Rutland Place tp-5

by Anne Perry

"Mama!"

  Caroline was in the hallway and could not have failed to hear her, but she did not turn her head.

  "Mama!"

  The footman opened the front door and Caroline walked out into the sun. Charlotte went after her. Snatching her cloak from the footman as she passed, she clattered down the steps and out onto the street.

  She caught up with Caroline and took her arm. It was stiff, and Caroline shook her off sharply. She kept her face straight ahead.

  "How could you?" she said very quietly. "My own daughter! Is your vanity so much that you would do this to me?"

  Charlotte reached for her arm again.

  "Don't speak to me." Caroline jerked away roughly. "Don't speak to me, please. Not ever again. I don't wish to know you."

  "You're being stupid!" Charlotte said as fiercely as she could without raising her voice for the whole street to hear. "I went there to find out if he knew how Theodora von Schenck got her money!"

  "Don't lie to me, Charlotte. I'm perfectly capable of seeing for myself what is going on!"

  "Are you?" Charlotte demanded, angry with her mother not for misjudging her but for being so vulnerable, for allowing herself to be swept away by a dream till the awakening threat-xened everything that really mattered. "Are you, Mama? I think if you could see anything at all, you would know as well as I do that he doesn't love you in the least." She saw the tears in Caroline's eyes, but she had to go on. "It isn't anything to do with me, or any other woman! He is simply unaware that your feeling for him is anything more than pleasant-a little relief from boredom-a courtesy! You have built up a whole romantic vision around him that has nothing to do with the kind of person he is underneath. You don't even know him really! All you see is what you want to!" She held on to Caroline's arm, this time too hard for her to snatch it away.

  "I know exactly how you feel!" she went on, keeping up with her. "I did the same with Dominic. I pinned all my romantic ideals onto him, put them over him like a suit of armor, till I had no idea what he was like underneath them. It isn't fair! We haven't the right to dress anyone else in our dreams and expect them to wear them for us! That isn't love! It's infatuation, and it's childish-and dangerous! Just think how unbearably lonely it must be! Would you like to live with someone who didn't even look at or listen to you, but only used you as a figure of fantasy? Someone to pretend about, someone to make responsible for all your emotions so that they are to blame if you are happy or unhappy? You have no right to do that to anyone else."

  Caroline stopped and stared at her, tears running down her face.

  "Those are terrible things to say, Charlotte," she whispered, her voice difficult and hoarse. "Terrible."

  "No, they aren't." Charlotte shook her head hard. "It is just the truth, and when you've looked at it a bit longer you'll find you like it!" Please God that could be true!

  "Like it! You tell me I have made a ridiculous fool of myself over a man who doesn't care for me at — all, and that even the feeling I had was an illusion, and selfish, nothing to do with love-and I shall come to like that!"

  Charlotte threw her arms around her because she wanted to be close to her, share in her pain and comfort her. Besides, looking at her face right now would be an intrusion into privacy too deep to allow forgetting afterward.

  "Maybe 'like it' was a silly phrase, but when you see it is true, you will find the lies something you don't even want to remember. But believe me, everyone who was ever capable of passion has made a fool of themselves at least once. We all fall in love with a vision sometime. The thing is to be able to wake up and still love."

  For a long time neither of them said anything more, but stood in the footpath with their arms around each other. Then very slowly Caroline began to relax, her body lost-its stiffness, and the pain changed from anger to simple weeping.

  "I'm so ashamed of myself," she said softly. "So terribly ashamed!"

  Charlotte's arms tightened. There was not anything else to say. Time would ease it away, but words could not.

  In the distance there was the sound of hooves, someone else making an early visit.

  Caroline straightened up and sniffed hard. For a moment her hand lingered on Charlotte's; then she withdrew it and fished in her reticule for a handkerchief.

  "I don't think I shall make any more calls this afternoon," she said calmly. "Perhaps you would like to come home for tea?"

  "Thank you," Charlotte said. They began to walk again, slowly. "You know, Mina was quite wrong about Theodora. Her money doesn't come from a brothel at all, or blackmail-she has a business for selling bathroom furniture!"

