“I regret I don’t recall his name,” Lismore apologized. “Indeed I am not sure if I ever met him. Aidan said something about it afterwards, I think that is how I gained the impression he was her brother. You look concerned, Superintendent. Does that have some meaning for you?”
“I’m not sure,” Pitt said honestly, but he felt his pulse race with excitement in spite of himself. “Is it possible Mr. Arledge and Mrs. Winthrop had a disagreement about something? Or even that Mr. Mitchell could have assumed it was so?”
“Aidan and Mrs. Winthrop?” Lismore looked startled. “I cannot imagine what about.”
“But is it possible?” Pitt insisted.
“I suppose so.” Lismore was reluctant. “At least I suppose it is possible Mr. Mitchell misunderstood the situation. He was angry, as I recall, very angry indeed.”
“Can you remember anything of it at all, Sir James?” Pitt pressed. “A word, a gesture even?”
Lismore looked uncomfortable, pursing his lips.
“Please!” Pitt could barely contain his impatience.
Lismore took a deep breath and chewed his lower lip before speaking.
“I did overhear a few snatches, Superintendent. I dislike intensely repeating what was most certainly an intensely private conversation, but I can see that you believe it may be of importance.”
Pitt was breathless with impatience.
“I heard the man—I shall assume it was the brother—say quite vehemently, ‘It is not your fault!’ He emphasized the negative most fiercely. He went on, ‘I will not have you say so. It is quite absurd and untrue. If Thora is foolish and misguided enough to think so, that is her misfortune, but I will not have it yours. You have done nothing. Do you hear me, nothing, to cause it. You must put it from your mind, totally, and start afresh.’ That may not be his words precisely, Superintendent, but it is extremely close, and it is certainly his sense.” Lismore looked at Pitt expectantly.
Pitt was confused. Was Bart Mitchell referring to Winthrop’s death? And what did Thora Garrick know of this?
“Well?” Lismore asked.
Pitt recalled his attention. “Did you hear the reply?”
“Only in part. She was in some distress, and not entirely coherent.”
“And the part you heard?”
“Oh—she insisted it was her fault, that she had caused whatever it had been by her foolishness, and that he really should not be so angry, it was not an uncommon event, or something of the sort. I am sorry, I really was most uncomfortable to have overheard any of it at all.”
“Did you see Mr. Mitchell with Mr. Arledge?” Pitt persisted. “What was his manner?”
“No—no I did not.” Lismore shook his head. “So far as I can remember, Aidan had left in order to conduct the second half of the performance when I saw Mr. Mitchell take Mrs. Winthrop out towards the door and, I presume, leave the premises. They seemed to have resolved whatever difference it had been by then. Apparently he had persuaded her he was right, and she seemed pleased about it.”
“Thank you. You have been extremely helpful.” Pitt rose to his feet with his mind whirling. “Thank you for your time and your frankness.” He turned towards the door. “Good day, Sir James.”
“Good day, Superintendent,” Lismore said with some confusion, and obvious curiosity.
Emily had enjoyed the party, in spite of its having been an entirely political affair. There were many aspects of the campaign she did not care for in the slightest. Speaking in the streets was sometimes fun, other times more tiring, dispiriting or even dangerous. Helping Jack to write articles and speeches for specific audiences was a chore, and one she entered into only because she was loyal to him and wished him to fight with every possible advantage she could give, even if it were a battle he had little realistic chance of winning.
Although in the last few days that had changed markedly. The signs were quite subtle to begin with, an altered tone from one of the principal columnists in the
But this evening had been fun. She had danced and chattered, seemingly artlessly, but in fact with the greatest imaginable art. She had flattered and laughed, been amusing and, once or twice, as fitted the moment, even been astute in her observations, politically wise, to the amazement and delight of several portly and middle-aged men of influence. Altogether the whole event had been a resounding success.
As she and Jack took their leave she was on the crest of a wave, and swept out on his arm to walk the short way home to Ashworth House in the balmy late spring evening. The moon was high like a silver lantern above the trees, and the air smelled of night-scented flowers. The shadows of carriages, lanterns gleaming, clattered past them and left them in the darkness between the lampposts almost as if the gentleness of the night were wrapped around them.
Jack was singing under his breath and walking with a very slight swagger. It was not the result of too much indulgence, simply elation and a tremendous sense of well-being.
Emily found herself smiling widely and humming along with him.
They turned the corner from the broad, well-lit avenue into a quieter road, trees overhanging the high garden walls, shadowing the lamps on their slender posts.
Suddenly Jack let out a cry and lurched against her, catching her roughly and knocking her sideways into the gutter before he fell forward onto his hands, only saving himself at the last moment from injuring his face as he struck the pavement.
Emily let out a shriek of alarm and astonishment. Then it changed to real fear. There was a dark figure looming over Jack, his head covered so his face was unrecognizable, and something raised in his hand with an enormous, wedge-shaped blade.
