by Anne Perry
Pitt smiled. At least the Prime Minister was not going to be rattled.
The food was served. Footmen and maids moved among the guests with trays of wine and delicacies. All the time the supercilious butler, Scarborough, ordered the proceedings and saw that everything to the minutest detail was perfect.
Charlotte moved away from Pitt and began to observe for herself as much as she was able. She spoke for some minutes to Mina Winthrop, who was delighted to see her, and to Thora Garrick, who had apparently chosen to accompany Mina, perhaps to hear Victor play.
“How nice to see you, Mrs. Pitt,” Mina said with a rather uncertain smile. “You remember Mrs. Garrick, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said quickly. “How are you, Mrs. Garrick?”
“I am very well, thank you,” Thora answered with a smile.
“I have heard your son play,” Charlotte went on. “He is extremely gifted.”
“Thank you,” she accepted.
“How is your house progressing?” Mina asked.
“It is very nearly finished,” Charlotte answered. “I have a yellow room, thanks to your brilliant creative sense.”
Mina flushed with pleasure.
“How is your arm?” Charlotte looked at her as casually as she could and still express concern.
“Oh it is nothing,” Mina said quickly. “It really didn’t hurt at all. I think it is most foolish to make too much of accidents. I … I really bring it upon myself….”
Thora looked at Charlotte with wide eyes full of incredulity, then at Mina, whose discomfort was now apparent.
Charlotte perceived the layers of meaning and misunderstanding.
“I thought it was a nasty burn,” she said gently. “The tea was extremely hot I admire your fortitude, but …”
Mina relaxed so visibly the color rushed back into her face and her whole body seemed easier.
Thora sucked in her breath in sudden relief.
“But I should not think you self-indulgent to have admitted it was acutely painful,” Charlotte finished. “I don’t think I would have put on such a brave face.” Then she changed the subject, and they spoke of porcelain, and what manner of design was most pleasing for clocks and mirrors.
But when Charlotte excused herself she was still turning over in her mind the fact that Thora Garrick was aware of Mina’s bruises, and presumably of their cause, and yet it stirred in her neither overwhelming pity, nor anger, nor fear that Mina or Bart Mitchell might be involved in Winthrop’s death. She must impart this knowledge to Pitt at the first convenient opportunity.
Victor Garrick was asked to play again, and did so with exquisite melancholy, to a vociferous appreciation from an audience with a deeper love and understanding of music than he was accustomed to.
Nearly three quarters of an hour later Charlotte was joined by a furious Emily.
“That man is a complete swine!” Emily said with suppressed rage shaking her voice and her cheeks flaming.
“Who?” Charlotte was astonished, and amused. “Who on earth has behaved so appallingly as to cause you to use a word like that? I thought you were far too much the lady to—”
“It’s not amusing,” Emily said between her teeth. “I’d like to see him out in the street, begging with a bowl in his hand!”
“Begging with a bowl in his hand. What on earth are you talking about? Who?”
“That arrogant pig of a butler Scarsdale, or whatever he’s called,” Emily replied, screwing up her face. “I found one of the maids weeping her heart out just now. He caught her singing and dismissed her—because this is a Requiem reception. She didn’t know the wretched man. Why should she know the difference between Victor Garrick’s playing the cello and her singing a sad little song? I’ve half a mind to tell Mr. Carvell and ask him to do something about it. Reinstate the girl and put that abysmal man out in the street.”
“You can’t,” Charlotte protested. “He won’t dismiss his butler because of a maid being disciplined.” But even as she said it, her mind was crowded with other thoughts. Jerome Carvell’s face filled her inner vision, the pain and the grief in it, and the imagination. Surely he would not wittingly have permitted any one of his servants to treat people in that manner?
Or was he too vulnerable to a manservant who lived in his house and knew him as only a servant can?
“Charlotte?” Emily said slowly. “What? What is it?”
