All that the day's labor, walking, questioning, and deduction produced by midnight was the confirmation of a very ordinary evening. No unusual person had been noticed, nothing had disturbed Etheridge or caused him to behave other than after any late night sitting of the House. There had been no quarrels, no sudden messages, no haste or anxiety, no friends or acquaintances with him except other members.
Etheridge had been found dead by Harry Rawlins within ten minutes of his last words to his colleagues outside the entrance of the House of Commons.
Pitt turned his attention to the personal life of Etheridge, beginning with his financial affairs. It took him only a couple of hours to confirm that he had been an extremely wealthy man, and there was no heir apart from his only child, Helen Carfax. The estate was in no way entailed, and the house in Paris Road and the extremely fine properties in Lincolnshire and the West Riding were freehold and without mortgage.
Pitt left the solicitors' offices with no satisfaction. Even in the spring sunshine he felt cold. The lawyer, a small, punctilious man with spectacles on the bridge of his narrow nose, had said nothing of James Carfax, but his silences were eloquent. He pursed his mouth and gazed at Pitt with steady sadness in his pale blue eyes, but his discretion had been immaculate; he told Pitt only what was in due course going to become public knowledge when the will was probated, not that Pitt had expected anything else. Families of Ether-idge's standing did not employ lawyers who betrayed their clients' trust.
Pitt took a quick lunch of bread, cold mutton, and cider at the Goat and Compasses and then hired a hansom through Westminster and across the bridge back to Paris Road. It was an acceptable hour to call, and even if Helen Carfax were
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not well enough to receive him herself, it would not matter; his primary purpose was to search Etheridge's papers to see if he could find the letter she had spoken of, or any other correspondence which would indicate an enemy, a woman who felt ill-used, a business or professional rival, anything at all.
When he alighted from the cab he found the house as he had expected, all the curtains drawn and a dark wreath on the door. The parlormaid who answered his knock wore black crepe in her hair instead of the crisp white cap she would normally have had, and no white apron. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to the tradesmen's entrance, but some mixture of uncertainty, fear, and the aftermath of shock made her choose the simpler measure and ask him in.
'I don't know whether Mrs. Carfax will see you,' she said warningly.
'How about Mr. Carfax?' Pitt asked as he followed her into the morning room.
'He's gone out to attend some business. I expect he'll be back after luncheon.''
'Would you ask Mrs. Carfax if I may have permission to look through Mr. Etheridge's study to see if I can find the letter she mentioned to me last night?'
'Yes sir, I'll ask,' she said doubtfully, and left him to wait alone. He looked round the room more closely than he had the previous night. Guests who might call unexpectedly would be received here, and residents of the house might spend a quiet morning attending to correspondence. The mistress would come here to order the affairs of the day, give the cook and the housekeeper their instructions, and discuss some domestic or cellar matter with the butler.
There was a Queen Anne writing desk in one corner, and a table with a number of framed photographs on it. He studied them carefully; the largest was obviously Etheridge himself as a young man, with a gentle-faced woman beside him. They looked stiff as they faced the photographer, but even in
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the formal pose there was a confidence that shone through, a composure that had more to do with happiness than discipline. To judge from the fashions it had been taken about twenty years ago. There was also a picture of a boy of about thirteen, thin, with the large, intense eyes of an invalid. The picture was mounted in black.
The elderly woman who reminded Pitt of a benign, rather lugubrious horse was presumably Etheridge's mother. The family resemblance was there; she had the good brow and tender mouth, recalling her granddaughter as she might have been in another age.
To the left side of the table was a large picture of Helen herself with James Carfax. She looked startlingly innocent, her face very young, eyes full of hope and the kind of radiance that belongs to those in love. James also smiled, but only with his mouth and his beautiful teeth; his eyes held satisfaction, almost relief. He seemed more aware of the camera than she.
The date was in the corner, 1883. Possibly it was shortly after their marriage.
Pitt went to the bookcase. A
