lands, enduring appalling privation and the loss of every familiar sight and sound. In his mind Mrs. York was such a woman.
Lowther went on quietly, recalling the somber house and its grief. “I asked them if anything were missing as they knew. It were ’ard to ’ave ter ask a lady at such a time, but we ’ad ter know. She were quite calm and jus’ walked round the room careful like, and she told us that as far as she could say, there was two silver framed minicher portraits dated 1773, a crystal paperweight engraved with a design o’ scrolls and flowers, a small silver jug used fer fla’hers—and that weren’t ’ard ter come at, because the fla’hers theirselves was on the floor and the water spilled on the carpet; don’t know ’ow we missed seein’ it before—an’ a first edition of a book by Jonathan Swift. She said as she couldn’t see anythin’ else.”
“Where was the book kept?”
“On the shelves with the other books, Mr. Pitt—which means as ’e knew it were there! I asked, and she said as it didn’t look nothin’ special from the back of it you’d see ordinary.”
“Ah.” Pitt let out his breath slowly. He changed the subject.
“Was the dead man married?” he asked.
“Oh yes. But I didn’t disturb ’is wife, poor creature. She ’adn’t woke, an’ I couldn’t see no point in ’avin’ ter tell ’er in the middle o’ the night. Better to let ’er own family do that.”
Pitt could hardly blame him. Having to tell the sad news to the loved ones of the victim was one of the hardest duties in a murder case; the only thing even more difficult was seeing the faces of those who loved the guilty when at last they understood.
“Material evidence?” he said aloud.
Lowther shook his head. “Nothin’, sir; least nothin’ as means much. There weren’t nothin’ in the ’ouse as didn’t belong, nothin’ to show the intruder went anywhere ’cept the libr’y. No footmarks, no ’airs nor bits o’ cloth, nothin’ ter see. Followin’ day, we asked all the servants in the ’ouse, but they ’eard nothin’. No one ’eard the winder break. But then servants sleeps at the top o’ the ’ouse, up in the attics like, so maybe they wouldn’t.”
“Anything outside?” Pitt pressed.
Lowther shook his head again. “Nothin’ sir. No footmarks outside the winder, but it were ’ard frost, wicked that night, an’ the ground were like iron. Didn’t leave no marks meself, an’ I weighs near fourteen stone.”
“Dry enough so you left no footmarks on the carpet either?” Pitt questioned.
“Not a one sir; I thought o’ that.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No, Mr. Pitt. I saw no one meself, and never did find anyone else as ’ad. Y’see ’anover Close is a real close, no through road, so no one as didn’t live there’d ’ave any reason to pass that way, specially in the middle of a winter night. An’ it’s not exac’ly an ’arlots’ patch.”
That was more or less what Pitt had expected to hear, but there was always the chance. He tried the last obvious avenue. “What about the stolen articles?”
Lowther made a face. “Nothin’. An’ we tried ‘ard, because of it bein’ murder.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, Mr. Pitt. Mr. Mowbray took over talkin’ to the family. ’E could tell you more, maybe.”
“I’ll ask him. Thank you.”
Lowther looked puzzled and only slightly relieved. “Thank you, sir.”
Pitt found Mowbray back in his office.
“Get what you wanted?” Mowbray asked, his dark face puckering into an expression of curiosity and resignation. “Lowther’s a good man: if there’d been anything he’d ’ave found it.”
Pitt sat down as near the fire as he could. Mowbray moved fractionally to make room for him and lifted the teapot, offering more tea by raising his eyebrows. Pitt nodded. It was dark brown, stewed, but it was hot.
“You went the following day?” Pitt pursued the subject.
Mowbray frowned. “Early as seemed decent. Hate having to do that, go and talk to people the moment they’re bereaved, before they’ve even got over the first shock. Still, has to be done. Pity. York himself wasn’t there, only the mother and the widow—”
“Tell me about them,” Pitt interrupted. “Not just the facts; how did they impress you?”
Mowbray took a deep breath and sighed slowly. “The elder Mrs. York was a remarkable woman. Been something of a beauty in ’er day, I should think, still fine-looking, very ...”
Pitt did not prompt him; he wanted Mowbray’s own words.
“Very womanly.” Mowbray was not satisfied with this description. He frowned and blinked several times. “Soft, like—like one of them flowers in the botanical gardens. ...” His face eased with the flash of memory. “Camellias. Pale colors and perfect shape. All ordered, not higgledy-piggledy like a wildflower, or one o’ them late roses that falls open.”
Pitt liked late roses: they were magnificent, exuberant; but it was a matter of taste. Perhaps Mowbray found them a little vulgar.
“What about the widow?” Pitt kept his voice level, trying not to betray any extra interest.
But Mowbray was too perceptive. A very slight smile curved his mouth and he kept his eyes on Pitt’s face.
“She were ’it so ’ard wi’ shock she were as white as a corpse ’erself, I’d swear to that. I’ve seen a lot o’ women in times o’ grief; it’s one o’ the rottenest parts o’ the job. Them as are puttin’ it on tend to weep an’ faint and talk a lot about ’ow they feel. Mrs. York ’ardly spoke a word an’ seemed sort o’ numb. She didn’t look at us, like liars do; in fact I don’t think she cared what we thought.”
