He was still sitting looking at the closed door, the reports of the arson untouched and facedown, when Constable McInnes returned twenty minutes later.
“What is it?” Pitt said irritably. Charrington had disconcerted him. What he had said about Mina jarred against everything else he had heard. Certainly Caroline had told him of the affection for Tormod Lagarde, but hand in hand with the conviction that Mina was unusually levelheaded. Now Charrington said she was flighty and romantic.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded again.
“The reports from the doctor, sir.” McInnes held out several sheets of paper.
“Doctor?” For a moment Pitt could not think what he meant.
“On Mrs. Spencer-Brown, sir. She died of poisoning. Of belladonna, sir—a right mass of it.”
“You read the report?” Pitt said, stating the obvious.
McInnes colored pink. “I just glanced at it, sir. Interested, like—because . . .” He tailed off, unable to think of a good excuse.
Pitt held out his hand for it. “Thank you.” He looked down and his eye traveled over the copperplate writing quickly. On examination, it had proved that Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown had died of heart failure, owing to a massive dose of belladonna, which, since she had not eaten since a light breakfast, appeared to have been consumed in some ginger-flavored tonic cordial, the only substance in the stomach at the time of death.
Harris had taken the box of medicinal powder supplied to Alston Spencer-Brown by Dr. Mulgrew, and it was still three-quarters full. The total amount absent, including the dosages Spencer-Brown said he had taken, was considerably less than that recovered in the autopsy.
Whatever had killed Mina was not a dose of medicine, taken either accidentally or by her own intention. It came from some other, unknown source.
Chapter Six
CHARLOTTE SPENT A miserable day turning over in her mind what she should do about Caroline and Paul Alaric. Three times she decided quite definitely that it was not so very serious and she would do best to take Pitt’s advice and leave it alone. Caroline would not thank her for interfering, and Charlotte might only cause them both embarrassment, and make the whole matter seem more than it really was.
And then four times she remembered Caroline’s face, with the high glow in her skin, the tautness of her body, and the little gulp of excitement as she had spoken to Paul Alaric in the street. And she could still picture him perfectly herself, looking elegant and standing very straight, his eyes clear, his voice soft. She had another vivid recollection of his speech, his diction casually perfect, each consonant distinct, as if he had thought of everything before he spoke and had intended it exactly as it came.
Yes, quite definitely, she must do something, and quickly—unless it was too late even now!
She had already baked a complete batch of bread without any salt, and had hurt Gracie’s feelings by telling her to do the kitchen floor when she had just finished it. Now it was three in the afternoon, and she had turned one of Pitt’s shirt collars and stitched it back the same way it had been in the first place.
She tore it out crossly, using a few words she would have been ashamed to have had overheard, and decided to write to her sister Emily immediately and request that she call upon her as soon as she received the letter, whether it was convenient or not. Emily, who had married Lord Ashworth at just about the time Charlotte had married Pitt, might well have to cancel some interesting social engagement without notice; the journey itself, however, would simply be a matter of calling the carriage and stepping in. And Charlotte had gone to Emily quickly enough when that dreadful business had happened in Paragon Walk when Emily was expecting her baby. It was indelicate to remind her of it, but at the moment she could not afford polite invitations.
She found notepaper and wrote:
She folded it up, put it into an envelope, and addressed it to Lady Ashworth, Paragon Walk, London, and sent Gracie to put it in the postbox immediately.
She had exaggerated, and she knew it. Emily might well be angry, even accuse her of lying by implication. There was no reason whatever to suppose that Mina’s death had anything to do with Caroline, or that Caroline herself was in any danger.
But if she had simply written that Caroline was running grave risk of making a fool of herself over a man, even Paul Alaric, it would have little effect. Of course, if their father found out it would hurt him deeply—he would be quite unable to understand. The fact that he had in times past taken at least one romance considerably further would be to him completely different. What was acceptable for a man to do, providing he was discreet, had nothing whatsoever to do with what that same man’s wife might do. And, to be honest, Caroline was not even being particularly discreet! All of which would not fetch Emily in any haste, simply because she would not believe it.
Whereas mention of death, and a rather unsubtle reminder of the hideous events at Paragon Walk, would almost certainly bring her as fast as her carriage could negotiate the streets.
And indeed it did. Emily knocked very sharply on the front door before noon the following day.
