by Anne Perry
The photographs on the mantel were framed in silver, polished and gleaming. He looked at them closely. The largest in the center was a family group: a man in formal pose, stiff collar and fixed expression; a handsome woman beside him, full bosomed, smooth throated, richly gowned; and around and behind them a young man, whose features closely resembled the woman, and three girls, all fair haired and wide-eyed, who seemed so alike it was difficult to tell them apart. A fourth girl with darker hair sat on the ground in front, making a charming and almost symmetrical picture. It was stiff in composition, and yet the naturalness of the resemblance and the affection between them gave it a warmth that no photographer could destroy.
The other frames held portraits of the same people individually, several taken some years earlier at different stages of youth. There was also a rather awkward picture of a nervous older couple, afraid of the camera and holding the pose so carefully their lips were pressed together and their eyes staring. Perhaps they were the parents of either Mr. or Mrs. Carswell.
He walked over to the window and looked into the sunlit garden full of flowers, early roses and late lupins making splashes and spires of pink. The curtains were respectably heavy, and draped across the floor at the bottom. He had learned to know that for the display of wealth it was intended. He smiled to himself, and turned back to the room to look at the pictures on the walls.
Here he was surprised to see they were of excellent quality. His work with art theft and fraud had taught him a great deal about paintings and their value, and he recognized a number of artists with ease. He especially liked watercolors for their delicacy and subtle use of light, and he knew as soon as he saw these that they were recent artists and of high quality. Someone in the Carswell house either had excellent taste or was prepared to spend liberally, even on so little used a room as this; or else Mr. Carswell chose to spend his money on art, and was very well advised in the matter.
It would be very interesting to see what he had chosen for the more frequently used rooms, such as the withdrawing room.
He was still looking at a soft landscape, a view of a shaded walk under trees, when Regina Carswell came in. She was obviously the woman at the center of the large photograph, dark haired and broad browed. There were several lines in her face, but they were all comfortable and gave her expression an air of calm.
“Mr. Pitt? My parlormaid tells me you believe I may be of assistance to you. Pray, in what way?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Carswell. It is very gracious of you to give up your time,” he said quickly. “I hope I do not inconvenience you. I am from the metropolitan police. I am inquiring into several recent art thefts, perpetrated in a particularly ingenious manner. The thieves present themselves as gentlemen who are lovers of fine paintings and are here on behalf of certain small museums, both in England and abroad.” He saw the polite interest in her face, and continued. “They say they have heard you have some excellent and little-known works and they would be interested in borrowing them for exhibition, for which of course they would reimburse you accordingly. It would only be for a matter of two or three months, then your paintings would be returned to you—”
“That doesn’t sound dishonest to me,” she said frankly.
He smiled. “It is not, to this point,” he agreed. “Except that there is no museum. They take the paintings—and in three months’ time return to you not your own painting, but an excellent forgery. Unless you examine it closely you would not know. And since it is in your frame, and you believe them to be reputable people, there is no reason why you should look at it more than cursorily, as you replace it on the wall.”
Her face pinched very slightly.
“We have had no such gentlemen here, Mr. Pitt. I’m sorry I cannot be of any assistance to you at all.”
It was what he had expected. “At least, Mrs. Carswell, be prepared,” he said easily. “And if anyone does call with such an offer, refuse it, and inform me at the Bow Street police station, at your earliest opportunity.” He glanced at the walls. “I see in the room here you have some delightful work which such thieves would love to obtain. I hope your locks on the windows and doors are all in good condition? Perhaps I might look at them and advise you?”
“If you wish, but I assure you my husband is most careful about such things. He is a magistrate, you know, and quite aware of both the nature and the frequency of crime.”
“Indeed, ma’am. If you would prefer …” He left it hanging in the air, hoping she would not accept his withdrawal. He needed to see as much of the house as possible.
