by Anne Perry
It was precisely what Pitt knew to be true. There was infinitely less hypocrisy, less self-regard in William than in his father. Pitt found himself liking him.
“Yes, that is what I thought,” he agreed.
For a moment William was silent, then recognition lit his face.
“Of course-I forgot. You’re Emily’s brother-in-law, aren’t you?” he said, so quietly his words were almost lost. “I’m sorry. It’s all very …” He searched for an expression of what he felt, but it eluded him. “Very hard.”
“I am afraid it won’t get better,” Pitt said honestly.”I’m forced to believe someone in this house killed him.”
“I suppose so. But I can’t tell you who-or why.” William picked up his brush again and began to work, touching a muted raw sienna into the shadows of a tree.
But Pitt was not ready to be dismissed. “What do you know of Mr. Radley?”
“Very little. Father wants to marry him to Tassie because he thinks Jack’s family might get him a peerage. We have a lot of money, you know-from trade. Father wants to become respectable.”
“Indeed.” Pitt was startled by his frankness. There was no attempt to protect his father’s weakness, no family defense. “And might they?”
“I should think so. Tassie’s a good catch. Jack’s not likely to do better-aristocratic heiresses can afford a tide, and the Americans won’t settle for anything less. Or to be accurate, their mothers won’t.” He went on working in the shadows, looking at the Vandyck brown, discounting it, and squeezing out burnt umber.
“What about Emily?” Pitt asked. “Doesn’t she have more money than Miss March?”
William’s hand stopped in midair. “Yes, she will have, now that George is dead.” He winced as he said it. “But Jack has too much experience of women, if even half his reputation is deserved, to believe from a couple of evenings’ flirtation that Emily would consider marrying him-especially with George behaving like such a fool. Emily was only retaliating. You may not be aware of it, Mr. Pitt, but in Society married women have little else to do but gossip, dress up in the latest fashions, and flirt with other men. It is their only source of entertainment. Not even an idiot takes it seriously. My wife is very beautiful, and has flirted as long as I have known her.”
Pitt stared at him but could see no additional pain, no new anger or awareness of fear as he said it. “I see.”
“No, you don’t,” William said dryly. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been bored in your life.”
“No,” Pitt admitted. There had never been time; poverty and ambition do not allow it.
“You are fortunate-at least, in that respect.”
Pitt looked at the canvas again. “Neither have you,” he said with conviction.
For the first time William smiled, a sudden flash; then it was gone again as quickly, replaced by the knowledge of tragedy.
“Thank you, Mr. March.” Pitt stepped back. “I shan’t disturb you any longer, for the moment.”
William did not reply. He was working again.
Downstairs, Stripe was also finding things difficult; he was not any more welcome in the servants’ hall than Pitt had been in the withdrawing room. The cook looked at him with acute disfavor. It was the hour after luncheon, when she should have been able to take a little time off before beginning to think of dinner, and she wished to sit with her feet up and gossip with the housekeeper and the visiting lady’s maids. There was always scandal to exchange, and today especially she was overburdened with the need to express her emotions. She was a large, capable woman with pride in her job, but spending all day on her feet was more than anyone should be asked to bear.
“Hurts me veins something terrible!” she confided to the housekeeper, a rotund woman of her own age. “Wouldn’t tell them flipperty parlormaids that, though! Gets above themselves far too easily as it is. Not the discipline there was in my young days. I know how a house ought to be run.”
“Everything’s going downhill,” the housekeeper agreed. “And now we’ve got the police in the ’ouse. I ask you, whatever next?”
“Notice, that’s what.” The cook shook her head. “’Alf the girls givin’ notice, you mark my words, Mrs. Tobias.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Mardle, you’re right and no mistake,” the housekeeper agreed sagely.
