'I'm sorry-I'm not even sure I saw it. Just a sort of movement across the light. . . . How frightful!'
'And you, sir?' Pitt turned to the other man. 'Did you see Sir Lockwood with anyone?'
'No-no, I wish I could help, but it was all rather more an impression than anything. Don't see a chap's face under the light and you don't really know-just an idea-pretty dark between the lamps, you know. I'm sorry.'
'Yes, of course. Thank you for your help, sir.' Pitt inclined his head in a salute and passed on to the next group of men, already beginning to leave either in carriages or on foot.
He stopped half a dozen others, but learned nothing which enabled him to do more than narrow the time more exactly. Lockwood Hamilton had set off across Westminster Bridge at between ten and twelve minutes past midnight. At twenty-one minutes past, Hetty Milner had screamed. In those nine or eleven minutes someone had cut Hamilton's throat, tied him to the lamppost, and disappeared.
Pitt arrived home just before midnight. He let himself in with his key, and took his boots off in the hall to avoid making a noise as he crept along to the kitchen. There he found a dish of cold meat on the table, with fresh homemade bread, butter, and pickles set out, and a note from Charlotte. The kettle was to the side of the hob and only needed moving over, the water in it hot already. The teapot was on the stove, and beside it the tea caddie, enameled and painted with a picture of flowers, and a spoon.
He was halfway through his meal when the door opened and Charlotte came in, blinking in the light, her hair round her shoulders in a polished cascade like mahogany in the
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firelight. She wore an old dressing robe of blue embroidered wool, and when she kissed him he caught the scent of soap and warm sheets. i
' 'Is it a big case?'' she asked.
He looked at her curiously: there was none of her usual sharp inquisitiveness, her scarcely masked desire to meddle-at which she had at times proved remarkably successful.
' 'Yes-murder of a Member!'' He answered, finishing the last slice of his bread and pickle. He did not feel like telling her the grim details, for tonight he wished to put it from his mind. •
She looked surprised, but far less interested than he had expected.' 'You must be very tired, and cold. Have you made any progress?' She was not even looking at him, pouring herself a cup of tea. She sat down at the kitchen table opposite. Was she being superbly devious? If so, it was not like her: she knew she was very bad at it.
'Charlotte?'
'Yes?' Her eyes were dark gray in the lamplight, and apparently quite innocent.
'No, I haven't made any progress.'
'Oh.' She looked distressed, but not interested.
'Is something wrong?' he asked with sudden anxiety.
'Have you forgotten Emily's wedding?' Her eyes widened, and suddenly he recognized all her emotions, the excitement, the concern that everything should be well, the loneliness at the thought of Emily's going away, the whisper of envy for the glamor and the romance of it, and the genuine happiness for her sister. They had shared much together and were closer than many sisters, their different personalities complementing each other rather than being cause for misunderstanding.
Pitt put out his hand and took hers, holding it gently. The very gesture was an admission, and she knew it before he spoke.
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'Yes I had forgotten-not the wedding, but that it was Friday already. I'm sorry.'
Disappointment passed over her face like the shadow of a cloud. She mastered it almost immediately. 'You are coming, aren't you, Thomas?'