“A thought,” Charlotte replied. “Perhaps nothing. But you cannot speak to Scarborough. You wouldn’t help the maid.”
“Why not? I certainly can.”
“No! Believe me, there are reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Good reasons, concerning Mr. Carvell. Please.”
“Then I’ll employ her myself,” Emily said decisively. “You should have seen her, Charlotte. I’m not going to allow that to happen.”
Charlotte was about to reply when Dulcie Arledge approached them, smiling, her face weary, her shoulders still straight, her smile fixed.
“Poor creature,” Charlotte said softly to Emily, almost under her breath, her gaze still upon Dulcie.
“I think she looks better than I would do in the same circumstances,” Emily replied, but there was an ambiguity, a hesitation in her voice which Charlotte did not understand. However, it was too late to ask her what she meant. Dulcie was almost upon them.
“It has been a most moving occasion,” Charlotte said courteously.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” Dulcie accepted.
Emily added some appropriate remark, and before Dulcie could continue with whatever formality came next, they were joined by Lady Lismore and Landon Hurlwood.
“Dulcie, my dear,” Lady Lismore began with a warm smile, “do you know Mr. Landon Hurlwood? He greatly admired Aidan’s work, and came to pay his respects and offer his sympathy.” She turned to Hurlwood.
“No,” Hurlwood said.
“Yes,” Dulcie said at exactly the same moment.
Hurlwood blushed.
“I am so sorry,” he said quickly. “Of course I have met Mrs. Arledge. I simply meant that our acquaintance is very slight. How do you do, Mrs. Arledge. I am flattered you remembered me. There must be so many who admired your husband’s work.”
“How do you do, Mr. Hurlwood,” she answered, looking up at him with wide, dark blue eyes. “It is very kind of you to have come. I am gratified you admired my husband’s work. I am sure his name will live on, and perhaps give pleasure and encouragement for years to come.”
“I have no doubt.” He bowed very slightly, searching her face, his expression full of concern. “Would it be impertinent to say how much I admire your dignity in the face of such a loss, Mrs. Arledge?”
She colored deeply and lowered her eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Hurlwood, although I fear you flatter me. It is most generous.”
“Not at all,” Lady Lismore said quickly. “It is no more than the truth. Now I am sure you must be ready to retire after all this emotion. I shall be privileged to remain here and bid people good-bye, if you would like me to.”
Dulcie took a very deep breath, not looking at Hurlwood anymore.
“I think I should appreciate that, my dear, if you really do not mind?” she accepted.
“May I see you to your carriage?” Hurlwood offered her his arm.
She hesitated for several moments, then with a nervous flicker of her tongue across her lips, her face showing the exhaustion she must have felt, she declined graciously and walked alone to the door, where Scarborough stepped forward and opened it for her, following her out to accept her cloak from the footman and call her carriage.
“A most remarkable person,” Lady Lismore said with feeling.
Hurlwood’s eyes were still on the doorway where she had departed. There was a faint color in his cheeks. “Indeed,” he echoed. “Quite remarkable.”
9
L ADY AMANDA KILBRIDE rode out alone, very early, towards Rotten Row. She had qua
rreled with her husband the evening before and wished him to rise and find her absent. Of course he would not think she had left in any permanent sense. Such a thing would be out of the question, but he would be worried. He would be anxious in case she had done something foolish, just possibly even fulfilled her promise to run off and have a dramatic love affair with the first presentable man who asked her.
Although in the cold, pale light of morning she was obliged to admit that there were not so many presentable men at all, let alone ones who would invite married ladies to have affairs. The chance that one had come along between her threat, made at about nine o’clock, and the time she had retired and locked her bedroom door, a little before midnight, was very remote indeed.
Still, let him wonder!
She reached the end of the Row and saw its rather gravelly surface stretching out in front of her beneath the trees. A good sharp canter was precisely what she needed. She leaned a little forward and patted her horse, giving it a word of encouragement. Its ears pricked at the change in her tone. All morning so far she had regaled it with the injustices done her. Now she urged it into a trot, and then a canter.
