Rutland Place tp-5 Read online

  It was too late to cover his mistake; she had seen it in his face. Her smile became surer.

  "If she destroyed it, as indeed would be the natural thing," she said softly, "then we shall never know what it contained. And perhaps that is best, do you not think?"

  "Not if it was blackmail, ma'am!" he said tartly; he was angry with himself, and with her for seeing what he had not, and for the feeling he had that it amused her.

  "Blackmail!" She looked startled. "What a terrible idea! I can hardly bear to think you are right. Poor Mina! Poor, poor woman." She took a deep breath and tightened her fingers on the silk across her thighs, clasping till the knuckles shone pale. "But I suppose you know more about these things than we do. It would be childish to close one's eyes. The truth will not go away for ignoring it, or we could get rid of everything unpleasant simply by refusing to look at it. You must have patience with us, Inspector, if we see only reluctantly, and more slowly than we should. We have been used to the easier things in life, and such ugliness cannot always be acknowledged without a little period of adjustment. Perhaps even some force?"

  He knew what she said was true, and his reason applauded her. Perhaps he had been unfair in his judgment. Prejudice was not confined to the privileged. He knew it in himself: the bitter aftertaste of opinions forced back and found unjust, formed in envy or fear, and the need to rationalize hate.

  "Of course." He stood up. He wanted no more of the interview. She had already given him more than enough to consider. And he had mentioned blackmail rather to shock her than because he really thought it a possibility. Now he was obliged to recognize it. "As yet I know of no truth, pleasant or unpleasant, so the less that is said the less pain that will be caused. It may well have, been no more than a tragic accident."

  Her face was quite calm, almost serene, with its pink and white coloring and girlish lines.

  "I do hope so. Anything else will increase the distress for everyone. Good day to you, Inspector."

  "Good day, Mrs. Denbigh."

  He had put the matter out of his mind and was working on a number of fires, two of which were in his area and were proba shy;bly arson, when at half past four in the afternoon a constable with black hair plastered neatly to his head with water knocked on his door and announced that there was a visitor, a gentleman of quality.

  "Who is it?" Pitt was expecting no one, and his immediate thought was that the man had been misdirected from the Chief Superintendent's office and they would be able to be rid of him with a few words of assistance.

  "A Mr. Charrington, sir," the constable answered. "A Mr. Lovell Charrington, of Rutland Place."

  Pitt put the paper he was reading aside, facedown, on the desk.

  "Ask him to come in," he said with a feeling of misgiving. He could imagine no reason at all why Lovell Charrington should come to the police station, unless it was to impart some shy;thing both secret and urgent. Regarding any ordinary event, he could either have sent for Pitt to attend upon him or simply waited until he returned in the ordinary course of the investigation.

  Lovell Charrington came in with his hat still on, beaded with rain, and his umbrella folded but untied, hanging from his hand. His face was pale, and there was a drop of water on the end of his nose.

  Pitt stood up. "Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"

  "You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?" Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.

  "Yes, sir." Pitt tried to help him. "Would you like to sit down?" He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. "Is it something to do with the death' of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?"

  Lovell sat reluctantly. "Yes. Yes, I have been-considering- weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not." It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time-like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. "One desires to do one's duty, however painful!" He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.

  Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.

  "Of course," he answered. "Not always easy."

  "Quite." Lovell coughed. "Quite so."

  "What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?"

  Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  "You have quite the wrong word. I do not wish to say it, Inspector; I feel an obligation, which is quite different!"

  "Indeed." Pitt breathed out patiently. "Of course it is. Ex shy;cuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?"

  "Mrs. Spencer-Brown …" Lovell sniffed and kept the hand shy;kerchief knotted up in his fingers for a moment before folding it and replacing it in his pocket. "Mrs. Spencer-Brown was not a happy woman, Inspector. Indeed I would go so far as to say, speaking frankly, that she was somewhat neurotic!" He spoke the word as if it were faintly obscene, something to be kept between men.

