“You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?” Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.
“Yes, sir.” Pitt tried to help him. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. “Is it something to do with the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
Lovell sat reluctantly. “Yes. Yes, I have been—considering—weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not.” It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time—like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. “One desires to do one’s duty, however painful!” He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.
Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.
“Of course,” he answered. “Not always easy.”
“Quite.” Lovell coughed. “Quite so.”
“What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?”
Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“You have quite the wrong word. I do not
“Indeed.” Pitt breathed out patiently. “Of course it is. Excuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?”
“Mrs. Spencer-Brown . . . ” Lovell sniffed and kept the handkerchief knotted up in his fingers for a moment before folding it and replacing it in his pocket. “Mrs. Spencer-Brown was not a happy woman, Inspector. Indeed I would go so far as to say, speaking frankly, that she was somewhat neurotic!” He spoke the word as if it were faintly obscene, something to be kept between men.
Pitt was startled, and he had difficulty in preventing its showing in his face. Everyone else had said the opposite, that Mina was unusually pragmatic, adjusted very precisely to reality.
“Indeed?” He was aware of repeating himself, but he was confused. “What makes you say that, Mr. Charrington?”
“What? Oh—well, for goodness’ sake, man.” Now Lovell showed impatience. “I’ve had years of observing the woman. Live in the same street, you know. Friend of my wife. Been in her house and had her in mine. Know her husband, poor man. Very unstable woman, given to strong emotional fancies. Lot of women are, of course. I accept that, it’s in their nature.”
Pitt had found most women, especially in Society, to have fancies of an astoundingly practical nature, and to be most excellently equipped to distinguish reality from romance. It was men who married a pretty face or a flattering tongue. Women—and Charlotte had showed him a number of examples—far more often chose a pleasant nature and a healthy pocket.
“Romance?” Pitt said, blinking.
“Quite,” Lovell said. “Quite so. Live in daydreams, not used to the harsh facts of life. Not suited for it. Different from men. Poor Mina Spencer-Brown conceived a romantic attachment for young Tormod Lagarde. He is a decent man, of course, upright! Knew she was a married woman, and years older than he is into the bargain—”
“I thought she was about thirty-five?” Pitt interrupted.
“So she was, I believe.” Lovell’s eyes opened wide and sharp. “Good heavens, man, Lagarde is only twenty- eight. Be looking for a girl of nineteen or twenty when he decides to marry. Far more suitable. Don’t want a woman set in her ways—no chance to correct her then. One must guide a woman, you know, mold her character the right way! Anyhow, all that’s beside the point. Mrs. Spencer-Brown was already married. Stands to reason she realized she was making a fool of herself, and was afraid her husband would find out—and she couldn’t bear it anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Had to tell you. Damned unpleasant, but can’t have you nosing around asking questions and raising suspicions against innocent people. Most unfortunate, the whole affair. Pathetic. Great deal of suffering. Poor woman. Very foolish, but terrible price to pay. Nothing good about it.” He sniffed very slightly and dabbed at his nose.
“There very seldom is,” Pitt said dryly. “How do you come to know about this affection of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s for Mr. Lagarde, sir?”
“What?”
Pitt repeated the question.
Lovell’s face soured sharply.
“That is a highly indelicate question, Inspector—er—Pitt!”
“I am obliged to ask it, sir.” Pitt controlled himself with difficulty; he wanted to shake this man out of his narrow, idiotic little shell—and yet part of him knew it would be useless and cruel.
“I observed it, of course!” Lovell snapped. “I have already told you that I have known Mrs. Spencer-Brown for several years. I have seen her over a vast number of social occasions. Do you think I go around with my eyes closed?”
Pitt avoided the question. “Has anyone else remarked this—affection, Mr. Charrington?” he asked instead.
“If no one else has spoken of it to you, Inspector, it is out of delicacy, not ignorance. One does not discuss other people’s affairs, especially painful ones, with strangers.” A small muscle twitched in his cheek. “I dislike intensely having to tell you myself, but I recognize it as my duty to save any further distress among those who are still living. I had hoped you would understand and appreciate that! I am sorry I appear to have been mistaken.” He stood up and hitched the shoulders straight on his jacket by pulling on both lapels. “I trust, however, that you will still comprehend and fulfill your own responsibility in the matter?”
“I hope so, sir.” Pitt pushed his chair back and stood up also. “Constable McInnes will show you out. Thank you for coming, and being so frank.”
