“What else?”
“Mr. Hathaway seems to be a very proper gentleman who lives quietly, alone, taking his pleasures rather seriously. Reads a lot, goes to the theater now and then, takes long walks in the fine weather.” Tellman recited it dryly, as if the man were as boring as the details. “He knows a lot of people, but does not seem to have more than a passing acquaintance with them. Dines out once a week at his club. He is a widower with two grown sons, also eminently respectable, one in the Colonial Service and the other in the church.” Tellman’s mouth curled down at the corners. “His tastes are good, he likes quality, but not excessively expensive. He seems to live well within his salary. No one has an ill word to say about him.”
Pitt drew in a deep breath. “And Aylmer? Is he a paragon of virtue as well?”
“Not quite.” There was a shadow of humor at the back of Tellman’s bleak expression. “Face like a burst boot, but fancies the ladies all the same. Quite a charmer in a harmless sort of way.” He shrugged. “At least it is harmless from all I have been able to find out so far. I’m still looking into Mr. Aylmer. Spends quite a lot of money- more than I can see the source of so far.”
“More than his Colonial Office salary?” Pitt asked with a quickening interest, and at the same time a pang of regret.
“Looks like it,” Tellman replied. “Of course he could have been saving up, or he might even have private means. Don’t know yet.”
“Any ladies in particular?”
“A Miss Amanda Pennecuick. Very nice-looking young lady indeed, and very well bred.”
“Does she return his interest?”
“Apparently not. Although that has not yet deterred him.” He looked at Pitt with amusement. “If you are thinking she is pursuing Mr. Aylmer in order to get information out of him, she’s very clever at it. From all I could see, she is trying to avoid him, and not succeeding.”
“She wouldn’t wish actually to succeed, only to appear to try,” Pitt pointed out, “if she were doing as you suggest. Find out about Miss Pennecuick. See who else her friends are, her other admirers, her background, any connection she might have with …” He stopped. Should he mention Germany?
Tellman waited. He was far too quick to be deceived. He knew the reason for Pitt’s hesitation, and the resentment of it was plain in his eyes.
“Africa, Belgium or Germany,” Pitt finished. “Or anything else that’s unusual, for that matter.”
Tellman put his hands in his pockets. It was not intended insolence as much as instinctive lack of respect.
“You missed out Peter Arundell and Robert Leicester,” Pitt prompted.
“Nothing interesting,” Tellman replied. “Arundell is a clever young man from a good family. Younger son. Oldest got the title, next one bought a commission in the army, third one went into the Colonial Office, that’s him, youngest one got the family living somewhere in Wiltshire.”
“Family living?” Pitt was momentarily confused.
“Church,” Tellman said with satisfaction that he had left Pitt behind. “Well-to-do families often own the living and can give it to whoever they like. Bring in quite a lot, some of those country parishes. Lot of tithes. Where I grew up the priest had three livings, and hired a vicar or a curate for each one. Himself, he lived in Italy on the proceeds. They don’t do that anymore, but they used to.”
It was on the edge of Pitt’s tongue to say he knew that, but he refrained. Tellman would probably not believe him anyway.
“What about Arundell?” he asked. “What sort of a man is he?” It did not matter. He had no access to the information on Zambezia.
“Just what you’d expect,” Tellman replied. “Rooms in Belgravia, attends a lot of Society functions, dresses well, dines well, but a good deal of it at other people’s expense. He is a bachelor and highly eligible. All the mothers with unmarried daughters are chasing after him, except those with something higher in their sights. He’ll no doubt marry well in the next few years.” Tellman finished with a slight downturn of his mouth. He despised what he knew of Society and never lost an opportunity to say so.
“And Leicester.”
Tellman grunted. “Much the same.”
“Then you’d better get on with Amanda Pennecuick,” Pitt instructed. “And Tellman …”
“Yes sir?” It was still sarcasm underlying his voice, not respect, and his eyes were too direct.
“Be discreet.” He met Tellman’s look with equal candor and challenge. No further explanation was necessary. They were utterly different in background and values. Pitt was from the country with the innate respect, even love, for the landed gentry who had made and preserved his world, and who had personally given him so much. Tellman was from the city, surrounded by poverty, and hated those born to wealth, most of whom he considered idlers. They had created nothing, and now only consumed without returning. All he and Pitt had in common was a dedication to police work, but that was sufficient for a complete understanding, at least on that level.
“Yes, Mr. Pitt,” he said with something close to a smile, and turned on his heel and left.
Just under half an hour later Assistant Commissioner Farnsworth sent for Pitt to come to his office. The note was written in such terms there was no question about obeying, and Pitt went from Bow Street and caught a hansom along the embankment to Scotland Yard to report.
“Ah.” Farnsworth looked up from his desk when Pitt was shown in. He waited until Pitt had closed the door before he continued. “This matter at the Colonial Office. What have you found?”
Pitt was reluctant to tell him how very little it was.
“They are all outwardly without fault,” he replied. “Except possibly Garston Aylmer.” He saw Farnsworth’s face quicken with interest, but took no notice. “He has something of a weakness in his regard for a Miss Amanda Pennecuick, which is apparently not returned. He is a remarkably plain man, and she is unusually handsome.”
“Not an uncommon occurrence,” Farnsworth said with obvious disappointment. “That’s hardly suspicious, Pitt, simply one of life’s many disappointments. Being plain, or even downright ugly, has never stopped anyone from falling in love with the beautiful. Very painful sometimes, but a tragedy, not a crime.”
“A great deal of crime springs from tragedy,” Pitt answered him. “People react differently to pain, especially the pain of wanting something out of reach.”
Farnsworth looked at him with a mixture of impatience and contempt. “You can steal anything from a meat pie to a diamond necklace, Pitt, but you cannot steal a woman’s affection. And we are not talking about a man who would descend to thieving.”
“Of course you cannot steal it.” Pitt was equally derisive. “But it is sometimes possible to buy it, or to buy a very good semblance of it. He wouldn’t be the first plain man to do that.”
Farnsworth disliked agreeing with him, but he was forced to do so. He had too much knowledge of life to argue the issue.
“Selling information to the Germans for money to get her gifts, or whatever she wants?” he said reluctantly. “All right. Look into it. But for God’s sake be discreet, Pitt. He’s probably a perfectly decent man simply in love with the wrong woman.”
“I was thinking also of the possibility that Miss Pennecuick may have an interest in Germany, and rather than Aylmer selling information for money, she might be drawing it from him as the price of her favor. Unlikely, but we have nothing better yet.”
Farnsworth chewed on his lower lip. “Find out all you can about her,” he ordered. “Who she is, where she comes from, who else she associates with.”
“I have Tellman on it.”
“Never mind Tellman, get on it yourself.” Farnsworth frowned. “Where were you yesterday, Pitt? No one saw you all day.”
“I went to Hampshire to a family funeral.”
“I thought your parents died a long time ago?” There was challenge in Farnsworth’s voice as well as question.
“They did; this was a man who treated me like a son.”
Farnsworth’s eyes were very hard, clear blue.
“Indeed?” He did not ask who that man was, and Pitt could not read his face.
“I believe you went to the inquest on Sir Arthur Desmond,” he went on. “Is that true?”
