a great deal of money with which to indulge it.
It was nearly a quarter of an hour before James and Helen Carfax came in, pale-faced and dressed in nightclothes and robes. Etheridge's daughter was in her late twenties and had his long, aristocratic face and good brow, but her mouth was softer, and there was a delicacy in her cheekbones and the line of her throat which, while it did not give her beauty, certainly spoke of an imagination and perhaps a sensitivity not apparent in her father. Her hair was thick but of no particular depth of shade, and disturbed from sleep and caught by tragedy, she was bereft of color or animation.
James Carfax was far taller than she, lean and slenderly built. He had a magnificent head of dark hair and wide eyes. He would have been handsome had there been strength in his face instead of mere smoothness. There was in his mouth a mercurial quality; it was a mouth that would be as quick to smile as to sulk. He stood with his arm round his wife's shoulder and stared defensively at Pitt.
'I am extremely sorry, Mrs. Carfax,' Pitt said immediately. 'If it is of any comfort to you, your father died within seconds of being attacked, and from the look of peace upon
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his face, I think he probably knew no fear, and barely a moment's pain.'
'Thank you,' she said with difficulty.
'Perhaps if you were to sit down,' Pitt suggested, 'and have your maid bring you some restorative?'
'It is not necessary,' James Carfax snapped. 'Now that you have told us the news, my wife will retire to her room.'
' 'If you prefer that I return tomorrow morning,'' Pitt said looking not at James but at Helen, 'then of course I shall. However, the sooner you give us all the information possible, the better chance we have of apprehending whoever is responsible.'
'Rubbish!' James said instantly. 'There is nothing we can tell you that would help! Obviously whoever murdered Sir Lockwood Hamilton is still at large and murdered my father-in-law as well. You should be out hi the streets hunting for him-or them. It's either a madman, or some anarchist plot. Either way, you won't find any guidance to it in this house!'
Pitt was used to shock and knew the first wave of grief often showed itself as anger. Many people fought against pain by driving it out with some other intense emotion. The desire to blame someone seemed to come most readily.
'Nevertheless, I must ask,' Pitt insisted. 'It is possible the attack may have been personally inspired, made by someone who had some political animosity-'
'Against both Sir Lockwood and my father-in-law?' James's dark eyebrows shot upward in sarcastic disbelief.
'I need to investigate, sir.' Pitt held his gaze steadily. 'I must not decide in advance what the solution is going to be. Sometimes one man may commit murder in imitation of another, hoping the first will be blamed for both crimes.'
James lost his fragile temper. 'More likely it's anarchists, and you're simply incompetent to catch them!'
Pitt overlooked the jibe. He turned to Helen, who had taken his advice and seated herself uncomfortably on the
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edge of the wide, forest green sofa. She was hunched forward, arms folded across herself as if she were cold, although the room still retained the warmth of the smoldering fire.
'Are there any other members of the family we should inform?' he asked her.
She shook her head. 'No, I am the only child. My brother died several years ago, when he was twelve. My mother died shortly after. I have an uncle in the Indian Army, but I shall write to him myself, in a day or two.'
So she would inherit. Pitt would make sure, of course, but it would be extraordinary if Etheridge had left his fortune outside the family. 'So your father had been a widower for some time,' he said.
'Yes.'
