He was surprised, but he stopped before speaking, masked his feelings, and looked across at her calmly.
“Eloise killed Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that, Mrs. Denbigh?”
She was breathing in and out so deeply he could see the rise and fall of her bosom.
“I suspected it from the first because I knew how she felt,” she began. “She adored her brother, she possessed him—she built her whole life around him. Their parents died when they were both young, and he has always looked after her. To begin with, of course, that was all quite natural. But as time passed and they grew older, she did not let go of the childish dependence. She continued to cling onto him, to go everywhere with him, demand his entire attention. And when he sought any outside interests she would become jealous, pretend to be ill—anything to bring him back to her.”
She took a long breath. She was watching Pitt, watching his eyes, his face.
“Of course if Tormod showed any natural affection for any other woman, Eloise was beside herself,” she continued. “She never rested until she had driven the woman away, either with lies or by feigning sickness, or else worrying at poor Tormod until he found it hardly worth his while to try anymore. And he was so kindhearted he still protected her, in spite of the cost to himself.
“I’m sure you have found out in all your questions that Mina was very attracted to Tormod? In fact, she was in love with him. It is stupid now to try to cover it with genteel words. It cannot hurt her anymore.
“Naturally that drove Eloise into a frenzy of jealousy. The thought that Tormod would give any of his attention to another woman was more than she could bear. It must have turned the balance of her mind. She poisoned the cordial you have been so assiduously seeking. I have had it offered to me in their house. They bring it from the country with them when they come back from visiting Hertfordshire. I have drunk it on occasion myself.”
She was sitting very upright in the chair, her eyes still fixed on Pitt’s.
“Mina went to their house that day to visit Eloise, as you already know. Eloise gave her the cordial wine as a parting present. She drank it when she got home—and died—as Eloise had planned that she should.
“Tormod protected her—naturally. He had brought her up from a child. I daresay he felt responsible—although God knows why he should. In time he would have had to have her put away in a sanatorium or somewhere. I think in his heart he knew that. But he could not bear to do it yet.
“Ask anyone who knew them. They will tell you that Eloise hated me also—because Tormod cared for me.”
Pitt sat without moving. It all made sense. He remembered Eloise’s face, her dark eyes full of inward vision, absorbed in pain. She was the sort of woman who cried out for protection. She seemed as frail as a dream herself, as if she would vanish at a sudden start or a shout. He did not want to think she had receded into madness and murder. And yet he could think of no argument to refute it, nothing false in what Amaryllis had said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Denbigh,” he said coldly. “It is late now, but tomorrow I shall go to Rutland Place and investigate fully what you have said.” He could not resist adding, “A pity you were not as frank with me before.”
There were faint spots of color in her face.
“I couldn’t. And it would not have done any good anyway. Tormod would have denied it. He felt responsible for her. She had driven him into that, over the years. She is a parasite! She never wanted him to have any separate being, and she succeeded! She spent her whole life, every day, all day, trying to make sure he felt guilty if he ever did anything without her, went anywhere without her—even if he laughed at a joke without her laughing too!” Her voice was rising again, shrill and hard. “She’s mad! You’ve no idea what it did to him. She destroyed him! She deserves to be locked away—forever and ever!”
“Mrs. Denbigh!” He wanted to silence her, to get rid of that glittering face with its girlishly soft lines and its hollow, hate-bright eyes. “Mrs. Denbigh, please don’t distress yourself again! I will go tomorrow and talk to Miss Lagarde. I shall take Sergeant Harris and we shall look for the evidence you say is there. If we find any proof at all, then we shall act accordingly. Now Sergeant Harris will accompany you to your carriage, and I suggest you take some sedative and go to your bed early. This has been a most terrible day for you. You must be exhausted.”
She stood in the middle of the floor staring at him, apparently weighing in her mind whether he was going to do as she intended.
“I shall go tomorrow,” he acceded a little more sharply.
Without replying, she turned and walked out, closing the door behind her, leaving him alone and unaccountably miserable.
There was no way he could avoid it, this duty that gave him no satisfaction at all, no sense of resolution. But then, murder always brought tragedy.
He dispatched Harris to search yet again, this time particularly bedrooms and dressing rooms, for any cordial wine similar to that which Mina had drunk, or any empty bottles like the one found in Mina’s room. He also took the precaution of showing Harris a picture of the deadly nightshade plant, so that he might look for it in the conservatory and outhouses. Neither its presence nor its absence would prove anything, however, except that it was a country plant and would be unusual in the middle of London. But the Lagardes had a country house; there might be nightshade in every hedge or wood in Hertfordshire, for all he knew.
Eloise received him dressed completely in black; the blinds were drawn halfway in traditional mourning, the servants white-faced and somber. She sat on a chaise longue close to the fire, but she looked as if its heat would never again reach her.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt said instinctively—not only for his intrusion but for everything, for her loneliness, for death, for being unable to do anything but add to the burden.
She said nothing. What he did, perhaps what anyone did, no longer mattered to her. She was in a desolation beyond his power to touch, for good or ill.
He sat down. He felt ridiculous standing, as if his hands and feet might knock something over.
There was no point in stringing it out, trying to be tactful. That somehow made it worse, almost obscene, as if
