conflict. Old Mrs. Ellison had absolutely refused to live under the same roof with Caroline and her new husband. As a result she had been obliged to move in with Emily, whose husband, Jack Radley, was a Member of Parliament and eminently more respectable than an actor, even if he had rather too much charm than was good for him and no title or breeding worth mentioning.
Emily suffered her grandmother with fortitude most of the time. Occasionally she was just as forthright back to the old lady, who then retreated into icy rage until she got bored and sallied out for the next attack.
However, since Emily and Jack were in Paris, and taking the opportunity of their absence to have the plumbing in the house redone, Grandmother was once again staying with Caroline. Pitt hoped profoundly that she was not well enough to accompany them to the theatre that evening. He had every cause to be optimistic. The sort of play that Caroline attended these days was not what old Mrs. Ellison considered fit entertainment, and even consumed with curiosity as she might be, she would not allow herself to be seen there.
By late morning Pitt was at the morgue listening to the police surgeon summing up the very little of use he had found.
“Exactly what I said. Hit on the head with something round and heavy, wider than a poker, more regular than a branch from a tree.”
“What about an oar or a punting pole?” Pitt asked.
“Possible.” The surgeon thought about it for a moment. “Very possible. Have you got one?”
“We don’t know where he was killed yet,” Pitt protested.
“Of course, it might be floating in the river.” The surgeon shook his head. “Probably never find it, or if you do all the blood will be long since washed off it. You may surmise but you won’t prove anything.”
“When did he die?”
“Late last night, as near as I can tell.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “By the time I saw him he’d certainly been dead five or six hours. Of course, when you find out who he is-if you do-then you may be able to narrow it down better than that.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Between thirty and thirty-five, I should say.” The surgeon considered carefully. “Seemed in very good health. Very clean. No calluses on his hands, no dirt. No parts of his body exposed to the sun.” He pursed his lips. “Certainly didn’t work manually. He either had money of his own or he did something with his mind rather than his hands. Or could be an artist of some sort, or even an actor.” He looked sideways at Pitt. “Hope I’m not saying that because of the way the dratted fellow was found.” He sighed. “Ridiculous!”
“Couldn’t he have sat like that himself, and been struck where he was?” Pitt asked, although he knew the answer.
“No,” the surgeon said decisively. “Blow struck him on the back of the head. Couldn’t have been in the boat unless he was sitting up, and he wasn’t-couldn’t have been. Those manacles are too short. Ankles spread too wide. Couldn’t sit up like that. If you don’t believe me, try it! Not enough blood there anyway.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t wearing that dress when he was killed?” Pitt pressed.
“Yes I am.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because there are no bruises that there would have been if he had been held or forced,” the surgeon explained patiently. “But there are tiny scratches, as if someone had caught him with a fingernail while trying to force the dress over his head and get it straight on his body. It’s damned difficult to dress a dead body, especially if you’re trying to do it by yourself.”
“It was one person?” Pitt said quietly.
The surgeon drew in his breath between his teeth.
“You are right,” he conceded. “I was making assumptions. I simply cannot imagine this sort of. . lunacy. . being a mutual affair. There is something essentially solitary about obsession, and obsessive-dear God-this is, if anything in the world is. I suppose some alternative is conceivable, but you’ll have to prove it to me before I’ll believe it. In my opinion one solitary man did this because of a perverse passion, a love or a hatred so strong that it broke all the bands of sense, even of self-preservation, and not only did he strike that man and kill him, he then was compelled to dress him like a woman and set him adrift on the river.” He swiveled to look at Pitt sharply. “I can’t think of any sane reason for doing that. Can you?”
“It obscures his identity. .” Pitt said thoughtfully.
“Rubbish!” the surgeon snapped. “Could have taken his clothes off and wrapped him in a blanket to do that. Certainly didn’t have to set him out like the Lady of Shalott-or Ophelia, or whoever it is.”
“Didn’t Ophelia drown herself?” Pitt asked.
“All right-Lady of Shalott, then,” the surgeon snapped. “She was stricken by a curse. Does that suit you better?”
Pitt smiled wryly. “I’m looking for something human. I don’t suppose you can tell if he was French, can you?”
The surgeon’s eyes opened very wide. “No-I cannot! What do you expect-‘made in France’ on the soles of his feet?”
Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets. He felt self-conscious now for having asked. “Signs of travel, illnesses, past surgery. . I don’t know.”
The surgeon shook his head. “Nothing helpful. Teeth are excellent, one small scratch on the finger, just an ordinary dead man wearing a green dress and chains. Sorry.”
Pitt gave him a long, level stare, then thanked him and left.
Early afternoon found Pitt at the French Embassy-after he had eaten a sandwich in a public house, with a pint of cider. He did not wish to see Meissonier again. He would only repeat what he had said at Horseferry Stairs, but Pitt was not convinced that the man in the boat was not the diplomat Bonnard. So far it was the only suggestion he had, and Meissonier had been acutely uncomfortable. There had been relief in his face when he had seen the body more closely, but his anxiety had not vanished altogether. Had it been only because there was nothing that could be traced to him and he was free to deny it was Bonnard?
How could Pitt now question him again? He would appear to be calling Meissonier a liar, which, considering he was a foreign diplomat- a guest in England, as he had pointed out-would be sufficient to cause an unpleasant incident for which Pitt would rightly get the blame.
The answer was that he must find some other excuse to call. But what could that be? Meissonier had denied all connection with the corpse. There were no questions to ask him.
Pitt was already at the door. He must either knock or continue along the street. He knocked.
The door was opened by a footman in full livery.
“Yes sir?”
“Good afternoon,” Pitt said hastily. He produced a card and handed it to the footman, speaking at the same time. “One of your diplomats was reported missing, I now believe in error, according to Monsieur Meissonier. However, before I alter the police record I should like to speak to the person who made the original report. It would look better if he were the person to withdraw it. Tidier. .”
“Indeed? Who would that be, sir?” The footman’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I don’t know.” He had only just thought of the excuse. He should have asked the constable at Horseferry Stairs, but it had not mattered then. “The gentleman reported missing is Monsieur Bonnard. I imagine it would be whoever he works with, or is his friend.”
“That will be Monsieur Villeroche, I daresay, sir. If you care to take a seat I shall ask when he is able to see you.” He indicated several hard-backed leather benches, and left Pitt to make himself, if not comfortable, at least discreet.
The footman returned within minutes.
“Monsieur Villeroche will see you in a quarter of an hour, sir. He is presently engaged.” He said no more, and left Pitt to make up his own mind if he wished to wait.
As it turned out, Monsieur Villeroche must have finished with his visitor earlier than expected. He came out into the hallway himself to find Pitt. He was a dark, good-looking young man dressed with great elegance, but at the moment he was obviously perturbed. He looked in both directions before approaching Pitt.
“Inspector Pitt? Good. I have a small errand to run. Perhaps you would not mind walking with me? Thank you so much.” He did not give Pitt time to refuse. He ignored the footman and went to the door, leaving Pitt to follow
