“But a madman who kills without any pattern at all doesn’t make sense either,” Pitt replied.
“It has something to do with the park,” Tellman said decisively. “Or why bring Yeats all the way back in a gig? Much safer simply to leave him in Shepherd’s Bush. Why put him in the gig at all, for that matter?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want him left where he was,” Pitt suggested, leaving the window and sitting on the edge of the desk. “Maybe he brought him back to Hyde Park because that’s where our murderer lives.”
Tellman opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. “Maybe. Arledge’s mistress and her husband, I suppose? Perhaps she’s a very loose principled woman, and she was Winthrop’s mistress too? But surely not the fat little conductor’s?” His lantern face broke into a hard smile. “I’ll be entertained to meet this woman.”
Pitt stood up. “Then I had better get on and find her. You find out where Yeats and Arledge were killed.”
“Yes sir.” And still smiling to himself, Tellman stood up and went to the door.
But it was another two long days of painstaking work with petty details of discussions, meetings and partings, half-heard conversations and glimpses of people, before Pitt had traced a dozen or so of Arledge’s acquaintances and begun to eliminate them from any suspicion. He was losing heart. They were all very properly accounted for, and their relationships were above reproach.
Tired, sore footed and discouraged, Pitt presented himself at the door of a much respected businessman who had contributed funds to the small orchestra which Aidan Arledge had frequently conducted. Perhaps Mr. Jerome Carvell had a beautiful wife?
The door was opened by a tall butler with a long, curved nose and a supercilious mouth.
“Good evening, sir.” He looked Pitt up and down questioningly. Apparently he was uncertain of what he saw. The weariness and confidence in Pitt’s expression belied the rather sloppy abandon of his clothes and the dust covering his boots.
“Good evening,” Pitt replied, fishing for his card and giving it to him. “I apologize for calling so late, and unannounced, but the matter is somewhat urgent. May I perhaps speak with Mr. or Mrs. Carvell?”
“I will ask Mr. Carvell if he will see you, sir,” the butler replied.
“I should like to speak to Mrs. Carvell also,” Pitt insisted.
“Impossible, sir.”
“It is important.”
The butler’s eyebrows rose higher. “There is no Mrs. Carvell, sir.”
“Oh.” Pitt felt unreasonably disappointed. Even if Mr. Carvell were as good a friend to Arledge as he had been led to suppose, and knew of his personal life, he would not now betray it to the police.
“Did you wish to see Mr. Carvell, sir?” The butler looked a trifle impatient.
“Yes please,” Pitt replied, more out of irritation than hope.
“Then if you will come this way, sir, I will inquire if that is possible.” Turning on his heel, the butler led the way to a small, very gracious study, wood paneled and lined with shelves of leather-bound books which looked unusually well read, arranged in order of subject, not of appearance.
Pitt was left for barely five minutes, during which time he looked at the titles and noted such areas of interest as exploration, classical drama, entomology, medieval architecture and the raising of roses. Then the door opened and he saw a man of perhaps forty-five. His fairish hair was beginning to turn gray at the temples and his face was of marked individuality and extraordinary intelligence. No one would have called him handsome—his skin was marked by some past disease, perhaps smallpox, and his teeth were far from straight—and yet he had such humor and perception that Pitt found himself regarding him with immediate liking.
“Mr. Carvell?”
“Yes?” Carvell came in looking anxious. “Superintendent Pitt? Have I done something amiss? I was not aware of anything …”
“I doubt there is anything, sir,” Pitt replied honestly. “I am calling only in case you may have some knowledge which could help …”
“Oh dear. With what?” Carvell came farther in and waved absently for Pitt to sit down. He perched on one of the other easy chairs. “I don’t think I know anything remotely useful to the police. I am a man of business. I know of no crimes. Has someone embezzled money?”
He looked so transparently innocent Pitt almost abandoned the quest altogether. It was only the necessity of explaining his presence at all that made him continue.
“Not so far as I am aware, Mr. Carvell. It is in connection with the death of Mr. Aidan Arledge. I believe—” He stopped. Carvell’s face had gone completely white and he looked so profoundly distressed Pitt was afraid for him. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Pitt had been about to say “I believe you knew him”; but such a remark now would have been absurd. “Can I fetch you a glass of water?” he offered, rising to his feet. “Or brandy?” He looked around for a decanter or a tantalus.
“No—no—I apologize,” Carvell stammered. “I—I—” He came to a halt, not knowing what to say. There was no reasonable explanation. He blinked several times.
At last Pitt saw the decanter. It looked like Madeira in it, but it would be better than nothing. He could see no glasses, so he simply picked up the whole thing and held it to Carvell’s lips.
“Really—I …” Carvell stuttered, then took a long gulp and sat back, breathing hard. His face regained some color and Pitt put the decanter down on the table next to him and went back to his own seat. “Thank you,” Carvell said wretchedly. “I really do apologize. I—I cannot think what came over me….” But the grief in his face made it tragically obvious what had so robbed him of composure.
“No apology is necessary,” Pitt said with a strange, dull ache of pity inside him. “It is I who should seek pardon. I was extremely clumsy in broaching the subject so very bluntly. I take it you were extremely fond of Mr. Arledge?”
“Yes—yes, we have been friends for a great number of years. In fact since youth. It is such a—a terrible way to