She rode well and she knew it. It added to her enjoyment of the sharp spring sunshine, the long shadows across the Row and the sheen of dew on the park grass beyond. There was hardly anyone else around, even in Knightsbridge, which she could see beyond the edge of the park; there was only an occasional late reveler returning home, or very early risers like herself, enjoying the cold, bare sunlight and the virtual solitude.
At the far end she turned and cantered back towards Hyde Park Corner, feeling the wind in her face and at last beginning to smile.
Three quarters of the way down she slowed to a walk. She knew better than to offer her horse a drink at the trough while it was still warm, but she would dearly like to splash her own face with its coolness. She dismounted, leaving the reins loose, and took a couple of steps to the trough. She bent down absently, her mind still on her husband’s offense, then with her hands in the water she turned her head and looked.
The water was red-brown.
She withdrew sharply with a cry of revulsion. The whole trough was cloudy with some dark fluid, far too dark to be water. There was also something else in it, something large which she could not see because of the murkiness.
“Oh really!” she said angrily. “This is too bad! Who would do such a stupid thing? Now it’s filthy!” She stepped back, and it was only as she stood up that she saw the odd object on the far side of the trough. It was so odd in its appearance that she looked more closely.
For a breathless instant she did not believe it. Then when it sank on her incredulous brain that it was truly what it seemed, she slid with a splash into the trough, face first.
The cold water choked her and in an effort to get her breath she pulled herself up again, gasping and gagging; the whole of the top of her body was soaked, and now thoroughly cold. She was too horrified even to scream, but crouched in silence, half arched over the edge of the trough, shaking violently.
There was a thud of hooves behind her, a scatter of pebbles, and a man’s voice spoke.
“I say, ma’am, are you all right? Had a fall? May I—” He stopped abruptly, having seen the object. “Oh my God!” He gulped and caught his breath in a choking cough.
“The rest of him is in there.” Amanda gestured weakly towards the trough, where now a liveried knee was protruding from the bloody water.
* * *
Tellman looked down at Pitt in his chair with a dark, grim expression in his lantern face.
“Yes?” Pitt asked, his heart sinking.
“There’s been another,” Tellman said, staring back without wavering. “He’s done it again. This time you’ll have to arrest him.”
“He …?”
“Carvell. There’s another headless corpse in the park.”
Pitt’s heart sank even further. “Who is it?”
“Albert Scarborough, Carvell’s butler.” A shadow of bitter humor touched Tellman’s face. “Lady Kilbride found him in the horse trough. Or to be more accurate, all of him except his head,” he amended. “His head was behind it.”
“Horse trough where?”
“Rotten Row, a hundred yards or so short of Hyde Park Corner.”
Pitt tried to force the horror of it from the front of his mind and concentrate on the practical elements of the case. “Some distance from Green Street,” he observed. “Any idea how he got there?”
“Not yet. He was a big fellow, so there is no way Carvell could have carried him. Might have walked there.”
Pitt opened his eyes very wide. “Midnight stroll with his employer? Doesn’t seem like the sort of person one takes a walk with for pleasure. And as the assistant commissioner has been at pains to point out, no one is strolling around the park these nights.”
“So he didn’t walk there,” Tellman corrected with a grimace. “Carvell killed him in his home and took him there in some sort of conveyance. Could even have been his own carriage. Do you want to arrest him, or shall I?”
Pitt rose to his feet, his limbs suddenly very tired, as though his body were of enormous weight. He should have been relieved there was an end to the mystery, if not the terror or the tragedy of it; but he felt no sense of ease at all.
“I’ll go.” He went to the hat stand and took his hat, even though it was a fine morning. “You’d better come with me.”
“Yes sir.”
It was still before nine when Pitt and Tellman presented themselves at the front door of the house in Green Street. Pitt rang the bell, but it was several moments before it was answered.