They were in the housekeeper’s sitting room. Stripe was still in the servants’ hall, where they ate and had such companionship as their duties allowed time for. He was uncomfortable, because it was a world he was unused to and he was an intruder. It was immaculately clean; the floor was scrubbed by the thirteen-year-old scullery maid every morning before six A.M. The dressers and cupboards were massed with china, any one service worth a year of his wages. There were jars of pickles and preserves, bins of flour, sugar, oatmeal and other dry stores, and in the scullery he could see piles of vegetables. There was a vast black-leaded cooking range with its bank of ovens, and beside it scuttles of coke and coal. Of course, the boiling coppers, sinks, washboards, and mangles would all be in the laundry room, and the airing racks drawn up to the ceiling by pulleys, full of clean linen.
Now, in this warm, delicious-smelling kitchen, he was standing in the middle of the floor with an array of maids and footmen in front of him; all stiffly to attention, immaculate, men in livery, girls in black stuff dresses and crisp, snowdrift caps and aprons, the parlormaids’ trimmed with lace many middle-class ladies would have been glad to own. Stripe thought by far the handsomest of them was the lady’s maid of the household, Lettie Taylor, but she seemed to regard him with even more disdain than the others. The visiting ladies had naturally brought their own staff, and they were also present, except Digby, Lady Cumming-Gould’s maid. She had been elected to remain with the new widow, perhaps because she was the oldest, and considered the most sensible.
Somewhat uncomfortable under their hostile gaze, Stripe licked his pencil, asked the questions he was obliged to, and noted down their answers in his book. It all told him nothing except that the trays were set the night before and left in the upstairs pantry, where the kettles were brought and the tea made freshly-or in Lord Ashworth’s case, the coffee-each morning. On this particular occasion there had been an unusual turmoil and the pantry had been filled with steam, and apparently unattended, for some minutes. Anyone could, at least in theory, have slipped in and poisoned the coffee.
He asked for a private room and was shown the butler’s pantry, which actually was a sitting room for the butler’s personal use. There he interviewed each member of the staff alone. He asked-with commendable subtlety, he thought-for any information they might have about relationships within the family, comings and goings; and learned precisely nothing that his own guess could not have told him. He began to wonder if they identified with their masters or mistresses so closely that it was their own honor they defended, their own status in the small community that existed in this house.
Finally, on being handed Pitt’s note regarding the digitalis, he asked Lettie to take him upstairs and show him Mrs. March’s room and her medicine cabinet, and any other medicine cabinet in the house.
She put her hands up to tuck her hair in more tidily, then smoothed her apron over her slim hips. To Stripe, blushing a little at the thought and terrified lest it should show in his face, she was the prettiest, most pleasing woman he had ever seen. He found himself hoping this investigation would take a long time-several weeks at the least.
He followed her obediently up the back stairs, watching the tilt of her head and the swish of her skirt and finding he was daydreaming when they came to the pantry. She had spoken to him twice before he pulled his attention to the subject at hand and looked round at the tables where the trays were laid.
“Where was Lord Ashworth’s tray with the coffee?” he asked, clearing his throat painfully.
“Aren’t you listening to me?” she said, shaking her head. “I just told you, it was there.” She pointed to the end of the table nearest the door.
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br /> “Was that usual? I mean …” Her eyes were the color of the sky above the river on a summer day. He coughed hard and began again. “I mean, did you put them in the same places each morning, miss?”
“That one, yes,” she replied, apparently unaware of his gaze. “Because it was coffee, and the others were tea.”
“Tell me again what happens every morning.” He knew what she had already said, but he wanted to listen to her again and he could think of no more relevant questions.
Dutifully she repeated the story, and he noted it down again.
“Thank you, miss,” he said politely, closing his notebook and putting it in his pocket. “Now, would you show me Mrs. March’s medicine cupboard, if you please.”
She looked a little pale, forgetting her general umbrage at having the police in the house at this sudden reminder of death.
“Yes, of course I will.” She led the way through the upstairs baize door onto the main landing and along to old Mrs. March’s room. She knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, opened it and went in.