“Not at all,” she said graciously. “I shall have Gibson show you all the downstairs doors and windows.” And so saying she rang the bell to summon the butler. When he came, a small man with abundant whiskers, she explained to him Pitt’s office and his purpose.
“Certainly, ma’am.” He turned to Pitt. “If you will come this way, sir,” he said with chill civility. He did not approve of police persons inside the house, and he wished Pitt to realize he was doing this under sufferance.
Pitt thanked Mrs. Carswell again, and followed Gibson’s retreating figure to examine the security of the house.
As he had supposed, the window latches and door locks were all in excellent repair, and he was assured they were checked every night before the last servant retired. Not that he would have expected Gibson to admit to less. What was far more interesting to him was the furnishing and the decor.
The withdrawing room was large, but lacked a look of spaciousness because the walls were covered in patterned paper, and the furniture was of the most modern design, clean lined, but engraved and inlaid so the impression was still of complicated surfaces. The curtains were heavy velvet, tied back with gilded, embossed and fringed sashes.
Pitt felt overpowered with opulence, and yet he knew it was no more than he would have found in most homes of men similarly situated both as to wealth and social rank. He had seen many such fireplaces with marble pilasters up the sides and ornate carving over the top, other gilt and ormolu clocks, other surfaces covered with china. In this case it was a top-heavy, elaborately scrolled Minton potpourri vase of neo-rococo design: blue, gold and white with lush flowers. He thought it hideous, but knew it was well thought of by many, and certainly valuable.
More to his taste in its simple lines was a Bohemian-red etched glass goblet, a souvenir of the Great Exhibition of 1851. Another memento was a painted and gilded lacquer box with pictures of the Crystal Palace.
He inspected the windows to satisfy the story he had told, watched by Gibson, as was his job. At least the man seemed sensible to the fact that callers such as Pitt could be just as dishonest as the thieves they were detailed to prevent. He watched Pitt with eyes like a hunting cat, not missing a gesture. Pitt smiled to himself and inwardly praised the man.
The dining room was equally splendid, and the porcelain in evidence was of excellent quality. There was a certain amount of Chinoiserie, as was popular, but these examples were blue and white and one at least, Pitt thought, was quite old—either Ming or a very good copy. Certainly if Addison Carswell wished to sell something and raise a little money, he could have found many times the amount Weems’s books had him owing.
The ladies’ sitting room, known as the boudoir, was quite different, perhaps decorated according to Mrs. Carswell’s taste rather than her parents-in-law, from whom she had possibly inherited the house. Here were pre-Raphaelite paintings, all brooding and passionate faces, clean lines of design and dark, burning colors. Figures of legend and dream were depicted in noble poses. All sorts of ancient stories were brought to memory and their effect was curiously pleasing. The furniture was William Morris, simple lines and excellent workmanship; perhaps some were even genuine rather than imitations.
Here there were more pictures of the daughters, the three fair-haired girls in carefully decorous poses, features stylized to show large eyes and small, delicate mouths, the passion carefully ironed out—or perhaps it had never been there
, but Pitt doubted that. Few young women were as childishly pure as this artist had drawn. These were pictures designed to portray them as the marriage market wished them to be seen.
A fourth girl, dark haired, looked much more natural. There was a streak of individuality in her face as if the artist had not felt the pressure to convey a message. Pitt looked down and saw she had a wedding ring on her slender hand. He smiled to himself, and moved on to the next room.
The remainder of the house was as he would have expected, well furnished in traditional style, unimaginative, comfortable, full of ornaments, paintings, tapestries and mementos of this and past generations, small signs of family life, pride in the only son, gifts from parents, old samplers stitched by the daughters as young girls, a variety of books.
By the time he had seen the kitchen as well, and the servants’ quarters that were on the ground floor, Pitt had a very clear idea of a close, busy, rather bourgeois family, undisturbed by scandal. The tragedies and triumphs were largely of a domestic sort: the dinner party that succeeds; the invitations extended and accepted; the suitor who calls, or does not call; the dress which is a disaster; the awaited letter which never arrives.
