marriage between husband and wife!”
“I thought you said most murders were domestic anyway?” Pitt said with a sharp note of sarcasm.
“Get out and do your job.” Farnsworth pointed his finger at Pitt. “Now.” And without waiting for any further debate he went out of the door and left it wide open.
Pitt went to the top of the stairs after him.
“Tellman!” he shouted, more violently than he had intended.
Le Grange appeared in the passageway at the bottom just as Farnsworth went out into the street.
“Yes sir? Did you want Mr. Tellman, sir?” he asked with elaborate innocence.
“Of course I did! What in the hell do you suppose I called him for?” Pitt retorted.
“Yes sir. He’s working on some papers—I think. I’ll ask him to come up, sir.”
“Don’t ask him, le Grange, tell him!” Pitt said.
Le Grange disappeared instantly, but it was another full ten minutes with Pitt pacing the floor before Tellman came in the door and closed it, his face registering bland complacency. No doubt Farnsworth’s exchange with Pitt had been heard, and reported over half the station.
“Yes sir?” Tellman said inquiringly, and Pitt was positive he knew perfectly well what he was wanted for.
“Go and get a warrant to search the house and grounds of number twelve Green Street.”
“Green Street?”
“Off Park Lane, two south of Oxford Street. It is the residence of a Mr. Jerome Carvell.”
“Yes sir. What am I looking for, sir?”
“Evidence that Aidan Arledge was murdered there, or that the owner, Jerome Carvell, knew Winthrop or the bus conductor, Yeats.”
“Yes sir.” Tellman went to the door, then turned and looked at Pitt with wide eyes. “What would be evidence of knowing a bus conductor, sir?”
“A letter with his name on it—or a note of his address, any reference to him,” Pitt replied levelly.
“Yes sir. I’ll get a warrant.” Before Pitt could add anything else, and make the remark that was on his tongue, Tellman was gone. Pitt strode to the door after him and stood on the landing.
“Tellman!”
Tellman turned on the stairs and looked up. “Yes, Mr. Pitt?” “You’d better be civil to him. Mr. Carvell is a respected businessman and has not committed any offense so far as we know. Don’t forget that!”
“No sir, of course not, sir,” Tellman said with a smile, then went on down the stairs.
Pitt went on the next errand he was loathing. He spent ten minutes in front of the mirror retying his cravat and adjusting his coat and rearranging the things in his pockets, trying to put off the moment. Eventually it became unavoidable, and he took his hat from the stand and went out and down the stairs. He stopped at the desk and the sergeant looked at his tidy appearance with surprise and some respect.
“I’m going to see Mrs. Arledge,” Pitt said huskily. “If Inspector Tellman comes back before I do, have him wait for me. I want to know what he found.”
“Yes sir! Sir …”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Do you think this Mr. Carvell did it, Mr. Pitt, sir?”
“No—no I don’t think so, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“Yes sir. Forgive me, sir, but I had to ask.”
Pitt smiled at him, and went out to find a hansom.
“Yes, Superintendent?” Dulcie Arledge said with her characteristic courtesy, and no apparent surprise. She was still dressed in total black, and as before it was beautifully cut, this time the full sleeves were decorated with black velvet bows at the shoulders, flat and neat and unostentatious. Her face pinched a little as she recognized him, a shadow crossing her eyes. “Have you learned something?”
He hated having to tell her, but there were questions he had to ask, and from their nature she would know there was ugliness and suspicion behind them. The fact that she had already guessed, at least in part, made it easier. They were in the withdrawing room and he waited for her to resume her seat, then sat on the elegant overstuffed sofa opposite her.
“I have found the doors for the keys, Mrs. Arledge,” he began.
She took a deep breath. “Yes?” she said huskily.
“I am sorry, it is another house.”
She looked at him without blinking. Her eyes were very steady and very blue. In her lap her hands were clasped together till the knuckles were white.
“A woman?” she asked very quietly, her voice little more than a whisper.
He wished he could have said that it was. It would have been better than what he had to say. He would like to have avoided telling her altogether but there was every possibility it was going to become public, and very soon, if Farnsworth had his way.
“Did you think that your husband might have been—might have cared for someone else?” he asked.
She was very pale and she avoided his eyes, staring down at the bright pattern of the carpet.