The room was like no other Stripe had ever imagined, let alone seen. It was as pink and white as an apple blossom. Everywhere he looked there were frills: laces, doilies, ribbons, photographs with satin bindings, a suffocating sea of pillows, pink velvet curtains drawn and swagged to reveal white net ruching beneath.
Stripe was robbed of words; the air seemed motionless and hot, and it clogged his lungs. Awkwardly, in case he left a large footprint in it, he tiptoed across the pink carpet behind Lettie to the ornate cupboard painted pink and white, where she opened a little drawer and looked into it, her face grave.
Stripe stood behind her, smelling a slight flower perfume from her hair, and peeked down at the little space packed with bottles, twists of paper, and cardboard pillboxes.
“Is the digitalis there?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“No, Mr. Stripe,” she said very quietly, her hand trembling above the drawer. “I know what all these are, and the digitalis is gone.”
She was frightened, and he wanted to reassure her, promise he would look after her himself, personally see that no one ever hurt her. But that would offend her so much the very idea was painful to him. She would be outraged by his temerity. Doubtless she already had admirers-that thought, too, was extraordinarily unpleasant. He pulled his wits together.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a businesslike manner. “Could it be in another drawer, or on the bedside table?” He looked round the cloying room. There could be an entire apothecary’s shop hidden in all these billowing frills and folds.
“No,” Lettie said decidedly, her voice high. “I have tidied this room this morning. The digitalis is gone, Mr. Stripe. I-” She shivered.
“Yes?” he said hopefully.
“Nothing.”
“Thank you, miss.” He began back towards the doorway, still careful not to knock anything. “Then I think that’ll be all for the moment. I’d better send a message to Mr. Pitt.”
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Stripe?”
“Yes, miss?” He stopped and turned to face her, aware of the blood burning up his cheeks.
She was trying to hide her fear, but it was there in her eyes, dark and shivery. “Mr. Stripe, is it true Lord Ashworth was murdered?”
“We think so, miss. But don’t you worry, we’ll take good care o’ you. An’ we’ll find whoever did it, be sure.” Now he had said it. He waited for her reaction.
Relief flooded into her face; then she remembered herself, her position, and her loyalties. She drew herself up and lifted her chin very high. “Of course,” she said with dignity. “Thank you, Mr. Stripe. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll be about my business.”
“Yes, miss,” he said regretfully, and allowed her to guide him downstairs again to resume his own duties in the butler’s pantry.
Pitt saw Sybilla March also, and the moment she walked into the room he understood why George had behaved with such abandon. She was a beautiful woman, vivid and sensuous. There was a warmth about her face, a grace in her movement utterly different from the cool elegance of fashion. And yet, for all the curves of her body, the fragility in the slenderness of her neck, the smallness of her wrists, made her also seem vulnerable and robbed him of the anger he had wanted to feel.
She sat down on the green sofa exactly where Tassie had been an hour earlier. “I don’t know anything, Mr. Pitt,” she said before he had time to ask. Her eyes were shadowed, as if she had been weeping, and there was a tightness about her which he thought was fear. But there had been a murder in the house, and whoever had committed it was still here. Only a fool would not be afraid.
“You may not appreciate the value of what you know, Mrs. March,” he said as he sat down. “I imagine anyone had the opportunity to put the digitalis in Lord Ashworth’s coffee. We shall have to approach it from the point of discovering who might wish to.”
She said nothing. The white hands in her lap were clenched so tightly the knuckles were shining.
He found it unexpectedly difficult to go on. He did not want to be brutal, and yet skirting round the subjects that were painful would be useless, and would only prolong the distress.
“Was Lord Ashworth in love with you?” he said bluntly.
Her head jerked up, eyes wide, as if she had been startled by the question, and yet she must have known it was inevitable. There was a long silence before she replied-so long, Pitt was about to ask again.
“I don’t know,” she said in a husky voice. “What does a man mean when he says ‘I love you’? Perhaps there are as many answers as there are men.”
