“George says you saw Mrs. Chancellor leave the house last night, Lily,” Pitt began. “Is that so?”
“Yes sir.” She sniffed.
“Do you know what time that was?”
“About half past nine, sir. I’m not sure exact.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I were up on the landing, from turning down the beds, an’ I saw the mistress going across the ‘all to the front door.” She gulped. “She were wearin’ her blue cloak which she’s so fond of. I saw her go out the front door. That’s the truth. I swear it is.” She started to cry again, quietly and with surprising dignity.
“And you usually turn the beds down at half past nine?”
“Yes, yes … sir …”
“Thank you. That’s all I need to trouble you for. Oh-except, you saw Mrs. Chancellor. Did you see Mr. Chancellor as well?”
“No, sir. ’e must a’ gone out already.”
“I see. Thank you.”
She stood up with a little assistance from George, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
“Is there anyone else you need to see, sir?” the coachman asked.
“You said Mr. Chancellor went out later?”
“Yes sir.”
“But you didn’t drive him?” Pitt looked at the arm in the sling.
“No, sir. I hurt my arm before he went out, in fact just before. Mr. Chancellor drove himself. He’s quite good with a light vehicle. He could manage the brougham easily, and of course he’d called down before, so it was already harnessed.”
“I see. Thank you. Do you know what time he came back?”
“No sir. But he’s often late. Cabinet meetings and the like can go on half the night, if the government’s got troubles … and when hasn’t it?”
“Indeed. Thank you, I don’t think there is anything else I need to ask here, at least for the moment. Unless you can tell me anything you think may be of use?”
“No sir. It’s the most terrible thing I ever heard. I don’t know what can have happened.” He looked grieved and confused.
Pitt left, his mind full of doubts and ugly speculation. He walked back along Bruton Street deep in thought. Susannah had told her husband that she was going to see Christabel Thorne, but apparently that was untrue; unless she had been waylaid somewhere along Mount Street, within ten minutes of leaving home?
But why lie, unless it was something she did not wish him to know? Where could she be going, and with whom, that she felt compelled to keep it from him? Was it possible she knew who the traitor was in the Colonial Office? Or at least that she suspected? Was it even conceivable that it was she herself, stealing information from Chancellor without his knowledge? Did he take papers home with him, and she had somehow seen them?
Or was it a far simpler, more ordinary explanation, one of an assignation with a lover? Christabel Thorne had doubted it, but she had not thought it impossible. Was that what lay between Susannah and Kreisler, and all the arguments about Africa were of only secondary importance, or even none at all? Was the emotion that racked her guilt?
And why had the hansom driver not come to the police? Surely he would do once the discovery of the body was broadcast throughout London when the newspapers reached the streets. That could only be a matter of hours. The early editions would have it now, and by lunchtime newsboys would be shouting it.
It was a bright day, people were smiling in the sun, women in frocks of muslin and lace, parasols spread, carriage harnesses shining, and yet he felt none of it as he walked, head down, towards Oxford Street.
Was it even imaginable that it was anything to do with the Inner Circle? She had known Sir Arthur, and apparently liked him profoundly. Could she possibly have known anything about his death? Was that the secret that troubled her, some dreadful suspicion which she had at last realized?
If so, who was it? Not Chancellor. Pitt would be prepared to swear Chancellor was not a member. What about Thorne? Susannah was a close friend of Christabel. She would feel she was betraying a relationship that was dear to her, and yet she would feel equally unable to keep her silence in the face of murder. No wonder Charlotte had said she looked tormented.
Two young women passed him, laughing, their skirts brushing his feet. They seemed a world away.
Did Christabel know anything about it? Or was she speaking the truth when she said Susannah had not been there? Perhaps she had no idea that the husband she seemed so close to was capable of murdering her friend to prevent her from exposing the Circle. How would she bear it when she was forced to know?
Was Jeremiah Thorne, in his own way, another victim of the Inner Circle, destroyed by a covenant made in ignorance, if not innocence, a man who dared not be true to himself, for fear of losing … what? His position, his social standing, his financial credit, his life?
In Oxford Street he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the Bow Street station. The medical examiner might have made a preliminary report, at least, a guess as to the time of death, and apart from that, he should see Farnsworth.
He spent the journey considering what steps to take next. It would be difficult. One did not lightly investigate the wife of a cabinet minister, and one of the most popular at that. People would have their own ideas as to what had happened to her, fundamental beliefs they would not wish challenged. Emotions would be raw. He would present an easy target, someone to blame for the grief and the anger, and for the fear which would follow. If a cabinet minister’s wife, in a hansom in Mayfair, could be murdered, who is safe?
By the time he alighted in Bow Street the late editions of the newspapers were on sale, and a boy was shouting in a clear, penetrating voice.
“Extra! Terrible murder! Minister’s wife! Linus Chancellor’s wife found dead at Tower o’ London! Extra! Extra!” His voice dropped. “’ere, Mr. Pitt. You wanna copy? It’s all ’ere!”
“No thank you,” Pitt refused. “If I don’t know it already, then it is a lie.” And leaving the boy giggling, he walked up the steps and into the police station.
Farnsworth was already there, tight faced and less immaculate than usual. He was coming down the stairs as Pitt reached the bottom to go up.
“Ah, good,” Farnsworth said immediately. “I’ve been waiting for you. Good God, this is awful!” He bit his lip. “Poor Chancellor. The most brilliant colonial secretary we’ve had in years, possibly even a future prime minister, and this had to happen to him. What have you learned?” He turned on the steps and started back up again towards Pitt’s office.
Pitt followed him up, closing the door before replying.
“She left the house at half past nine yesterday evening, Chancellor with her, but he only went so far as to call her a hansom and put her in it. She said she was going to visit Christabel Thorne, in Upper Brook Street, about fifteen minutes away at the most. But Mrs. Thorne says she never reached there, nor was she expecting her.”
“Is that all?” Farnsworth said grimly. He was standing with his back to the window, but even so his expression was unmistakable, a mixture of shock and despairing anxiety.
“So far,” Pitt replied. “Oh, she was wearing a blue cloak when she left home, according to the maid who saw her go, but it wasn’t on her when we found her. Possibly it’s still in the river. If it is washed up somewhere else, it might provide an indication as to where she went in.”
Farnsworth thought for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something, then possibly realized the answer, and merely grunted. “Suppose it could have been anywhere, depending on the tide?”
“Yes, although according to the river boatmen, more often than not they surface again more or less where they went in.”
Farnsworth pulled a face of distaste.
“The time of death may help with that,” Pitt went on. “If it is early enough it had to be well before the tide turned.”