From the servants he picked up small remarks about callers when he asked about outsiders with entry to the house. He was told of dressmakers, milliners, women friends coming to tea or leaving cards. And of course the family entertained. There were parties of many sorts. Right now there were invitations to a ball in return to one they had only recently given.
Pitt left Addison Carswell’s house feeling really very little wiser with regard to the death of William Weems. He had a strong sense of an agreeable upper-middle-class family: affectionate, pleasantly domestic, no more obtuse than was normal in wishing their daughters to marry well both socially and financially. That much he had gathered quite easily. He smiled and thought how much more Charlotte would have read into it, the subtleties and refinements he could only guess at vaguely. But none of this led him any further towards knowing if Carswell was in heavy debt to Weems, or whether the issue might be one of blackmail, as it was with Byam. The household was not on the surface any more extravagant than he would have expected for a man in Carswell’s position. And it was always possible Mrs. Carswell had a little money of her own to contribute, which might account for the very excellent pictures.
He walked along Curzon Street in the sun, his hands in his pockets, his mind deep in thought, scarcely noticing the carriages with their liveried footmen passing him by. He could go to Cars well’s associates and ask them certain trivial questions, on some pretext or other, but even so, what would the answers tell him? That he played cards, perhaps? If he did, what of it? They would not admit if he had lost heavily lately. That was the sort of thing one gentleman did not reveal about another.
He turned the corner into South Audley Street then left along Great Stanhope Street into Park Lane.
Was Carswell worried or anxious lately? If he had confided in anyone, the confidant would not betray him by repeating the matter, least of all to a stranger he would recognize instantly as not one of their own, even if Pitt did not identify himself as a policeman. And worry indicated nothing. It could be about any number of things that had nothing whatever to do with William Weems. It could be a matter of health, or a Carswell daughter being courted by someone unsuitable, or, perhaps as bad, being courted by no one at all. It could be a complicated case he had been required to judge, a decision he was unhappy over, a friend in difficulties, or simply indigestion.
Beautiful carriages were passing him, their passengers ladies taking the air, faces sheltered from the sun by huge hats, nodding to friends on the footpath. Beyond them the trees in Hyde Park barely moved in the breeze.
Had Carswell developed erratic habits of late? If he had any ability at all he would conceal such a thing.
It was time he met Carswell himself, and asked him outright if he were in debt to Weems, and gave the man an opportunity to prove he had been elsewhere at the time of Weems’s death, and eliminate himself from inquiry.
Pitt hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to the police court in Bow Street, where Carswell would be sitting. It took him half an hour traveling east through heavy traffic and by the time he arrived and paid the driver he was impatient. But one could not simply walk in and see an official of the court. The place was grim, busy and extremely formal, everyone consumed in their own importance, hurrying along corridors with sheaves of paper.
Pitt attempted to straighten his tie, and loosened it, ending up with it worse than before. He pulled his jacket down a little and moved some of the extraneous articles from one pocket to the other, trying to attain a little more balance. Then he presented himself to the clerk of the court and requested to see Mr. Addison Carswell when he had the opportunity between cases.
He filled in the waiting time by overhearing as much as possible of snatches of conversation between police on duty and witnesses waiting to give evidence. He hoped to gather some other opinions of Carswell, and was surprisingly successful.
“Yer got a fair chance,” one sharp-faced little man observed, sucking at his teeth with a hissing sound. “ ’E in’t too bad, Carswell. ’E in’t vindictive, like.”
“All beaks is vindictive,” his friend replied gloomily. “ ’E in’t never goin’ ter believe I got it fair and square. ’e’s goin’ ter say I nicked it. I can see it comin’.”
“Well keep yer yap shut an’ ’E won’t know,” the other said sharply. “Don’ offer ’im nuffin’ ’as ’E don’ ask yer.”
