much.”
Farnsworth turned towards the door.
“Well you’d better do something, and quickly.” He ignored Tellman and faced Pitt. “Or you will have to be replaced by someone who will be more effective. The public have the right to expect something better than this. The Home Secretary is taking a personal interest in the case, and even Her Majesty is concerned. The end of the week, Pitt—no more.”
As soon as he was gone Pitt looked at Tellman curiously.
Tellman affected a certain indifference.
“They would,” he said casually. “Pity they can’t think of some useful suggestions. Damned if I know what else to do. We’ve got two men trying to find out everything they can about the damned bus conductor. He’s so ordinary he could be changed with ten thousand other ordinary little men and no one would know the difference with any of them. Pompous, bossy, lived with his wife and two dogs, fancied pigeons, drank ale at the Fox and Grapes on a Friday night, played dominoes badly, but was rather good at the odd game of darts. Why would anybody murder a man like that?”
“Because he saw something he shouldn’t have,” Pitt answered simply.
“But he was on his bus when Winthrop and Arledge were killed,” Tellman answered in exasperation. “And it didn’t run anywhere near the park. And even if Arledge was killed somewhere else, we know exactly where Winthrop was killed.”
“Then put someone further onto searching for the place where Arledge was killed,” Pitt said without hope. “Search all the area ’round Carvell’s house. See if you can find an excuse to call on Mitchell, and search that house again too.”
“Yes sir. What are you going to do?” For once it was asked without insolence.
“I am going to attend the Requiem service for Aidan Arledge.”
There was never any question that Charlotte would accompany Pitt, first to the Requiem service itself, and then to the reception afterwards. The new house was very nearly completed and there were a score more minor things to be seen to: curtains to be hung, loose floorboards to be screwed down, a water tap replaced, tiles to be affixed in the kitchen and more in the pantry, and so on. However, they all paled to insignificance compared with the opportunity to meet probably all the main protagonists in the tragedies Pitt was investigating.
Deliberately they arrived early, discreetly dressed like the other mourners. Indeed Pitt had spent three times as long in front of the cheval glass as usual. It was still only a matter of minutes, but he had also allowed Charlotte to readjust his collar, his cravat and his jacket until they were to her satisfaction. Charlotte herself was dressed in the same black gown she had worn for the funeral reception for Captain Winthrop, but with a quite different hat, this time high crowned and smaller brimmed, and absolutely up to the moment, if not a trifle ahead of it. It was a gift from Great-Aunt Vespasia.
They had only just alighted from their hansom, around the corner so as not to be seen without a personal carriage, when they met Jack and Emily, also arrived early. Jack was as casually elegant as usual, even though he still walked a trifle stiffly. Charlotte knew all about the incident from the newspapers, from Pitt, and from Emily herself, upon whom she had quite naturally called very shortly after reading of it.
Emily was ravishing in black silk overlaid with lace and cut with wide sleeves and pleated shoulders. However, there was a flicker of appreciation when she saw Charlotte’s hat, and something like surprise in her face.
“I’m so glad you are here,” she said immediately, moving over to stand beside Charlotte, and saying nothing about the hat. “I feel terribly guilty. We haven’t accomplished a thing to help Thomas, and if I am honest, we haven’t really tried. What the newspapers are saying is quite unjust, but then justice never had anything to do with it. Do you know who is who?” She indicated the gathering around to explain the meaning of her last remark.
“Of course I don’t,” Charlotte replied under her breath. “Except that looks like Mina Winthrop. And that’s her brother, Bart Mitchell. Thomas.” She looked around to find Pitt. “Why are they here? Is it just sympathy, do you suppose? She looks very sad.”
“She knew him,” Pitt replied, moving close to them again and acknowledging Emily.
“She knew him?” Charlotte was aghast. “You didn’t tell me!”
“I only just learned of it….”
“How well? How did she know him?” she plunged on. “Could it have been …? Oh, no, of course it couldn’t —”
“Oh look at that poor soul,” Emily interrupted as Jerome Carvell passed within a few yards of them. “The poor man looks appalling.” And indeed he did; his face was sickly pale, his eyes red-rimmed as if he had been up half the night straining them to see something which, when he had finally perceived it, had shaken him to the core. He walked wearily and threaded his way between people without meeting anyone’s eyes. He spoke only to acknowledge people’s sympathies.
“He looks deeply troubled,” Charlotte said softly. “Poor man. I wonder if he knows something, or if it is merely grief?”
“It could be both,” Emily answered, looking not at Carvell’s back as he disappeared but at Mina Winthrop. Mina was wearing black for her own mourning, of course, as well as this occasion, but now with trimmings of garnet and pearl jewelry, and no veil over her face. Her skin was clear, and flushed with faint color, and she looked around her with interest. Her brother stood close beside her, and it crossed Charlotte’s mind that he wished to be aware if she moved from him, as one does in the company of a small child who might be in danger if unsupervised, or might even wander off and get lost. She had stood close to her own children like that, talking to someone, and yet half her mind attuned to their presence.
She turned to Pitt “Thomas …”
“Yes?”
“Is Bart Mitchell a suspect?”
“Why?”
“Because Captain Winthrop beat her, of course. I mean, what about Aidan Arledge? Could he also have done something to hurt Mina?”
