there were police in the house, whatever the reason!
“Miss Woolmer will be unable to see you,” the footman said coolly. “She has received news of a bereavement, and is indisposed.”
“I am aware of the bereavement,” Pitt answered. “Unfortunately, because Sir Bertram apparently dined here yesterday, I am obliged to ask Miss Woolmer what she may know of his frame of mind, any remark he may have made as to his intentions….”
The man stared at him, abhorring his crassness. “I’m sure if Miss Woolmer knows anything of value to you, she will be happy to inform you when she is recovered,” he said coldly.
All day Pitt had felt nothing but grief; now at last he found release for it in anger. “I am afraid the pursuit of murder cannot wait upon the convenience of Miss Woolmer,” he retorted. “There is an insane creature loose in the Devil’s Acre. Three people have been murdered and mutilated already, and if we do not catch him, there is no reason to doubt there will be a fourth and a fifth. There is no time to wait upon indisposition! Will you please inform Miss Woolmer that I regret the necessity of disturbing her at such a time,” Pitt continued, “but she may be able to give me information that will assist us to arrest whoever killed Sir Bertram.”
The footman’s face was white. “Yes-if it is unavoidable,” he conceded grudgingly. He left Pitt alone and went down the hall searching in his mind for words to relay the order.
More than half an hour passed before Pitt was shown into the withdrawing room, a place crowded with pictures, ornaments, lace, crochetwork, and embroidery. A brilliant fire burned and all the lamps were lit. Of course the curtains were lowered, as suited a house suffering a violent bereavement.
May Woolmer was a remarkably handsome girl with a fine figure, now draped in elegant grief on a chaise longue. She was dressed in dove gray-neither too colorful for such a delicate moment nor yet an ostentatious display of her feelings. Her hair was thick and shining like honey, and her features were regular. She stared at Pitt with her large, wide-spaced eyes, and held a handkerchief in one white hand.
Mrs. Woolmer stood behind her like a sentry, her large bosom encased in beaded purple, suitable for half mourning, very appropriate in such awkward circumstances. Her hair was as fair as her daughter’s, but faded in patches, and her face was heavier, her chin too soft, her throat thick. Without question, she was grossly offended, and Pitt was the obvious target for her wrath. He was here, and she assumed he was without defense. She glared at him.
“I cannot imagine why you feel it necessary to intrude upon our distress,” she said icily. “I trust you have sufficient good taste to be brief.”
Pitt wanted to be equally rude in return, to tell her what be believed good taste really was: a matter of self- mastery, of consideration so that you did not avoidably discomfort others, least of all those unable to retaliate. “I shall try to, ma’am,” he said simply. “Mr. Beau Astley tells me that Sir Bertram expected to dine here yesterday evening. Did he in fact do so?”
They did not invite him to sit down, and Mrs. Woolmer still remained standing, on guard. “Yes he did,” she answered bluntly.
“What time did he leave?”
“A little after eleven. I cannot tell you precisely.”
“Was he in good health, and good spirits?” It was almost a meaningless question. If they had had a furious quarrel, neither of these women would be in the least likely to tell him.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Woolmer lifted her chin. “Sir Bertram was always most happy here. He was devoted to my daughter. In fact, he had approached me with a view to asking for her hand.” She took a breath, and a shadow of indecision flickered across her face.
Was that a lie that no one could now disprove? No-Beau Astley had said much the same. Then why the doubt? Had there been some ill-feeling last night, a change of mind?
“I am most distressed for you, ma’am,” he said automatically. “Did Sir Bertram say anything about where he intended to go after he left here?”
Her eyebrows went up. “Why-home, I assume!”
“I can’t understand it.” May spoke for the first time. She had a pleasant voice, a little soft, but agreeably low. “I simply cannot understand it at all.”
“Of course you can’t!” Mrs. Woolmer said irritably. “It is incomprehensible to any person of decency. One may only assume he was kidnapped. That is the course you should follow, Mr.-” She disregarded his name, hunching one shoulder to indicate its unimportance. “Poor Sir Bertram must have been abducted. Then when the perpetrators of this crime became aware of whom they had taken, they were afraid-”
“Perhaps Bertie fought them?” May suggested. Tears came to her eyes. “How brave of him! He would!”
Mrs. Woolmer liked that explanation. “It is perfectly dastardly! That is what must have occurred, I am sure of it. I don’t know why we pay the police, when they allow such things to happen!”
Pitt had already questioned the Astley coachman over luncheon. “Sir Bertram did not leave in his own carriage?” he said aloud.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Woolmer had expected an apology or an attempt at defense, not this extraordinary question.
“No,” May answered for her. “He dismissed his own brougham, and then had Willis call him a hansom. We offered to have our carriage take him, but he would not hear of it. He was most considerate.” She dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief. “Most.”
“If only we had been more persuasive, he might not have been abducted!” Mrs. Woolmer still directed the accusation at Pitt; it was the police who were at fault. People of quality should not have to protect themselves from blackguards in the streets.
It was possible that Astley had been abducted, but extremely unlikely. Still, if the Woolmers did not know of his habit of occasionally slumming in the Devil’s Acre, there was no point in telling them now. They would probably not believe him anyway. And perhaps this anger was their way of encountering grief; it was not uncommon. In illness it was the doctor who could not save who received the blame; in crime it was the police.
Pitt looked at them; May still adhered to the rules for a young lady’s behavior. None of the awkwardness of real grief showed yet. Her feet were tucked carefully on the chaise longue, her skirt draped in the most modestly becoming folds. Her hands were twisted a little in her lap, but they were still beautiful; the lines were composed, serene. She could have sat just so for a neoclassical painter, had they removed three-quarters of the decoration from the tables and the pianoforte behind her.
Mrs. Woolmer was bracing herself like Britannia to repel the foe. They were both gathering their thoughts out of the confusion, and would betray nothing yet. There was no point in pressing them. They had not really understood. In time, it would come-perhaps a memory of some word or gesture that mattered.
“He left in a hansom about eleven,” he repeated. “And, as far as you know, he was in good health and spirits, and intended returning directly home.”
“Precisely,” Mrs. Woolmer agreed. “I do not know what else you imagined we could tell you.”
“Only the time, ma’am, and the means of transport. And that as far as you know, he had no intention of calling upon anyone else.”
She blew down her nose with a little snort, reminding him of a dray horse. “Then if that is all, perhaps you would be kind enough to take your leave, and permit us to be alone.”
He went outside, past the footman and down the step into the street. He started to walk east again, facing into the wind. He wondered what May Woolmer was like when her mother was not present. Had Bertram Astley loved her? She was undoubtedly handsome, and well mannered enough to make any gentleman a wife acceptable to Society. Did she also have wit and courage, the honesty to laugh at herself and to praise others without grudge? Was she gentle? Or had Bertie Astley even considered such things? Perhaps beauty and a temperate disposition were enough. They were for most men.
And what was it he had seen in Beau Astley’s face at the instant thought of May, even in the moment of his own bereavement? Had that been love also?
He would have to remember next time he saw him that he was now Sir Beau! And presumably a considerably wealthier man. After the appropriate interval, would he step into his brother’s shoes and marry May Woolmer as well? It was not unlikely that Mrs. Woolmer would do her best to see that he did. There were not so many eligible young men around with titles and money, and it was late in the year-the next Season was almost on them.
Pitt pulled his coat collar up; the east wind had a breath of sleet in it. He hated the thought of examining the
