been far from the elegance of Chelsea. It was only the masculinity of it that held the echo, the mark of a single owner, a single taste, a man free to come and go as he pleased, to drop things where he liked without regard for another's convenience.
It had been a good time in his life, a necessary time for growing from boy to man, but he looked back on it with a tolerance that held no yearning, no desire to recapture it. No house could be home to him without Charlotte in it, her favorite pictures, which he loathed, hanging on the wall, her sewing spread out, her books left lying on the tables, her slippers somewhere for him to trip over, her voice from the kitchen, the lights on, the warmth, her touch, familiar now but still exciting, still needed with an urgency, and above all, her sharing, the talk of her day, what had been right or wrong in it, what had been funny or infuriating, and her endless concern and curiosity about his work and what mattered to him in it.
Hamilton was looking at him now, his eyes wide and puzzled. There was humor in his face, but a shadow about the bridge of the nose, a delicacy, as if he had seen his dreams die and had to rebuild with care over a loss that still pained.
'What can I tell you, Inspector Pitt, that you do not already know?'
'You have read of the death of Vyvyan Etheridge?'
'Of course. I should not think there is a soul in the city who has not.'
'Are you acquainted, either personally or by repute, with his son-in-law, Mr. James Carfax?'
'A little. Not closely. Why? Surely you cannot think he has any connection with anarchists?' Again the fleeting
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smile, the knowledge of absurdity which amused rather than angered him.
'You don't think it likely?'
'I don't.'
'Why not?' Pitt tried to put skepticism into his voice, as if it were the line of investigation he was pursuing.
'Frankly, he hadn't the passion or the dedication to be anything so total.'
'So total?' Pitt was curious. It was not the reason he had expected: not moral impossibility but emotional shallow-ness. The perception said more of Hamilton than perhaps it did of James Carfax. 'You do not think he would find it repugnant, unethical? Disloyal to his own class?'
Hamilton colored faintly, but his candid eyes never left Pitt's. 'I would be surprised if he considered the question in that light. In fact, I doubt he has ever thought of politics one way or the other, except to assume that the system will remain as it is and ensure him the sort of life he wishes.''
'Which is?'
Hamilton lifted his shoulders very slightly. 'As far as I know, lunching with friends, a little gambling, visiting the races and the fashionable parties, the theaters, dinners, balls- and discreet nights with a trollop now and then-perhaps a visit to the dogfight or a fistfight if he can find one.'
'You have no high opinion of him,' Pitt said levelly, still holding his eyes.
Hamilton pulled a slight face. 'I suppose he is no worse than many. But I cannot believe he is a passionate anarchist in heavy disguise. Believe me, Inspector, no disguise could be so superb!'
'Does he win at gambling?'
'Not overall, according to the gossip I've heard.'
'And yet he pays up. Does he have considerable private means?'
' 'I doubt it. His family is not wealthy, although his mother inherited some honorary title. He married well, as you know.
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Helen Etheridge has tremendous expectations-I suppose now they are a reality. I imagine she pays whatever debts he runs up. He isn't a heavy loser, so far as I know.'
