traditional, expensive, and yet made him feel uncomfortable. There were numerous leather-bound volumes in the bookcase in such neat order as to look unused. He ran his finger along them to see if there was dust on them, but they were immaculate, more to the credit of the housekeeper, he guessed, than of any reader. The bureau held the usual clutter of family photographs. None of them smiled, but that was usual; one had to hold a pose for so long that smiling was impossible. A sweetness of expression was the best that could be hoped for, and it had not been achieved here.
An embroidered sampler hung above the mantel, a single, baleful unblinking eye, and underneath it in cross stitch, “God sees all.”
He shivered and sat down with his back to it.
Afton Nash came in and closed the door behind him. He was a tall man, becoming portly, with strong, straight features. But for a certain heaviness and a tightening in the mouth, it should have been a handsome face. Curiously, it was not even pleasing.
“I don’t know what we can do for you, Mr. Pitt,” he said coldly. “The poor child lived with my brother Diggory and his wife. Her moral welfare was their concern. Perhaps on hindsight it would have been better if we had taken her, but it appeared a perfectly adequate arrangement at the time. Jessamyn cares for Society more than we do, and therefore was more suitable to introduce Fanny.”
Pitt should have been used to it, the defensive drawing together, the protestations of innocence, even of noninvolvement. They came in some form or other every time. And yet this was peculiarly repellent to him. He remembered the girl’s face, so unmarked by life; she had hardly begun, and she was destroyed so quickly. Here in the comfortless room her brother was talking about “moral welfare” and looking to exonerate himself from whatever blame there turned out to be.
“One cannot ‘make arrangements’ against murder,” Pitt could hear the edge in his own voice.
“One can surely make arrangements against rape,” Afton answered tartly. “Young women of virtuous habits do not court such an end.”
“Have you some reason to suppose your sister was not of virtuous habits?” Pitt had to ask, although everything in him already knew the answer.
Afton turned round and regarded him with a curl of distaste.
“She was raped before she was murdered, Inspector. You must know that as well as I. Please do not be coy. It is disgusting. You would be better employed speaking to my brother Diggory. He has some curious tastes. Though I would have expected even he would not infect his sister with them, but I could be mistaken. Perhaps one of his less salubrious friends was in the Walk that night? I assume you will do your best to ascertain precisely who was here?”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed with equal coolness. “We shall be determining the whereabouts of everyone we can.”
Afton’s eyebrows rose a little.
“The residents of the Walk can hardly interest you-the servants perhaps, although I doubt it. I, for one, am most particular about the type of manservant I employ, and I do not allow my women servants to have followers.”
Pitt felt a twinge of pity for the servants, and the bleak, joyless lives they must lead.
“A person might be in no way involved,” he pointed out, “and yet possibly have seen something of significance. The smallest observation may help.”
Afton grunted in irritation that he had not seen the point for himself. He flicked a nonexistent crumb from his sleeve.
“Well, I was at home that night. I remained in the billiard room most of the evening, with my brother Fulbert. I neither saw nor heard anything.”
Pitt could not afford to give up so easily. He must not let his dislike of the man show. He had to struggle.
“Perhaps you noticed something earlier, in the last few weeks-” he began again.
“If I had noticed such a thing, Inspector, do you not imagine I should have done something about it?” Afton’s heavy nose twitched minutely. “Apart from the unpleasantness for all of us of such a thing happening here, Fanny was my sister!”
“Of course, sir-but with the perception of hindsight?” Pitt finished the question.
Afton considered again.
“Not that I can recollect,” he said carefully. “But if something does occur, I shall inform you. Was there anything else?”
“Yes, please I would like to speak to the rest of your family.”
“I think if they had observed anything they would have spoken to me of it,” Afton said with impatience.
“Nevertheless, I would like to see them,” Pitt persisted.
Afton stared at him. He was a tall man, and they looked eye to eye. Pitt refused to waver.
“I suppose it is necessary,” Afton conceded at last, his face sour. “I do not wish to set a bad example. One must consider one’s duty. I would ask you to be as delicate as you are capable with my wife.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall do my best not to distress her.”
Phoebe Nash was as different from Jessamyn as possible. If there had ever been fire in her, it long since had been damped. She was dressed in tired black, and there was no artificial color in her pale face. At another time she might have been pleasing enough, but now she looked very much the recently bereaved, eyes a little pink, nose puffed, her hair orderly but far less than elegant.
She refused to sit, and stood staring at him, holding her hands tightly together.
“I doubt I can help you, Inspector. I was not even at home that evening. I was visiting an elderly relative who had been unwell. I can give you her name if you wish?”
“I do not doubt you for a moment, ma’am,” he said, smiling as much as he dared without appearing to show undue levity in the face of death. He felt a nameless, sad pity for her. He wanted to put her at ease and did not know how. She was a sort of woman he did not understand. All her feelings were inward, tightly governed; gentility was everything.
“I wondered if perhaps Miss Nash might have confided in you,” he began, “being her sister-in-law, if perhaps someone had paid her unwelcome attention, or passed an offensive remark? Even if she had seen a stranger in the neighborhood?” He kept on trying, “Or if you have yourself?”
Her hands jerked into a knot, and she stared at him, appalled.
“Oh dear heaven! You don’t imagine he’s still here, do you?”
He hesitated, wanting to take away her fear, which at least was a familiar emotion, and yet he knew it was foolish to lie.
“If he’s a vagrant, I don’t doubt he’ll have moved on by now,” he settled for a truth that was without meaning. “Only a fool would stay, when the police are here and looking for him.”
She relaxed visibly, even permitting herself to sit down on the edge of one of the bulging chairs.
“Thank goodness. You’ve made me feel so much better. Of course I should have thought of that for myself.” Then she frowned, drawing her light brows together. “But I don’t recall seeing any strangers in the Walk, at least not of that type. Had I done so, I should have sent the footman to get rid of them.”
He would only terrify and confuse her if he tried to explain that rapists did not necessarily appear different from anyone else. Crime so often surprised people, as if it were not merely an outward act born from the inward selfishness, greed, or hate that had grown too big inside, the dishonesties suddenly without restraint. She expected it to be recognizable, different, nothing to do with the people she knew.
It would be pointless and hurtful to try to change her. He wondered why after so many years he even noticed it, still less allowed it to disturb him.
“Perhaps Miss Nash confided in you?” he suggested. “If anyone had distressed her, or made improper remarks?”
She did not even bother to consider it.
“Certainly not! If such a thing had happened, I should have spoken to my husband, and he would have taken steps!” Her fingers were winding round a handkerchief in her lap, and she had already torn the lace.
Pitt could imagine what Afton Nash’s “steps” might have been. Still he could not quite give up.
“She expressed no anxieties at all, mentioned no new acquaintance?”
