Emily’s mind was on a different train. “Fancy that dreadful footman turning up again. He always made me uncomfortable. I wonder who provided the money for him to set up a brothel? I mean who owned the property and paid for an establishment? Perhaps it was Dr. Pinchin.”
But a far uglier thought forced itself into Charlotte’s mind, linked with memories of the Balantyne house, murder and fear in the past, and Max’s sudden, silent departure.
“Yes,” she agreed abruptly. “Yes, that may very well be so. I dare say Thomas will discover that.”
Emily gave her a narrow look, a flicker of suspicion, but she did not pursue it. “Will you stay for luncheon?”
As Charlotte was preparing for her visit with Emily, Pitt alighted from his cab and walked up to the front door of number 23 Lambert Gardens. It was a high house with a handsome frontage, though today, of course, the curtains were drawn and there was black crepe on the windows and a wreath on the door. The whole effect was one of a curious blindness.
There was no point in putting it off; he lifted his hand and knocked on the door. It was several minutes before an unhappy-looking footman opened it. Death in the house made him awkward; he had no idea how much grief he was expected to show, especially in these grotesque circumstances. Maybe he ought to pretend to ignore it. After all, what could he possibly say? The kitchenmaid had already given notice, and he was considering doing the same.
He did not recognize Pitt. “Mrs. Pinchin is not receiving callers,” he said hastily. “But if you care to leave your card, I am sure she will accept your condolences.”
“I am Thomas Pitt, from the police,” Pitt explained. “I do convey my sympathy to Mrs. Pinchin, of course, but I am afraid it is necessary that I also speak with her.”
The footman was painfully undecided about which of his duties was paramount: on the one hand, preserving the sanctity of mourning from such a crass invasion by a person of this sort, or, on the other hand, his undoubted allegiance to the majesty of the Law.
“Perhaps if you call the butler?” Pitt suggested tactfully. “And permit me not to wait upon the step while you do so. We do not wish to attract the attention and the gossip of the neighbors’ maids and bootboys.”
The footman’s face was almost comical with relief. It was the perfect solution. Gossip would be inevitable, but he had no intention of being blamed for adding to it.
“Oh-yes, sir-yes-I’ll do that. If you come this way, sir.” He led Pitt across the hall, which was filled with a faint odor as if none of the doors had been opened for days. The mirrors were black-draped like the windows. There was an arrangement of lilies in a pedestal vase; they looked artificial, though they were in fact real, and undoubtedly extremely expensive at this time of year.
The footman left Pitt in a room with a black-leaded grate and no fire. It was dark behind the drawn blinds, and it seemed as if the whole household were determined that even if the corpse of the master could not lie in his own home, they would order their domestic arrangements to imitate the chill of the grave.
It was only a few moments before Mr. Mullen, the butler, arrived, his thinning, sandy hair brushed neatly back and his face determined. “I am sorry, Mr. Pitt.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid it will be another half hour before Mrs. Pinchin is able to receive you. Perhaps you would like a dish of tea while you wait? It is a very inclement day.”
Pitt felt warmer already. He had respect for this man; he knew his job and seemed to perform it with more than ordinary skill.
“I would indeed, Mr. Mullen, thank you. And if your duties permit, perhaps a little of your time?”
“Certainly, sir.” Mullen pulled the bell rope and, when the footman answered, requested that a pot of tea be brought, with two cups. He would not have presumed to take refreshment with a gentleman caller, and a tradesman would have been sent through the green baize door to the kitchen. But he considered Pitt to be roughly his social equal, which Pitt realized was something of a compliment. A butler was in many senses the real master of a household, and might rule a staff of a dozen or more lesser servants. He might also have greater intelligence than the owner, and certainly inspire more awe from his fellows.
“Have you been with Dr. Pinchin long, Mr. Mullen?” Pitt began conversationally.
“Eleven years, Mr. Pitt,” Mullen replied. “Before that I was with Lord and Lady Fullerton, in Tavistock Square.”
Pitt was curious about why he had left an apparently superior employment, but was unsure how to ask him without giving offense. Such a question, as well as being against his regard for the man, would be professionally foolish at this point.
Mullen supplied the answer of his own accord. Perhaps he wished to clear himself from suspicion of incompetence. “They took the habit of going to Devon every winter.” A shadow of distaste crossed his face. “I did not care for the travel, and I have no wish to remain idle in an empty town house with a caretaking staff for several months of each year.”
“Indeed,” Pitt agreed with some sympathy. An estate in the home counties would be an entirely different thing, with hunt balls, shooting parties, and guests for Christmas, no doubt. But a retreat to the silence of Devon would be a form of exile. “And I should imagine Dr. Pinchin was not an uninteresting employer?” he said, trying to probe a little deeper.
Mullen smiled politely. He was far too honorable to repeat the vast and intimate knowledge he had acquired of the Pinchin household. Butlers who betrayed that trust were, in his opinion, contemptible and a disgrace to their entire profession.
He misunderstood deliberately, and both of them knew it. “Yes, sir, although not a great deal of his practice was conducted from this house. He has offices in Highgate. But we have had some distinguished gentlemen here to dine, from time to time.”
“Oh?”
Mullen repeated the names of several surgeons and physicians of eminence. Pitt made a mental note of their names, to call upon later for whatever they might add to his picture of Hubert Pinchin, although he knew from past experience that all professionals seem to defend their colleagues, even to the point of ridiculousness. However, there was always the hope of stumbling upon some personal or professional jealousy that might loosen a tongue.
He learned from Mullen a little more about Pinchin’s habits, particularly that he quite frequently returned home very late in the evening. It was not unknown that he should be out all night. No explanation was offered other than the discreet supposition that illness does not confine itself to convenient hours.
A few moments later, the lady’s maid knocked on the door. Her mistress was ready to speak to Mr. Pitt, if he would care to come to the breakfast room.
Valeria Pinchin was a woman of Wagnerian stature, broad-bosomed, blue-eyed, with a sweep of fading hair above her wide forehead. She was dressed in unrelieved black, as became a new widow in the deepest mourning, not only for the untimely death of her husband but the appalling notoriety of its nature. Her face was pale, and set in grim and defensive determination. She looked at Pitt warily.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he began with suitable reverence for the occasion and some genuine pity. “May I offer my sympathy in your bereavement?”
“Thank you,” she replied, with a very slight sniff and a lift of her powerful chin. “You may sit down, Mr.-er, Pitt.”
He took the chair opposite her across the table. She sipped at tea without offering him any. After all, he was an extremely distasteful necessity, part of the trappings of the sordid disaster that had overtaken her-like the ratcatcher, or the drainman. There was no need to treat him as a social equal.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began again, “but I am obliged to ask you a number of questions.”
“I can be of no help to you whatsoever.” She stared at him, bridling at even the suggestion. “You cannot imagine I know anything of such an unspeakable-” She stopped, unable to find a word extreme enough.
“Of course not.” She was not a woman Pitt found it easy to like. He had to force to his mind some of the other shocked people he had spoken with, their various ways of protecting their wounds.
Mrs. Pinchin was slightly mollified, but still her eyes glittered at him and her black-beaded bosom rose and fell with indignation.
“You can help me to learn a great deal more about your husband,” he said, trying again. “And therefore whoever might have believed him an enemy.” He wanted to be as courteous as possible, but ultimately the facts
