Pitt did not know what to say. Weeping, fainting, hysterics were embarrassing and left any man helpless, but there was a quality in this quiet, dignified grief which was uniquely moving, and in its own way left him feeling even more inadequate.
She must have seen his consternation.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I have placed you in an impossible situation. What can you say? I should not have let my feelings intrude.” She folded her hands. “What else could I help with?”
He produced the keys out of his pocket and passed them to her.
She took them and looked at one set first, then at the second with a frown on her face.
“These are our household keys,” she said, holding aside the first set. “One is the front door. He used to come home late on occasions and would not keep the staff up to wait for him.” She smiled very bleakly, looking at Pitt. “The small ones are desk drawers and so on. I think this is for the cellar. There were times when he wanted to go down and perhaps get himself a bottle of wine without asking Horton.” She turned to the second set, a pucker between her brows. “But these I have no idea. I don’t recognize any of them.” She held up the two sets side by side. “They don’t look alike, do they?”
“No ma’am,” he agreed, and yet he saw in her eyes the same thought that occurred to him. They looked like another set of house keys.
She passed them back to him. “I’m sorry. I’m not being of any assistance.”
“Of course you are,” Pitt assured her quickly. “Your candor is invaluable. Few people would have the courage that you have in such fearful circumstances, let alone the clarity of mind to be of practical help. It distresses me to have to put it to you at all.” He meant it profoundly.
She smiled at him, warmth filling her face.
“You are very generous, Superintendent. Although with someone as sympathetic as you have been, talking of Aidan, and the whole tragedy, is not as difficult as you may imagine. It is never far from my mind anyway, and to be able to be frank is something of a relief.” She made a little gesture of rueful impatience. “People mean to be kind, but they will speak of anything else, skirting around the subject all the time, when we all know we are thinking of little else, whatever we may say.”
He knew precisely what she meant, he had seen it countless times before, the embarrassment, the averted eyes, the hesitation, then the rush into meaningless, irrelevant speech.
“Please ask me whatever you wish,” she invited.
“Thank you. On the possibility that Mr. Arledge actually met whoever killed him, or had some connection, however accidental or tenuous, I would like to follow his actions in the last week of his life.”
“What a good idea,” she agreed immediately. “I am sure I can help with that. I can bring you his diary of professional appointments. I kept it because I was looking ahead to see what he was doing, and of course I have since had to write a great many letters.” She shrugged delicately and pulled a little face of distaste. “I expect everyone read about it in the newspapers, or heard, but that is not the same.”
“I would appreciate it.” He had not asked before because Arledge’s professional engagements seemed so far removed from a violent murder by a madman.
“Of course.” She rose to her feet and he stood also, without even thinking, and it seemed a natural gesture of courtesy toward her.
She went to a small, inlaid walnut escritoire and opened it, putting her hand to a dark green leather-bound book and bringing it out. She offered it to him.
He took it and opened it where it fell naturally and saw the entry for the day of Arledge’s death. There was a notation of a rehearsal in the afternoon and nothing else. He looked up and met Dulcie’s eyes.
“He had only the one appointment that day?” he asked.
“I am afraid I don’t know,” she answered. “There is only one written there, but he did sometimes, in fact really quite often, go out on the spur of the moment. That diary was largely for professional engagements.”
“I see.” He turned the pages back for a week, then started reading forwards. Rehearsals, performances and luncheon and dinner engagements for meeting with various people connected with future projects were all written in a neat, strong hand with bold capitals and clearly legible cursive script. It was an elegant hand, yet not florid. “If I may take this, I shall see what I can learn.”
“Of course you may,” she said eagerly. “I can give you the names of certain people he worked with regularly. Sir James Lismore, for one; and Roderick Alberd. They would know many others, I am sure.” She stood up again and turned back to the desk. “I have their addresses in here somewhere. Lady Lismore is a friend of long standing. I am sure she would give you every assistance.”
“Thank you,” he accepted, unsure if it would prove of any value at all, and torn between the desire to know Aidan Arledge better and the dislike of finding that he kept a mistress. It would be an appalling burden for this woman to bear, on top of bereavement. He decided at that moment that if it were not relevant to the case he would keep silent, forget it as if it had never happened. He would be quite prepared to return the keys to her and lie about it, say he had failed to find the doors they opened.
He thanked her again, stood facing her in the quiet room trying to think of something further to say, to offer comfort or hope, and nothing came to him. She smiled and bade him good-bye.
“You will tell me—what you find, won’t you, Superintendent?” she said as he was almost at the door.
“If I find anything that leads to unraveling the mystery, I shall certainly tell you,” he promised, and before she could decide whether that was the answer she sought, he allowed the maid to show him out.
He began with the names she had given him. Roderick Alberd proved to be an eccentric with flying hair and whiskers in the manner of the late Franz Liszt, and his study in which he received Pitt was dominated by a grand piano. Alberd wore a wine velvet jacket and a large, very floppy cravat. His voice when he spoke was rasping and unexpectedly high.
“Oh, grieved, Superintendent,” he said with an expansive gesture. “In fact desolated. What a perfectly senseless way to die.” He swiveled around to stare at Pitt with surprisingly intelligent blue eyes. “That is the sort of thing that should happen to rakes and bullies, unsophisticated men of violence without taste or culture, not to a