  Pitt was startled, and he had difficulty in preventing its show shy;ing in his face. Everyone else had said the opposite, that Mina was unusually pragmatic, adjusted very precisely to reality.

  "Indeed?" He was aware of repeating himself, but he was confused. "What makes you say that, Mr. Charrihgton?"

  "What? Oh-well, for goodness' sake, man." Now Lovell showed impatience. "I've had years of observing the woman. Live in the same street, you know. Friend of my wife. Been in her house and had her in mine. Know her husband, poor man. Very unstable woman, given to strong emotional fancies. Lot of women are, of course. I accept that, it's in their nature."

  Pitt had found most women, especially in Society, to have fancies of an astoundingly practical nature, and to be most excellently equipped to distinguish reality from romance. It was men who married a pretty face or a flattering tongue. Women- and Charlotte had showed him a number of examples-far more often chose a pleasant nature and a healthy pocket.

  "Romance?" Pitt said, blinking.

  "Quite," Lovell said. "Quite so. Live in daydreams, not used to the harsh facts of life. Not suited for it. Different from men. Poor Mina Spencer-Brown conceived a romantic attachment for young Tormod Lagarde. He is a decent man, of course, upright! Knew she was a married woman, and years older than he is into the bargain-"

  "I thought she was about thirty-five?" Pitt interrupted.

  "So she was, I believe." Lovell's eyes opened wide and sharp. "Good heavens, man, Lagarde is only twenty-eight. Be looking for a girl of nineteen or twenty when he decides to marry. Far more suitable. Don't want a woman set in her ways- shy;no chance to correct her then. One must guide a woman, you know, mold her character the right way! Anyhow, all that's beside the point. Mrs. Spencer-Brown was already married. Stands to reason she realized she was making a fool of herself, and was afraid her husband would find out-and she couldn't bear it anymore." He cleared his throat. "Had to tell you. Damned unpleasant, but can't have you nosing around asking questions and raising suspicions against innocent people. Most unfortunate, the whole affair. Pathetic. Great deal of suffering. Poor woman. Very foolish, but terrible price to pay. Nothing good about it." He sniffed very slightly and dabbed at his nose.

  "There very seldom is," Pitt said dryly. "How do you come to know about this affection of Mrs. Spencer-Brown's for Mr. Lagarde, sir?"

  "What?"

  Pitt repeated the question.

  Lo veil's face soured sharply.

  "That is a highly indelicate question, Inspector-er-Pitt!"

  "I am obliged to ask it, sir." Pitt controlled himself with difficulty; he wanted to shake this man out of his narrow, idiotic little shell-and yet part of him knew it would be useless and cruel.

  "I observed it, of cou
rse!" Lovell snapped. "I have already told you that I have known Mrs. Spencer-Brown for several years. I have seen her over a vast number of social occasions. Do you think I go around with my eyes closed?"

  Pitt avoided the question. "Has anyone else remarked this- affection, Mr. Charrington?" he asked instead. '

  "If no one else has spoken of it to you, Inspector, it is out of delicacy, not ignorance. One does not discuss other people's affairs, especially painful ones, with strangers." A small muscle twitched in his cheek. "I dislike intensely having to tell you myself, but I recognize it as my duty to save any further distress among those who are still living. I had hoped you would under shy;stand and appreciate that! I am sorry I appear to have been mistaken." He stood up and hitched the shoulders straight on his jacket by pulling on both lapels. "I trust, however, that you will still comprehend and fulfill your own responsibility in the matter?''

  "I hope so, sir." Pitt pushed his chair back and stood up also. "Constable Mclnnes will show you out. Thank you for coming, and being so frank."

  He was still sitting looking at the closed door, the reports of the arson untouched and facedown, when Constable Mclnnes returned twenty minutes later.

  "What is it?" Pitt said irritably. Charrington had disconcerted him. What he had said about Mina jarred against everything else he had heard. Certainly Caroline had told him of the affection for Tormod Lagarde, but hand in hand with the conviction that Mina was unusually levelheaded. Now Charrington said she was flighty and romantic.