  Caroline was stunned. Her eyebrows shot up.

  "You mean-"

  "Yes, water closets!"

  "Oh, Charlotte!"

  10

  Two days later Pitt was still as confused as ever about who had killed Mina Spencer-Brown. He had a wealth of facts, but no conclusions that were subject to proof-and, worse than that, none that satisfied his own mind.

  He stood still on the pavement of Rutland Place in the sun. It was warm there, sheltered from the east wind by the high houses, and he stopped to collect his thoughts before going on to Alston for yet more questioning.

  He had been talking to Ambrosine Charrington, and the inter shy;view had left him less sure than he had been before he went. It was always possible that Mina had observed Ambrosine in the act of stealing and Ambrosine had been unable to deny it. If that had been so, Mina might have threatened her with exposure.

  But would Ambrosine have minded? From what Charlotte had told him, that was far from the case! She might even have been perversely pleased by the disgrace. Ottilie had said it was her motive for doing it in the first place, a desire to shock and distress her husband, to break out of the mold into which he had cast her. Of course she might well not see it so lucidly herself. But he found it impossible to believe she would commit murder to protect a secret she half wanted known.

  Did she hate Lovell enough to have allowed Mina to blackmail him? In theory it was possible. It had an irony that would appeal to Ambrosine.

  And yet he felt that he would have had some sense of the anger and the tension in Lovell, and of the bitter taste of satisfac shy;tion in Ambrosine herself. And he had not. To him she seemed just as elegantly imprisoned as before, and Lovell just as undis shy;turbed in his massive, impregnable security.

  Mention of Ottilie had shaken Lovell's composure most markedly, and he had become white-lipped, sweat-browed. He had tried intensely to hide the whole affair. Yet Ambrosine left Pitt entirely comfortable!

  Perhaps it was Alston Spencer-Brown after all? Maybe Mina's long-standing involvement with Tormod Lagarde had finally proved too much for him, and when Alston had learned that she was still enamored, he had procured more belladonna from some other doctor, in the city, poured it into the cordial, and left it to do its work.

  All Pitt's investigations had pointed to the conclusion that Mina's infatuation with Tormod had been discreet but very real. Many a husband had killed for less, and Alston's ordinary exterior could hide a violent possessiveness, a sense of outrage where murder might seem to him no more than justice.

  Pitt was driven back to the facts. The cordial wine was homemade, a mixture of elderberry and currants. People in Rutland Place did not make their own wines! Of course, it was impossible to tell who might have been given some, and if they had used it to mask poison, they would hardly own to its possession now.

  The belladonna could have been distilled by anyone, or even crushed from the deadly nightshade plant itself, which, while less common than the brightly flowered woody nightshade, was far more lethal. It did not need the fruit that ripened in the autumn; even the leaves were sufficient. And they might be found in hedgerows or woodlands in any wild area in the south shy;east of the country.

  It was perhaps a little early for a biennial plant, but in a sheltered place-ror even blown and taken root in a conservatory or hothouse? A few shoots above the ground would be enough.
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  The facts proved nothing. Anyone could have given her the bottle, at almost any time. Mina's servants had not seen i! before, or any like it, but then one does not always tell servants of cordial wine. It is not drunk at table. Anyone could have picked the nightshade and crushed the leaves. It required no skill, no special knowledge. It was well-known lore that the plant killed; every child was warned. Even its name told as much.

  He was driven back again to motive, although you could not damn anyone on motive alone. One man will kill for sixpence, or because he feels he has been insulted. Another will lose reputation, fortune, and love-anything rather than commit murder,

  He was still standing in the sun when a hansom cab swung around the far corner and clattered down the Place, jolting to a stop in front of the Lagardes' entrance.

  Pitt was close enough to see Dr. Mulgrew practically fall out, clutching his bag, and scramble up the steps. The door opened before he got to it, and Mulgrew disappeared inside.

