as it makes me to have to say so. I do not interest myself in other people’s private lives. Therefore I have no idea what particular crisis may have precipitated the tragedy.”
“No, sir,” Pitt said. They were both still standing, Lovell stiff and unprepared to offer any sop to comfort. “No, sir, but it now seems beyond doubt that Mrs. Spencer-Brown did not take her own life. She was murdered.”
“Indeed?” Lovell’s face was white, and he suddenly reached for the chair behind him. “I suppose you are quite sure? You have not been too hasty, leaped to conclusions? Why should anyone murder her? That is ridiculous! She was a respectable woman!”
Pitt sat down too. “I have no reason to doubt that, sir.” He decided to lie, at least by implication; there was no other way he could think of to approach the subject. “Sometimes even the most innocent people are killed.”
“Someone insane?” Lovell grasped at the easiest explanation. Insanity was like disease—indiscriminate. Had not Prince Albert himself died of typhus? “Of course. That must be the answer. I am afraid I have seen no strangers about the area, and all our servants are chosen most carefully. We always follow up references.”
“Very wise,” Pitt heard himself agree, hypocrisy dry in his mouth. “I believe you very tragically lost your own daughter, sir?”
Lovell’s face closed over in tight defense, almost hostility.
“Indeed. It is a subject I prefer not to discuss, and it has no relation whatever to the death of Mrs. Spencer- Brown.”
“Then you know more of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death than I do, sir,” Pitt replied levelly. “Because as yet I have no knowledge as to what caused it, or who, let alone why.”
Lovell’s skin was white, drawn in painful lines around his mouth and jaw. Cords of muscle stood out in his neck, making his high collar sit oddly.
“My daughter was not murdered, sir, if that is what you imagine. There is no question of it. Therefore it can have no connection. Do not let your professional ambition give you to see murder where there is nothing but simple tragedy.”
“What did cause her death, sir?” Pitt kept his voice low, aware of the pain he must be inflicting; consciousness of it was stronger than the gulf of feeling and belief between the two men.
“An illness,” Lovell replied. “Quite sudden. But it was not poison. If that has occurred to you as a connection, then you are quite mistaken. You would do better to employ your time investigating Mrs. Spencer-Brown rather than going over other people’s family losses. And I refuse to permit you to trouble my wife with these idiotic questions. She has suffered enough. You can have no idea what you are doing!”
“I have a daughter, sir.” Pitt was reminding himself as much as this stiff little man in front of him. What if Jemima had died suddenly, without warning to the emotions—full of life one day, and nothing but a vivid, beautiful, and agonizing memory the next? Would he now find it intolerable to discuss it as Lovell did?
He could not guess. It was tragedy beyond the ability of the mind to conjure.
And yet Mina had been someone’s daughter too.
“Where did she die, sir?”
Lovell stared at him. “At our house in Hertfordshire. What possible concern is it of yours?”
“And where is she buried, sir?”
Lovell’s face flushed scarlet. “I refuse to answer any more questions! This is monstrous impertinence, and grossly offensive! You are paid to discover the cause of Mina Spencer-Brown’s death, not to exercise your infernal curiosity about my family and its bereavements. If you have anything to ask me about the matter, then do so! I shall do my best to answer you, according to my duty. Otherwise I request that you leave my house immediately, and do not return unless you have legitimate business here! Do you understand me, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Charrington,” Pitt said very softly. “I understand you perfectly. Was your daughter friendly with Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
“Not particularly. I think they were no more than civil to one another. There was a considerable difference in their ages.”
A completely random thought occurred to Pitt.
“Was your daughter well acquainted with Mr. Lagarde?”
“They had known each other for some time,” Lovell replied stiffly. “But there was no”—he hesitated while he chose his word—“no fondness between them. Most unfortunate. It would have been an excellent match. My wife and I tried to encourage her, but Ottilie had no—” He stopped, his face hardening again. “That is hardly pertinent to your inquiry, Inspector. Indeed, it is not pertinent to anything at all now. Forgive me, but I think you are wasting both your time and mine. There is nothing I can tell you. I bid you good day.”
Pitt considered whether to argue, to insist, but he did not believe that Lovell would tell him anything more.
He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I hope it will not be necessary to trouble you again. Good day, sir.”
“I hope not indeed.” Lovell rose. “The footman will show you out.”
Rutland Place was pale with watery sun. In one or two gardens green daffodil leaves stood like bayonets, yellow banners of bloom held above them. He wished people would not plant them in ranks, like an army.
Whether Mina Spencer-Brown had been right about the ugliness of its nature or not, there was certainly a mystery about Ottilie Charrington’s death. She had neither died nor been buried where her family claimed.
Why should they lie? What really had killed her, and where?
The answer could only be that there was something so painful, or so appalling, that they dared not tell the truth.
Chapter Eight