  "Well, what is it?" he demanded again.

  "The reports from the doctor, sir." Mclnnes held out several sheets of paper.

  "Doctor?" For a moment Pitt could not think what he meant.

  "On Mrs. Spencer-Brown, sir. She died of poisoning. Of belladonna, sir-a right mass of it."

  "You read the report?" Pitt said, stating the obvious.

  Mclnnes colored pink. "I just glanced at it, sir. Interested, like-because. ." He tailed off, unable to think of a good excuse.

  Pitt held out his hand for it. "Thank you." He looked down and his eye traveled over the copperplate writing quickly. On examination, it had proved that Wilhelmina Spencer-Brown had died of heart failure, owing to a massive dose of belladonna, which, since she had not eaten since a light breakfast, appeared to have been consumed in some ginger-flavored tonic cordial, the only substance in the stomach at the time of death.

  Harris had taken the box of medicinal powder supplied to Alston Spencer-Brown by Dr. Mulgrew, and it was still three-quarters full. The total amount absent, including the dosages Spencer-Brown said he had taken, was considerably less than that recovered in the autopsy.

  Whatever had killed Mina was not a dose of medicine, taken either accidentally or by her own intention. It came from some other, unknown source.

  6

  Charlotte spent a miserable day turning over in her mind what she should do about Caroline and Paul Alaric. Three times she decided quite definitely that it was not so very serious and she would do best to take Pitt's advice and leave it alone. Caroline would not thank her for interfering, and.Charlotte might only cause them both embarrassment, and make the whole matter seem more than it really was.

  And then four times she remembered Caroline's face, with the high glow in her skin, the tautness of her body, and the little gulp of excitement as she had spoken to Paul Alaric in the street. And she could still picture him perfectly herself, looking elegant and standing very straight, his eyes clear, his voice soft. She had another vivid recollection of his speech, his diction casually perfect, each consonant distinct, as if he had thought of every shy;thing before he spoke and had intended it exactly as it came.

  Yes, quite definitely, she must do something, and quickly- shy;unless it was too late even now!

  She had already baked a complete batch of bread without any salt, and had hurt Gracie's feelings by telling her to do the kitchen floor when she had just finished it. Now it was three in the afternoon, and she had turned one of Pitt's shirt collars and stitched it back the same way it had been in the first place.

  She tore it out crossly, using a few words she would have been ashamed to have had overheard, and decided to write to her sister Emily immediately and request that she call upon her as soon as she received the letter, whether it was convenient or not. Emily, who had married Lord Ash worth at just about the time Charlotte had married Pitt, might well have to cancel some interesting social engagement without notice; the journey itself, however, would simply be a matter of calling the carriage and stepping in. And Charlotte had gone to Emily quickly enough when that dreadful business had happened in Paragon Walk when Emily was expecting her baby. It was indelicate to remind her of it, but at the moment she could not afford polite invitations.

  She found notepaper and wrote:

  Dear Emily,

  I have been calling upon Mama more frequently in the last two weeks, and something quite appalling has hap shy;pened which may hurt her irreparably if we do not step in and take some action to prevent it. I would prefer not to put it into writing, as it is a long and complicated affair. 1 feel I must explain it to you in person, and ask your advice as to what we may do before a tragedy occurs and it is too late to do anything!

  I know that you are busy, but new events have tran shy;spired which make it urgent that we act without delay. Therefore please cancel any plans you may have and call upon me as soon as you receive this. We both know from the past in Paragon Walk, and other places, that when disaster strikes it does not wait upon the decent end of soirees and other such enjoyments.

  There has already been one death.

  Your loving sister, Charlotte.

  She folded it up, put it into an envelope, and addressed it to Lady Ashworth, Paragon Walk, London, and sent Grade to put it in the postbox immediately.

  She had exaggerated, and she knew it. Emily might well be angry, even accuse her of lying by implication. There was no reason whatever to suppose that Mina's death had anything to do with Caroline, or that Caroline herself was in any danger.