It was a reply he had not foreseen at, all. He had expected a blushing admission, or a defiant one, or even a denial. But a philosophical answer that was a question itself left him confused.
“Did you love him?” he asked, far more brashly than he had planned.
Her mouth moved in the slightest of smiles, and he suspected there was an infinity of meaning in it he would never grasp. “No. But I liked him very much.”
“Did your husband know the true nature of your regard for Lord Ashworth?” He was floundering now, and he was acutely aware of it.
“Yes,” she admitted. “But William was not jealous, if that is what you imagine. We mix in Society a great deal. George was not the first man to have found me attractive.”
That Pitt was obliged to believe. But whether William was jealous or not was another matter. How far had the affair gone, and did William know its extent? Was he either ignorant of it, or truly a complacent husband? Or was there nothing to mind?
There was certainly no point in asking Sybilla.
“Thank you, Mrs. March,” he said formally.
Now he could no longer put it off. He must go and see Emily, face her grief.
He stood up and excused himself, leaving Sybilla alone in the green withdrawing room.
In the hall he found a footman and requested to be taken to see Emily. The man was reluctant at first, having more respect for grief than the necessities of investigation. But common sense overcame him, and he led the way up the broad stairs to the landing, with its jardinieres of ferns, and knocked on Vespasia’s bedroom door.
It was opened by a middle-aged maid with a plain, wise face, at the moment creased with pity. She stared up at Pitt grimly, quite prepared to stand her ground and defy him. She would protect Emily at any cost, and Pitt could see it in the shape of her shoulders and the square planting of her feet.
“I’m Thomas Pitt,” he said loudly enough for Emily, beyond the door, to hear him. “My wife is Lady Ashworth’s sister. She will be here soon, but I must speak to Lady Ashworth first.”
The maid hesitated, looked him up and down with a measured gaze, and made up her mind. “Very well. I suppose you’d best come in.” She stood aside.
Emily was sitting up on the bed, fully dressed in a gown of dark blue-she had nothing black with her. Her hair was loose at the back of her neck and she was al
most as pale as the pillows behind her. Her eyes were cavernous with shock.
He sat down on the bed and took her hand, holding it in both of his. It felt limp and small as a child’s. There was no point in saying he was sorry. She must know that, must see it in his face and feel it in his touch.
“Where’s Charlotte?” she asked shakily.
“Coming. Aunt Vespasia sent her carriage; she’ll be here soon. But I have to ask you some questions. I wish I didn’t, but wishing doesn’t change things.”
“I know.” She sniffed, and the tears escaped her will and ran down her cheeks. “Dear heaven, do you think I don’t know!”
Pitt could feel the maid behind his shoulder, alert and defensive, ready to drive him out the moment he threatened Emily, and he loved her for it.
“Emily, George was deliberately killed by someone in this house. You know I have to find out who.”
She stared at him. Perhaps part of her mind had understood that already, or at least rejected all the other possibilities, but she had not actually faced it as bluntly as that. “That means-the family, or Jack Radley!”
“I know. Of course it is conceivable we could turn up a reason among the servants, but I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas! Why on earth would one of Uncle Eustace’s servants murder George? They hardly even knew of him a month ago. Anyway, why would any servant murder anyone in the house? It’s a nice thought, but it’s stupid.”
“Then it is one of the eight of you,” he said, watching her face.
She breathed out slowly. “Eight? Thomas! Not me! You can’t-” She was so white he thought she was going to faint, even lying against the pillows as she was.
He gripped her hand harder. “No, of course I don’t. Nor do I think it was Aunt Vespasia. But I have to find out who did, and that involves finding out the truth about a lot of things.”
She said nothing. Behind him he could hear the maid winding her hands in her apron. Silently he blessed the woman again, and Vespasia for providing her.
“Emily-could Jack Radley have imagined that you might one day marry him, were you free to?”