  Pitt hesitated. Natural instinct prompted him to wait there a while and see what should happen' next. But then, since there was a man in desperate injury in the house, an emergency call for the doctor was not surprising and probably had nothing whatsoever to do with Mina's death. If Pitt were honest, he would admit that he was using the doctor's arrival as an excuse to put off the next round of questions.

  When Pitt got to the Spencer-Browns' Alston was out, which in a way was a relief, although it only postponed what would have to be done another time. He contented himself with talking to the servants again, going over endless recollections, impressions, opinions.

  He was still there, sitting in the kitchen accepting with consid shy;erable pleasure the cook's offer of luncheon with the rest of the servants, when the scullery door burst open, a maid ran in, and the smells of stew and puddings were dissipated by the scents of sharp wind and earthy vegetables.

  "For goodness' sake, Elsie, close that door!" the cook snapped, "Where were you brought up, girl?"

  Elsie kicked at the door with one foot, obeying out of habit.

  "Mr, Lagarde's dead, Mrs. Abbotts!" she said, her eyes like saucers. "Just died this morning, so May from over the way says! Seen the doctor come, she did, and go again. A mercy, I says! Poor gentleman. So beautiful, he was. Reckon as he was destined to die. Some of us is. Shall I go and shut the blinds?"

  "No, you will not!" the cook said tartly. "He didn't die in this house. Mr. Lagarde's passing is not our business. We've enough of our own griefs. You just get on with your work. And if you're late for luncheon you'll go hungry, my girl!"

  Elsie scuttled off, and the cook sat down sharply.

  "Dead." She regarded Pitt sideways. "I suppose I shouldn't say so, but perhaps it is as well, poor creature. You'll excuse me, Mr. Pitt, but if he was as terrible hurt as they say, could be the Lord's mercy he's gone." She mopped her brow with her apron.

  Pitt looked at her, a buxom woman with thick graying hair and an agreeable face, now twisted with a mixture of relief and guilt.

  "A nasty shock, all the same," he said quietly. "On top of all else that has happened lately. Bound to upset you. You look a bit poorly. How about a drop of brandy? Do you keep any about the kitchen?"

  She looked at him through narrow eyes, suspicion aroused.

  "I'm used to such things," he said, reading her thoughts perfectly. "But you aren't. Let me get you some?"

  She bridled a little, like a hen fluffing out her feathers.

  "Well-if you think- On the top shelf over there, behind the split peas. Don't you let that Mr. Jenkins see it, or he'll have it back in his pantry before you can say 'knife.' "

  Pitt hid his smile and stood up to pour a generous measure into a cup and pass it to her.

  "How about yourself?" she offered with a little squint.

  "No, thank you," he said, and put the bottle back, replacing the split peas. "Strictly for shock. And I'm afraid it's my business to deal with death, on occasion."

  She drank the cup to the bottom, and he took it and rinsed it out in the scullery sink.

  "Most civil of you, Mr. Pitt," she said with satisfaction. "Pity as we can't help you, but we can't, and that's a fact. We never seen any cordial wine like that, nor any bottle neither. And we don't know anything as to why anyone should want to murder the mistress. I still say as it's someone what's mad!"

  He was torn between duty to continue with questions-so far totally unprofitable-and an intense desire to forget the whole thing and abandon himself to the pleasures of Mrs. Abbotts luncheon. He settled for the luncheon. I

  Afterward he considered whether to continue his questioning, but the shock of Tormod's death hung heavy over everything. ib many houses curtains were drawn, and a silence muffled even the usual civil exchanges till they seemed an indecency.

  A little after two o'clock he gave up and returned to the police station. He pulled out all the evidence they had collected to date and began to read it over again, in the somewhat forlorn hope that a new insight would emerge, a relationship between facts that he had overlooked before.

  He had discovered nothing by quarter to five, when Harris poked his head around the door and announced Amaryllis Denbigh,

  Pitt was startled. He had expected that with the blow of Tormod's death she would be prostrated with grief, even in need of medical care, so fierce had been her anguish over his accident, according to Charlotte. And he trusted Charlotte's judgment of people, if not always of her own behavior! Although in truth he was less outraged by the music hall incident, now that he thought about it, than he intended she should know.,

  But why on earth was Amaryllis here? }

  "Shall I send her in, sir?" Harris said irritably. "She looks in a right state to me. You want to be careful of her!"

