In the early afternoon he called on St. Jermyn and found that he was out, at the House of Lords. He was obliged to return in the evening, cold and tired and well past the best of his temper.
His lordship was also irritated at not being able to relax and forget the business of the day over a glass of something from the pick of his cellars before considering dinner. He was civil to Pitt with something of an effort.
“I have already told you everything I know about the man,” he said tartly, moving over to the fire. “He was a fashionable artist. I commissioned a picture from him to please my wife. I expect I have met him socially on one or two occasions; after all, he lived here in the Park, but I meet hundreds of people. I recall he was a trifle odd- looking; rather too much hair.” He gave Pitt a sour look, his eye going to Pitt’s own scruffy head. “But then, one expects artists to be a little affected,” he continued. “It was not enough to be offensive, just rather obvious. I’m sorry the fellow is dead, but I dare say he mixed with a few less salubrious people. Possibly he became over-familiar with one of his models. As well as society, artists frequently paint women of far lower classes who happen to have the coloring or the features they want. I imagine you know that as well as I do. I should look for a jealous lover or husband, if I were you.”
“We haven’t been able to trace any pictures of women other than society portraits,” Pitt replied. “He doesn’t seem to have been prolific at all; in fact, rather reserved, but anything he did do, he sold at greatly inflated prices.”
“So you implied before,” St. Jermyn said drily. “I don’t have any comment on that. I would have thought portraits needed only to please the sitter. One seldom would wish to resell them. They usually get relegated to a back hallway or stair if one loses one’s taste for them; otherwise, they remain wherever they were hung in the first place.”
“You paid a considerable amount for the portrait of Lady St. Jermyn,” Pitt tried again.
St. Jermyn’s eyebrows rose. “You also remarked on that the last time you were here. She seemed to like the picture, which was all that concerned me. If I did pay too much, then I was duped. I’m really not very concerned about it. I don’t see why you should be.”
Pitt had already racked his brain to think of some reason, any at all, why Jones should have been able to put pressure on St. Jermyn to buy a picture he did not like, or at a price he thought unfair, but he had come up with nothing. To press Lady Cantlay in return for discretion would be easy, and recalling the stiff, nervous figure of the major, that was certainly believable, although he did not yet know the reason. A middle-aged, socially inarticulate man living with two maiden sisters-the probability was obvious-another indiscretion. Pride would force the major to pay for silence.
But St. Jermyn was a totally different man. There was no fear in him. He would cover his indiscretions, if there were any and he cared about them, which again was doubtful. And there was no other crime that Pitt knew of. Lord Augustus had died normally, or if he had not it was unprovable, and of no interest he knew of to St. Jermyn either way. All the others-Arthur Wilson, Porteous, and Horrie Snipe-had also died naturally and again, as far as Pitt knew, had no connection with St. Jermyn.
“If it was a jealous lover or husband,” Pitt said slowly, “why was he found in another man’s grave?”
“To hide him, I presume!” St. Jermyn said impatiently “I would have thought that was obvious. A fresh-dug grave anywhere in London except in a graveyard would excite attention pretty quickly. You can’t go digging up parks, and if you put it in your own garden it would be damning if it were found. In someone else’s freshly turned grave, it would invite no remark at all.”
“But why put the corpse of Albert Wilson on a cab box?”
“I really don’t know, Inspector! It is your job to find that out, not mine! Possibly there was no reason at all. It sounds the bizarre kind of thing an artist might do. More likely the grave was already robbed, and he merely took an excellent opportunity when it was presented to him.”
Pitt had already thought of that for himself, but he was still hoping for a new thread, some error of control, a slip of the tongue that would give him another line to follow.
“Did Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond know Mr. Jones?” he asked as innocently as he could.
St. Jermyn looked at him coldly. “Not so far as I am aware. And if you are suggesting he might have had some sort of
Pitt had to admit to himself it would also be too much of a coincidence if Augustus had first killed Jones and taken advantage of the grave robber’s activities to hide him, and then immediately afterwards died himself and become a victim of the same robber. He looked across at St. Jermyn and fancied he saw a perception of the unlikelihood in his face also, and a barely concealed and rapidly growing impatience.
Pitt tried to think of something else to ask, anything that might draw more information, but St. Jermyn was not a man who could be manipulated, and Pitt gave in, at least for the time being.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said stiffly. “I appreciate your time.”
“A matter of duty,” St. Jermyn acknowledged drily. “The footman will see you out.”
There was nothing to do but accept it with as much grace as possible, and he left the bright room and accompanied the liveried footman to the step and out into the thick, obliterating fog.
Dominic had seldom been so enveloped and excited by anything as he was by St. Jermyn’s bill. Now that he had ceased to fight it in his mind and given himself over to it, he found more and more pleasure in Carlisle’s company. He was literate, intelligent, and, above all, an enthusiast. He had the rare gift of being able to pursue even the most appalling facts about workhouse conditions without losing his optimism that something could be done to alleviate them, or his ability to find humor, however wry, in the midst of what would otherwise have been despair.
Dominic found it hard to emulate. He had sought out Lord Fleetwood with trepidation and some self- consciousness. The friendship had increased more easily than he had expected; his natural charm was something he always underrated. But he never managed to guide the conversation successfully into the reality of workhouse tragedy. Every time it was acknowledged in words, they rang hollow, like one reciting with perfect pronunciation a language he does not understand.
After two attempts Dominic became more conscious of the urgency and admitted frankly to Carlisle that he needed his help.
Accordingly, the day after, because of the influence Fleetwood might have, Carlisle joined Dominic and Fleetwood in the Park for a spanking drive at a speed that scattered the few pedestrians and sent other drivers and riders into paroxysms of rage or envy, depending upon the strength and direction of their own ambitions.
Dominic had driven, and although it was with a recklessness he would not normally have dared, today he was past caring for anything so trivial as social outrage or a few thrown paraders landed hard upon their dignity on the damp ground.
“Marvelous!” Fleetwood said with delight, catching his breath. “My God, Dominic, you drive like Jehu! I swear I never though you had it in you. If you come and drive my team in the spring, I’ll consider it a favor from you.”
“Of course,” Dominic agreed instantly, his mind on the workhouse, and a trade favor for favor. He would not even consider now how he could find the courage to drive in such a fashion in cold blood, and with weeks to contemplate it beforehand and to fully appreciate all the possible disasters. He thrust it away to some improbable future. “Delighted to!”
“Brilliant,” Carlisle agreed, his tongue in his cheek, but Fleetwood did not see it. “You have a natural art, Dominic.” He turned to Fleetwood, both their faces red with cold and the fierce wind of their passage. “But you have a very fine team, indeed, my lord. I’ve seen few better animals. Though I think perhaps the springing of your carriage could be improved a little.”
Fleetwood grinned. He was a pleasant young man, not handsome, but of a countenance that spoke of abundant good nature.
“Bounce you around a bit, did it? Never mind, good for the digestion.”
“Wasn’t thinking of the digestion,” Carlisle replied with a smile. “Or the bruises. Rather more of the balance of the thing. A well-balanced carriage is a lot easier on the horses, takes the corners better, and is less likely to overturn if you get some idiot run into you. And of course if you do get an excitable animal, less likely for the whole thing to get away with you.”
“Damn, but you’re right!” Fleetwood said cheerfully. “Sorry I misjudged you. Sold you short a bit. I’ll have to get it seen to. Must have it right.”
“I know a chap in the Devil’s Acre who can spring a carriage to balance like a bird in flight,” Carlisle offered