“Yes sir?” A footman with untidy fair hair looked at him with anxiety.
“I would like to speak with Mr. Carvell, if you please,” Pitt said, but his voice was a command, not a request.
The footman was startled. “I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure Mr. Carvell has risen yet,” he said apologetically. “Could you call again at about ten o’clock?”
Tellman made as if to speak, but Pitt cut across him.
“I’m afraid it will not wait. The matter is of the utmost gravity. Will you tell him that Superintendent Pitt and Inspector Tellman are here and require to see him immediately.”
The footman paled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind and turned away without remembering to ask them to wait, or direct them to a more suitable place than the hall.
Within a few moments Carvell appeared in a dressing robe, his hair standing in spikes, his face pale and filled with fear.
“What has happened, Superintendent?” he said to Pitt, ignoring Tellman. “Is there something wrong? What brings you at this hour?”
Again Pitt felt the tug of reluctance and the familiar pity inside him.
“I am sorry, Mr. Carvell, but we require to search your premises and question your staff. I know it will inconvenience you, but it is necessary.”
“Why?” Carvell was now extremely anxious, his hands opened and closed at his sides and his face was ashen. “What has happened? For God’s sake, tell me what is wrong. Has—has there been another …?”
“Yes. Your butler, Albert Scarborough.” Pitt was obliged to step forward and steady Carvell as he swayed. He caught him by the elbow and steered him backwards to the fine oak settle a yard or so behind him. “You had better sit down.” He turned to the footman standing helplessly. “Get your master a small glass of brandy,” he ordered. Then, as the youth still stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide: “Jump to it!”
“Yes—yes, sir.” And the unfortunate young man ran out of the hall and disappeared, calling for the housekeeper in a shaking voice.
Pitt looked at Tellman.
“Go and start your search.”
Tellman had only been awaiting the order. He departed briskly, his face grim.
Pitt looked at Carvell, who appeared as if he might well be sick.
“You think I did it?” Carvell said huskily. “I
can see it in your face, Superintendent. Why? Why in God’s name should I murder my butler?”
“I’m afraid the answer to that is unfortunately obvious, sir. He is in a perfect position to be aware of your liaison with Mr. Arledge, and of your possible involvement in his death. If that were so, you might well have felt it imperative, for your own safety, to be rid of him.”
Carvell struggled to speak, and failed. He stared up at Pitt for long, dreadful seconds, then with utter hopelessness, sank his head into his hands.
Pitt felt brutal. Tellman’s voice was drumming in his head, his contempt for Pitt’s squeamishness, Farnsworth’s charge that he was running away from his responsibility, both to his superiors, who had believed in him and had given him promotion, and to his juniors, whose loyalty he expected, and above all to the public. They had a right to believe they were getting the best the police force could offer and that he would set aside personal likes and dislikes, individual quirks of conscience or pity. He had accepted the job, with its honor and its reward. To do less than it required of him was a betrayal.
He looked at the wretched figure of Carvell in front of him. What had happened? What torrent of emotion had roared through him so that he had killed the man he loved? It could only be some kind of rejection, whether simply that the affair had died or that Arledge had found someone else.
Why Winthrop first? Winthrop must have been the other man. Somehow or other the bus conductor knew of it, not that night, but at some other time. And of course the sneering Scarborough had known it too. He tried to imagine the scene when the butler faced his master with his knowledge, standing very stiff and tall in his livery, his magnificent legs in silken stockings, his buttons and braid gleaming, his lip curled. He would have had no shred of an idea that his master would kill him too.
But that was stupid. He had already killed three other people. How could Scarborough have been so blindly confident as to have turned his back on a man he had threatened, and whom he knew to have murdered three times already? There could not have been a struggle. Scarborough was half Carvell’s weight again, and at least six inches taller. Any face-to-face combat he would have won easily. Pitt would have to ask the medical examiner if there were wounds on Scarborough’s body, a stab to the heart or something of that nature.