“I should ’a paid old Skinjiggs ter give me summat—”
“No yer shouldn’t. I tol’ jer, there’s some as yer can be friends wiv an’ they take it badly, an’ Carswell in’t one of ’em. Jus’ keep yer lip buttoned an’ don’ say nuffin’ as yer don’t ’ave ter.”
Then the conversation degenerated into speculation as to what sentence their mutual friend would receive. They had no doubt he would be found guilty.
Further along a pale young woman in gray was being comforted by her lawyer, a sandy little man with a white wig on a trifle crooked over his right ear and an earnest expression of entreaty.
“Please, Mrs. Wilby, don’t agitate yourself so. Mr. Carswell is extremely consistent. He does not give exemplary sentences. He is a very predictable judge. I have never known him to step outside the average.”
She sniffed and dabbed her nose with a scrap of handkerchief, and continued staring at the floor.
Were they simply the words of a nervous young man trying to comfort his client, or was Carswell really a man whose career showed no erratic decisions, no questionable behavior?
Pitt approached another lawyer who seemed to be standing around in hope of finding a little business, and asked him a few pertinent questions, as if he had a friend presently awaiting trial.
“Excuse me,” he began tentatively.
The lawyer looked at him dubiously. “Yes?”
“I have a friend up on a charge before Mr. Carswell,” Pitt said, watching the man’s face in case his expression betrayed more than his words. “I wonder, can you tell me what sort of chance he has?”
The lawyer pulled a face. “Depends what he’s up for. But he’s a pretty fair chap on the whole, no better than most, no worse. He has his dislikes—is your friend a pimp, by any chance?”
“Why?” Pitt tried to look anxious.
“Hates pimps,” the lawyer said expressively. “And pornographers—and anyone who abuses women. Has a soft spot for women, it seems.”
“Thieving,” Pitt amended quickly.
“He’ll be all right. Inclined to be lenient to a bit of simple thieving. Unless, of course, he was violent? No? Or robbed the old or the very poor? No—then don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
“Thank you sir,” Pitt said enthusiastically, finding himself wishing more and more strongly that he would find Addison Carswell was not guilty of having murdered Weems.
Eventually the c
lerk came scurrying along to him, the tails of his gown flying, his face furrowed with agitation.
“Mr. Pitt, Mr. Carswell will see you now. I do hope you won’t keep him long, we have a great deal to get through and it would really be most inconvenient if he were to be delayed. You assured me it was urgent police business, and I have taken you at your word, sir.” His wispy eyebrows rose and he desired to reconsider that he had understood correctly and it truly justified his extraordinary intrusion.
“Indeed it is,” Pitt said, hiding a slight smile and reminding himself of Weems’s disfigured corpse in the mortuary, to force his priorities back to where his brain told him they should be. “You may be easy in your mind that I am not wasting Mr. Carswell’s time.”
“Ah—indeed. Then will you come this way, quickly now.” And so saying he turned and walked away so rapidly it was all but a trot.
Pitt strode after him and only two minutes later was shown into the chambers where Addison Carswell took short respites between one batch of cases and another. He had no time to look at it beyond noticing the walls were lined with bookshelves, presumably law tomes by their leather covers and great size. The single window overlooked a quiet courtyard and he could see the sunlight on an old stone wall at the far side. A single large desk was empty but for a silver salver with a bottle of Madeira and two glasses.
Carswell was standing with his back to the bookshelves. He was imposing now in his robes of office and with the weight of his calling so sharp in his mind. In the courtroom only a few yards away his power over his fellow beings was enormous. But stripped of these things Pitt judged he would be a very ordinary man, like thousands of others in London. He was well-to-do but not beyond the reach of anxiety; comfortable in his home and family of conforming disposition in both religion and political views; socially popular, accepted, but not a leader, still aspiring to climb considerably higher. In fact he was a man of very ordinary ambition and perhaps a few private dreams a little more individual, which would probably always remain just that: private—and only dreams.