stoke, no visitors to show in or out, and Mr. Thorne had said he would draw the curtains himself and make sure the doors were fast.
Ian Hathaway had dined at his club and left at half past eleven. He said he had gone straight home, but since he lived alone, and he had not required his servants to wait up for him, there was no one to corroborate his word. He might as easily have left again, had he chosen to.
As a matter of course Francis Standish, Susannah’s brother-in-law, was also informed of her death, and probably asked if he would tell them where he had spent the evening. He replied that he had come home early, changed his clothes, and gone out to the theater alone. No, there was no one who could corroborate that.
What had he seen?
Naturally every effort was made to find the driver of the hansom who had picked up Susannah Chancellor in Berkeley Square. He was the only one who knew what had happened to her after that, until she had met her murderer.
The constable deputed by Pitt spent all afternoon and all evening searching for him, and failed completely. The following day Pitt withdrew Tellman from the Colonial Office matter and put him to the task. He was equally unsuccessful.
“Perhaps it wasn’t a real hansom?” Tellman said sourly. “Perhaps it was our murderer, dressed up to look like a cabby?”
It was a thought which had already occurred to Pitt. “Then find out where he got the hansom from,” he instructed. “If that is the case, then it cuts down the possibilities for time. We know that most of the people we have suspected so far in the Colonial Office matter can account for themselves at half past nine.”
Tellman snorted. “Did you really think it was one of them?” he said with contempt. “Why? Why would any of them kill Mrs. Chancellor?”
“Why would anybody at all kill her?” Pitt countered.
“Robbery. There are two rings missing, Bailey said. He checked with her maid.”
“What about the locket? Why didn’t they take that?” Pitt pursued it. “And did the maid say she was wearing her rings that night?”
“What?”
“Did the maid say she was wearing her rings that evening?” Pitt repeated patiently. “Ladies have been known to lose jewelry, even valuable pieces, or to pawn them, or sell them, or give them away.”
“I don’t think he asked.” Tellman was annoyed because he had not thought of that. “I’ll send him back.”
“You’d better. But keep looking for that cabdriver all the same.”
The last person Pitt found was Peter Kreisler. Three times the previous day Pitt had called upon him, and on each occasion he had still been absent, and his manservant had had no idea if he would be back at all that day. On the second occasion of Pitt’s calling the footman informed him that Mr. Kreisler had been deeply upset by the news of Mrs. Chancellor’s death, and had left the building almost immediately, without giving any indication as to where he was bound and when he intended to return.
When Pitt went again on the afternoon after Tellman’s unsuccessful search for the cabdriver, Kreisler was at home, and received Pitt immediately and with some eagerness. His face was tired, as if he had slept little, and there was an intense nervous energy about him, but his grief, whatever its depth or extent, was well in control. But then Pitt imagined Kreisler was a man who masked his emotions at any time, and was used to both triumph and tragedy.
“Come in, Superintendent,” he said quickly, showing him into a surprisingly charming room with a polished wooden floor and delicate African carvings on the mantel. There were no animal skins or horns, but one very fine painting of a cheetah. He waved to one of the chairs. “Dobson, bring the Superintendent a drink. What would you like, ale, tea, something stronger?”
“Have you cider?”
“Certainly. Dobson, cider for Superintendent Pitt. I’ll have some too.” He waved at the chair again, and himself sat opposite, leaning forward towards Pitt, his face earnest. “Have you found anything of importance yet? I have been studying the tides of the river to see where she could have been put in. That may help to discover where she was killed, and thus of course where she went from Berkeley Square, which I believe she left in the mid- evening, alone.” His hands were clenched in front of him. “At least, alone as soon as Chancellor had called a cab for her and seen her into it. If she was bound for Upper Brook Street, she must have been waylaid almost immediately. Do you think it was meant to be an abduction, and somehow it went wrong?”
It was actually a thought which had not occurred to Pitt, and there was a glimmer of sense in it.
“For ransom?” he asked, aware that the surprise was in his voice.
“Why not?” Kreisler pointed out. “It seems to me to make more sense than to murder her, poor woman. Chancellor has both wealth and a great deal of power. So has her brother-in-law, Standish. Possibly it was intended to try to coerce him in some way. Which is an extremely ugly thought, but not an impossible one.”
“No … indeed,” Pitt agreed reluctantly. “Although it must have gone very badly wrong to end like this. She was certainly not killed by accident.”
“Why?” Kreisler looked at him intently, his face tight with emotion. “Why do you say that, Superintendent?”
“The manner of her death made that apparent,” Pitt replied. He did not intend to discuss it further with Kreisler, who was in many ways a principal suspect.
“Are you sure?” Kreisler pressed. “Whose good could her death serve? Surely it would …” His voice trailed off.
“If I knew whose good it served, Mr. Kreisler, I should be a great deal further towards finding her murderer,” Pitt answered. “You seem very profoundly concerned in the matter. Did you know her better than I had supposed?” He watched Kreisler closely, the pallor of his skin, the brilliance of his eyes, the tiny muscles flickering in his jaw.
“I have met her several times, and found her charming and intelligent, and a woman of great sensitivity and honor,” he replied with a tensely loud voice. “Is that not more than enough reason to be horrified at her death and to wish passionately that her murderer should be found?”
“Of course it is,” Pitt said very quietly. “But most people, however profound their feelings, are content to leave it to the police to bring that about.”
“Well I am not,” Kreisler stated fiercely. “I will do everything in my power to learn who it is, and make damned sure the world knows it too. And frankly, Superintendent, I don’t care whether that pleases you or not.”
9
Pitt arrived home late after a day which was exhausting both physically and emotionally. He was looking forward to putting the whole matter out of his mind for a space, and sitting in the parlor with his feet up and the doors to the garden open to let in the late spring evening air. It was fine and balmy, the sort of day when the smells of the earth linger heavily and overtake the awareness of a mighty city beyond the garden walls. One could think only of flowers, cut lawns, shady trees and moths drifting lazily in the stillness.
However as soon as he entered the hallway he knew that was not to be. Charlotte came out of the parlor, her face grave, a warning in her eyes.
“What is it?” he said with apprehension.
“Matthew is here to see you,” she replied softly, aware of the open door behind her. “He looks very worried, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about it.”
“You asked him?”
“No, of course I didn’t. But I made … listening noises.”
He smiled in spite of himself, touched her gently as he passed and went into the parlor.
Matthew was sitting in Pitt’s favorite chair, staring out of the open French windows across the lawn towards
