Cardington Crescent (13 page)

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.

“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 jardinières 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 almost 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?”

“No ...” Her voice faded away and her eyes left his, then came back. “Not from anything I said. I—I flirted a little—a very little. That’s all.”

He thought that was less than the truth, but it did not matter now. “Is there anything else?” he persisted.

“No!” Then she realized that he was no longer thinking only of Jack Radley but of anyone. “I don’t know. I can’t think why anyone should want to kill George. Couldn’t it possibly have been an accident, Thomas?”

“No.”

She looked down at her hand, still in his. “Could it have been meant for someone else, and not George?”

“Who? Does anyone else have coffee first thing in the morning?”

Her voice was hardly even a whisper. “No.”

There was no need to pursue the conclusion; she understood as well as he did.

“What about William March, Emily? Could he have been jealous enough to kill George over his attentions to Sybilla?”

“I don’t think so,” she said honestly. “He showed no sign of even having noticed, much less caring. I think all he minds about is his painting. But anyway ...” Her fingers curled round his, responding to his grip. “Thomas, I swear I heard George and Sybilla quarreling last night, and when George came up, before he went to bed, he came to see me and—” She struggled for a moment to keep mastery of herself. “And he let me know that it was over with Sybilla. Not—not directly, of course. That would have been admitting there was something—But we understood one another.”

“He quarreled with Sybilla?”

“Yes.”

There was no point in asking her if the quarrel had been violent enough to prompt murder: she could not answer, nor would it mean anything if she did.

He stood up, letting her hand go gently. “If you think of anything at all, please send for me. I can’t leave it go.”

“I know that. I’ll tell you.”

He smiled at her very slightly, to blunt the edge of what he had said and to try to throw the frailest of lines across the gulf between the policeman and the man.

She swallowed hard, and the corners of her mouth lifted in an answering shadowy smile.

It was an hour later when the bedroom door opened again and Charlotte came in. She said nothing at all, but came and sat on the bed, reached out her hand to Emily, and slipped her arms round her and let her weep as she needed to, holding her close and rocking a little back and forth, murmuring old, meaningless words of comfort from childhood.

W
HEN AT LAST
Emily lay back against the pillows her face was drawn, her eyes puffy, with dark shadows below them, and her usually pretty hair straggled in untidy wisps. The sight of her brought home to Charlotte the reality of death and fear far more violently than all the words imaginable, or excessive weeping. People weep for many things.