“Can you describe her for me?”
He looked startled for a moment, then his face puckered in concentration. “She was quite tall, sir, but very slender, like. And foreign, o’ course, very foreign, like. She was… well, she moved very graceful, more than most ladies-not that they aren’t-”
“It’s all right, Constable,” Pitt answered him. “I need honesty, not tact. What about the dead man? How large was he?”
“Oh, bit bigger than most, sir, broad in the chest, like. Difficult ter say ’ow tall ’cos I never saw ’im standin’ up, but I reckon a bit taller ’n me, but not as tall as you.”
“Did the mortuary wagon take him away?”
“Yessir.”
“How many men to carry him?”
“Two, sir.” His face filled with understanding. “You thinkin’ as she couldn’t ’ave put ’im in that barrer by ’erself?”
“Yes, I was.” Pitt tightened his lips. “But it might be wiser not to express that opinion to others, at least for the time being. She was wearing white, so I’m told. Is that correct?”
“Yessir. Very sort o’ close-fittin’ dress it were, not exactly like most ladies wear, least wot I’ve seen. Very beautiful…” He colored faintly, considering the propriety of saying that a murderess was beautiful, and a foreign one at that. But he refused to be cowed. “Sort o’ more natural, like,” he went on. “No…” He put one hand on his other shoulder. “No puffs up ’ere. More wot a woman’s really shaped like.”
Pitt hid a smile. “I see. And was it stained with mud, or blood, this white dress?”
“Bit o’ mud, or more like leaf dirt,” the constable agreed.
“Where?”
“Around the knees, sir. Like she knelt on the ground.”
“But no blood?”
“No, sir. Not that I saw.” His eyes widened. “You’re sayin’ as she didn’t put ’im in that barrer ’erself!”
“No, Constable, I think you are. But I’d be very obliged if you did not repeat that, unless you are asked to do so in a situation where not doing so would require you to lie. Don’t lie to anyone.”
“No, sir! I’ll ’ope as I’m not asked.”
“Yes, that would definitely be the best,” Pitt agreed fervently. “Thank you, Constable. What is your name?”
“Cotter, sir.”
“Is the manservant still in the house?”
“Yessir. No one’s come out since they took ’er away.”
“Then I shall go and speak to him. Do you know his name?”
“No, sir. Foreign-looking person.”
Pitt thanked him again and walked across the short distance to the back door. He knocked firmly and waited several minutes before it was opened by a dark-skinned man dressed in pale, stone-colored robes. Most of his head was covered with a turban, but his beard was turning gray. His eyes were almost black.
“Yes, sir?” he said guardedly.
“Good morning,” Pitt replied. “Are you Miss Zakhari’s manservant?”
“Yes, sir. But Miss Zakhari is not at home.” It was said with finality, as if that were the end of any possible discussion. He was obviously preparing to close the door.
“I am aware of that!” Pitt said sharply. “What is your name?”
“Tariq el Abd, sir,” the man replied.
Pitt produced his card again and held it out, assuming that el Abd could read English. “I am from Special Branch. I believe the police have already spoken to you, but I need to ask you a few further questions.”
“Oh, I see.” He pulled the door wider open and reluctantly permitted Pitt to go through the scullery and up a step into a warm and exotically fragrant kitchen. There was no one else there. Presumably, el Abd did such cooking as was required, and other household staff who did the laundry and cleaning came in daily.
“Would you like coffee, sir?” el Abd enquired graciously, as if the kitchen were his. His voice was low and he spoke almost without accent.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, more out of curiosity than a desire for more coffee. There was a smell of spices in the air, and of strange-shaped loaves of bread cooling on a rack near the farther window. Unfamiliar fruit lay rich and burnished in a bowl on the table.
El Abd took only a few moments to heat the coffee to the desired temperature again and bring a tiny cup of it over to present to Pitt, offering him a seat and enquiring after his comfort. He was a lean man who moved with a silent grace that made his age difficult to estimate, but the weathered skin of his hands made Pitt guess him to be well over forty, perhaps closer to fifty.
Pitt thanked him for the coffee and sipped it. It was so strong as to be almost a syrup, and he did not care for it much, but he kept all expression from his face except polite enquiry.
“What happened here last night?” he asked.
El Abd remained standing, so Pitt was forced to look up at him.
“I do not know, sir,” the manservant replied. “Something awakened me, and I arose to see if Miss Zakhari had called, but I could not find her anywhere in the house.” He hesitated.
“Yes?” Pitt prompted him.
El Abd looked down at the floor. “I went to the window and I saw nothing to the front, so I went to the back, and I saw movement through the bushes, the ones with the flat, shining leaves. I waited a few moments, but there was no more sound, and I knew of no reason to suppose there was anything wrong. I thought then that perhaps it was only the sound of the door that had wakened me.”
“What did you do then?”
He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I was not required, sir. I went back to my bed. I do not know how long it was until I heard the people speaking, and the police called me downstairs.”
“Did they show you a gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ask you whose it was?”
“Yes, sir. I said it was Miss Zakhari’s.” He looked down at the floor. “I did not know then what it had been used for. But I clean it and oil it, so of course I know it well.”
“Why does Miss Zakhari have a gun?”
“It is not my place to ask such questions, sir.”
“And you don’t know?”
“No, sir.”
“I see. But you would know if she had ever fired it before, since you clean it.”
“No, sir, she has not.”
“Thank you. Did you know Lovat… the dead man?”
“I do not think he has been here before.”
That was not precisely what Pitt had asked, and he was aware of the evasion. Was it deliberate, or simply a result of the fact that the man was speaking a language other than his own?
“Have you seen him before?”
El Abd lowered his eyes. “I have not seen him at all, sir. It is my understanding that the policeman knew who he was from his clothes and the things in his pockets.”
So they had not asked el Abd if he had seen Lovat before. That was an omission, but perhaps not one that would make a great deal of difference. He was Miss Zakhari’s servant. Now that he knew she was accused of murdering Lovat, he would probably deny knowledge of him anyway.
Pitt finished his coffee and rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, trying to swallow the last of the sweet, sticky liquid and clean his mouth of the taste.
“Sir.” El Abd bowed very slightly, no more than a gesture.
Pitt went out of the back door, thanking Constable Cotter as he passed him. Then he walked along the mews and around the corner into Connaught Square, where he looked for a hansom to take him back to Narraway.