  But if she had simply written that Caroline was running grave risk of making a fool of herself over a man, even Paul Alaric, it would have little effect. Of course, if their father found out it would hurt him deeply-he would be quite unable to understand. The fact that he had in times past taken at least one romance considerably further would be to him completely different. What, was acceptable for a man to do, providing he was discreet, had nothing whatsoever to do with what that same man's wife might do. And, to be honest, Caroline was not even being particularly discreet! All of which would not fetch Emily in any haste, simply because she would not believe it.

  Whereas mention of death, and a rather unsubtle reminder of the hideous events at Paragon Walk, would almost certainly bring her as fast as her carriage could negotiate the streets.

  And indeed it did. Emily knocked very sharply on the front door before noon the following day.

  Charlotte opened it herself.

  Emily looked elegant, even at that hour, her fair hair swept fashionably high under a delicious hat, and a dress of the limpid shade of green that suited her best.

  She pushed her way in past Charlotte and marched down to the kitchen, where Gracie bobbed a quick curtsy and fled up shy;stairs to tidy the nursery.

  "Well?" Emily demanded. "What on earth has happened? For goodness' sake, tell me!"

  Charlotte was genuinely pleased to see her; it had been some little while since they had spent any time together. She put her arms around her in a swift hug.

  Emily responded warmly but with impatience.

  "What has happened?" she repeated urgently. "Who is dead? How? And what has it to do with Mama?"

  "Sit down." Charlotte pointed to one of the kitchen chairs. "It's quite a long story, and it won't make a lot of sense unless I tell it from the beginning. Would you like some luncheon?"

  "If you insist. But tell me who is dead, before I explode! And what has it to do with Mama? From the way
you wrote, she is in danger herself.''

  "A woman called Mina Spencer-Brown is dead. At first it looked like suicide, but now Thomas says it is almost certainly murder. I have onion soup-would you like some?"

  "No, I would not! Whatever possessed you to cook onion soup?"

  "I felt like it. I've wanted onion soup for days now."

  Emily regarded her with a look of pain.

  "If you had to have^ a craving because of your condition, couldn't you have made it for something a little more civilized? Really, Charlotte! Onions! They are socially impossible! Where on earth can we go calling after onion soup?"

  "I can't help it. At least they are not out of season, or ridiculously expensive. You can afford to have a craving for fresh apricots or pheasant under glass if you wish, but I cannot."

  Emily's face tightened. "Who is Mina Spencer-Brown? And what has she to do with Mama? Charlotte, if you have got me here simply because you want to meddle in one of Thomas' cases"-she took a deep breath and pulled a face-"I would love to have an excuse to interfere! Murder is much more exciting than Society, even if it terrifies me sick at times and makes me weep because the solution is always so wretchedly sad." She clenched her fist on the table. "I do think you might have told me the truth, instead of a pack of silly stories about Mama. I put off a really rather good luncheon to come here. And you offer me boiled onion soup!"

  Memories flickered through Charlotte's mind for a moment: the terrible corpse in the closed garden in Callander Square; and standing side by side with Emily, paralyzed with fright, when Paul Alaric found them at the end of the murders in Paragon Walk. Then she remembered the present again, and all the tingle and beating of the blood vanished.

  "It is to do with Mama," she said soberly. She served the soup and bread and sat down. "It will need salting. I forgot. Do you recall Monsieur Alaric?"

  "Don't be a fool!" Emily said with raised eyebrows. She reached for the salt and sprinkled a little. "How could I possibly forget him-even if he were not still my neighbor? He is one of the most charming men I have ever met. He can converse upon almost any subject as if he were interested. Why on earth does Society consider it fashionable to affect to be bored? It is really very tedious." She smiled. "You know, I never really knew if he was aware quite how fascinated we all were by him, did you? How much do you think it was merely the challenge of his being a mystery, and that each of us wished to outdo the other by winning his attentions?"