think so. Works pretty quickly. Can’t see her taking it in another house, walking all the way back here, going upstairs, tidying herself up, coming down here, and then being taken ill. Sorry. For the time being you’d better assume she took it here.”
“One of the servants?” Pitt did not believe it. “In that case it should not be hard to find which one brought her something—only why!”
“Glad it’s your job, not mine.” Mulgrew looked at his handkerchief with disgust, and Pitt gave him his own best one. “Thanks. What are you going to do?”
Pitt tightened his muffler and thrust his hands into his pockets.
“I’m going to pay a few calls,” he said. “Harris will make arrangements to have the body removed. The police surgeon will attend the autopsy, of course. I daresay you’ll need to help Mr. Spencer-Brown. He looks pretty shaken.”
“Yes.” Mulgrew held out his hand, and Pitt shook it.
Five minutes later he was outside on the street feeling cold and unhappy. There was only one realistic step to take now, and he could not reason himself out of it. If Charlotte was right, there was something very unpleasant going on in Rutland Place: petty theft, and perhaps some person peeping and staring with a malicious interest in the private lives of others. He could not overlook the likelihood that Mina’s death was a tragic result of some part of this.
He knocked on Caroline’s door with his hands shaking. There was no pleasant way of asking her the questions he had to. She would regard the questioning as intolerable prying, and the fact that it was he who was doing it would make it worse, not better.
The parlormaid did not know him.
“Yes, sir?” she said in some surprise. Gentlemen did not usually call at this hour, especially strangers, and this loose-boned, untidy creature on the step, with his wind-ruffled hair and coat done up at sixes and sevens, was certainly not expected.
“Will you please tell Mrs. Ellison that Mr. Pitt is here to see her?” He walked in past her before she had time to protest. “It is a matter of some urgency.”
The name was familiar to her, but she could not immediately place it. She hesitated, uncertain whether to allow him in any farther or to call one of the menservants for help.
“Well, sir, if you please to wait in the morning room,” she said dubiously.
“Certainly.” He was herded obediently out of the hallway into the silence of the back room, and within moments Caroline came in, her face flushed.
“Thomas! Is something wrong with Charlotte?” she demanded. “Is she ill?”
“No! No, she is very well.” He put out his hands as if to touch her in some form of reassurance, then remembered his place. “I’m afraid it is something quite different,” he finished.
All the anxiety slipped away from her. Then suddenly, as if hearing a cry, it returned, and without anything said, he knew she was afraid Charlotte had told him about the locket with its betraying picture. It would have been better police work if he had allowed her to go on thinking so, since she might have made some slip, but the words came to his tongue in spite of reasoning.