  "Yes, I suppose you'd better. And stay here yourself, in case she faints or becomes hysterical," Pitt said. The thought was an extremely unpleasant one, but he could not afford to deny her entrance. Perhaps at last this was the catalyst, and she might give him the sliver of fact he so desperately needed.

  "Yes, Mr. Pitt, sir." Harris withdrew formally, signifying his disapproval, and a moment later followed Amaryllis in. i

  Amaryllis was white-faced, iier eyes glittering, her hands moving over the folds of her skirt, into her muff, and out again over her skirt. She had entered the room with black veiling over her face, but now she threw it off.

  "Inspector Pitt!" She was so stiff her body shook.

  "Yes, Mrs. Denbigh." He did not like her, yet in spite of himself he was moved to pity. "Please sit down. You must be feeling distressed. May we offer you some refreshment, a cup of tea?"

  "No, thank you." She sat down with her back to Harris. ''I should like to speak to you in private. What I have to say is very painful."

  Pitt hesitated. He did not want to be alone with her; she was obviously on the border of hysteria, and he was afraid of a storm of weeping that would be completely beyond his abilities to deal with. He thought of sending for the police surgeon. His eyes flickered to Harris.

  "If you please?" Amaryllis' voice was harsh, rising in a kind of desperation. "This is my duty, Inspector, because it concerns the murder of Mrs. Spencer-Brown, but it is extraordinarily painful for me and I do not wish the added mortification of having to repeat it in front of a sergeant!"

  "Of course," Pitt said immediately. He could not drawback now. "Sergeant Harris will wait outside."

  Harris stood up with a sour look of warning to Pitt over Amaryllis' shoulder, then went out, closing the door firmly.

  "Well, Mrs. Denbigh?" Pitt asked. It was a strange moment. He knew so much about these people, had studied them until they stalked his sleep, and yet now it was she, quite casually walking in here, unasked, who was about to tell him what might be the solution to the whole matter.

  Her voice was grating, low, as if the words hurt her.

  "I know who killed Mina Spencer-Brown, Mr. Pitt. I did not tell you before because I could not betray a friend. She was de
ad, and there was nothing to do for her. Now it is different. Tormod is dead too." Her face was white and empty, like an unpainted doll. "There is no reason now to lie. He was too noble. He protected her all her life, but I shan't! Justice can be done. I shall not stand in its way."

  "I think you had better explain, Mrs. Denbigh." He wanted to encourage her, yet there was something inexpressibly ugly in the room and he could feel it as surely as damp in the air. "What lies have there been? Who was Mr. Lagarde protecting?"

  Her eyes flashed wider. "His sister of course!" Her voice shook. "Eloise."

  He was surprised, but he stopped before speaking, masked his feelings, and looked across at her calmly.

  "Eloise killed Mrs. Spencer-Brown?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know that, Mrs. Denbigh?"

  She was breathing in and out so deeply he could see the rise and fall of her bosom.

  "I suspected it from the first because I knew how she felt," she began. "She adored her brother, she possessed him-she built her whole life around him. Their parents died when they were both young, and he has always looked after her. To begin with, of course, that was all quite natural. But as time passed and they grew older, she did not let go of the childish dependence. She continued to cling onto him, to go everywhere with him, demand his entire attention. And when he.sought any outside interests she would become jealous, pretend to be ill-anything to bring him back to her.",

  She took a long breath. She was watching Pitt, watching his eyes, his face.

  "Of course if Tormod showed any natural affection for any other woman, Eloise was beside herself," she continued. "She never rested until she had driven the woman away, either with lies or by feigning sickness, or else worrying at poor Tormod until he found it hardly worth his while to try anymore. And he was so kindhearted he still protected her, in spite of the cost to himself.

  "I'm sure you have found out in all your questions that Mina was very attracted to Tormod? In fact, she was in love with him. It is stupid now to try to cover it with genteel words. It cannot hurt her anymore.