Paragon Walk (20 page)

“Naturally, if you knew anything,” he went on, perhaps a bit hastily, “you would have told us. But maybe you have had thoughts, nothing so substantial as a suspicion, but, as you say—” He was watching her closely, trying to judge exactly how much he could press, what could be put into words, what must remain suggestion. “—as you say, you cannot dismiss the matter from your mind.”

“You think I may suspect one of my neighbors?” Her blue eyes were almost hypnotic. He found himself unable to look away.

“Do you?”

For a long time she said nothing. Her hands moved slowly in her lap, unwinding some invisible knot.

He waited.

At last she looked up.

“Yes. But you must understand it is only a feeling, a collection of impressions.”

“Naturally.” He did not want to interrupt. If it told him nothing of anyone else, at worst it would tell him something of her.

“I cannot believe anyone in their right mind, in their true senses, would do such a thing.” She spoke as if weighing each word, reluctant to speak at all, and yet pressed by obligation. “I have known everyone here for a long time. I have gone over and over in my memory all that I know, and I cannot believe such a nature could have been hidden from all of us.”

He was suddenly disappointed. She was going to come up with some impossible suggestion about strangers.

Her fingers were stiff in her lap, white against the green of her dress.

“Indeed,” he said flatly.

Her head came up, and there was a flame of color in her cheeks. She took in a deep breath and let it out, collecting herself.

“I mean, Mr. Pitt, that it can only have been someone laboring under the influence of a quite abnormal emotion, or perhaps intoxicated. When they have had too much to drink, people sometimes do things that in sobriety they would never dream of. And I’m told that even afterward they do not always recollect what has happened. Surely that would also account for an apparent innocence now? If whoever killed Fanny cannot clearly remember it—?”

He recalled George’s blank about the night, Algernon Burnon’s reluctance to name his companion, Diggory’s anonymous gambling. But it was Hallam Cayley who had repeatedly been drunk so often lately that he overslept. In fact, Afton had said he had been in an alcoholic sleep at ten o’clock on the very morning Fulbert’s disappearance had been discovered. It was not a foolish suggestion at all. It would explain the lack of lies, of any attempt to mislead or cover up. The murderer could not even remember his own guilt! There must be a black and dreadful void in his mind; he must wonder; in the night terrors must creep out to fill the space with fragments of violence, images, the smell and sound of horror. But more drink would bring more oblivion.

“Thank you,” he said politely.

She took a deep breath again.

“Is a man to blame for what he does in drunkenness?” she asked slowly, a little frown between her brows.

“If God will blame him, I don’t know,” Pitt answered honestly. “But the law will. A man does not need to get drunk.”

Her face did not change. She was continuing with some train of thought that had already begun.

“Sometimes, to cover pain, one drinks too much.” Her words were very careful, weighted. “Perhaps pain or illness or pain of the mind, perhaps a loss.”

He thought immediately of Hallam Cayley’s wife. Was that what she meant him to think? He looked at her, but her face was as smooth now as white satin. He decided to be bold.

“Do you speak of someone in particular, Mrs. Nash?”

Her eyes moved away from his for a moment, and the brilliant blue clouded.

“I would prefer not to speak plainly, Mr. Pitt. I simply do not know. Please do not press me to accuse.” She looked back at him, clear and blazingly frank again. “I promise you, if I should come to learn anything, I shall tell you.”

He stood up. He knew there would be no more.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nash. You have been most helpful. Indeed, you have given me much to consider.” He did not make any trite remarks about having an answer soon. It would be an insult to her.

She smiled very slightly.

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt. Good day.”

“Good day, ma’am,” and he permitted the footman to show him out to the Walk.

He crossed over to the grass on the other side. He knew he was not supposed to stand on it—there was a very small notice to that effect—but he loved the live feel of it under the soles of his boots. Paving stones were insensate, unlovely things, necessary if a thousand people were to walk over them, but hiding the earth.

What had happened in this graceful, orderly Walk that night? What sudden chaos had erupted, and then subsided into so many totally misshapen pieces?

The emotions eluded his grasp. Everything he clutched at fragmented and disappeared.

He must go back to the practical things, the mechanics of murder. Gentlemen such as these in Paragon Walk did not normally carry knives with them. Why had the rapist so opportunely had one with him on this occasion? Was it conceivable that it had not been a blaze of passion at all, but something premeditated? Could it even be that murder had always been the intent, and the rape was incidental, an impulse, or a blind?

But why should anyone murder Fanny Nash? He had never found anybody more innocuous. She was heir to no fortune and was no one’s mistress, nor, as far as he could discover, had anyone shown the slightest romantic interest in her, apart from Algernon Burnon—and even that seemed a very staid affair.

Could it be that Fanny had innocently stumbled on some other secret in the Walk, and died for that? Perhaps without even realizing what it was?

And what had happened to the knife? Did the murderer still have it? Was it hidden somewhere, possibly by now miles away, at the bottom of the river?

And the other practical question—she had been stabbed to death; he could still see in his mind’s eye the thick gore of blood down her body. Why had there been no blood on the road, no trail leading back from the withdrawing room to where she had been attacked? There had been no rain since then. The murderer would have disposed of his clothes, they were easily explained, although Forbes had not been able to find—even with the most diligent questioning—any valet whose master’s wardrobe was depleted or any signs that charred remains had been found in any boiler or fireplace.

But why no blood on the road?

Could it have happened here on this grass or in a flower bed, where it could have been dug in? Or in the bushes where it would not be seen? But neither he nor Forbes had found any sign of struggle, no trampled beds, no broken branches beyond the usual that were explained by a dog, someone stumbling in the dark, a clumsy gardener’s boy, or even a maid and a footman indulging in a little horseplay.

If there had ever been anything, they had not found it or recognized it, and by now it was long covered either by the murderer, or by others.

He was back to reasons and characters. Why? Why Fanny?

His thoughts were interrupted by a discreet cough a few yards away from him, the other side of the roses. He looked up. An elderly and forlorn butler was standing uncomfortably on the path, staring at him.

“Did you want me?” Pitt inquired, affecting not to realize he was standing on the manicured grass.

“Yes, sir. If you please, Mrs. Nash would be obliged if you would call upon her, sir.”

“Mrs. Nash?” his mind flew back to Jessamyn.

“Yes, sir.” The butler cleared his throat. “Mrs. Afton Nash, that is, sir.”

Phoebe!

“Yes, of course,” Pitt replied immediately. “Is Mrs. Nash at home?”

“Yes, sir. If you would care to accompany me?”

Pitt followed him back across the roadway and along the footpath to Afton Nash’s house. The front door opened before they reached it, and they were ushered in. Phoebe was in a small morning room toward the back. A long window looked onto the grass.

“Mr. Pitt!” she seemed almost startled, a little breathless. “How good of you to come! Hobson, send Nellie in with the tray. You will take tea, won’t you? Yes of course. Please, do sit down.”

The butler disappeared, and Pitt sat obediently, thanking her.

“It’s still so dreadfully hot!” She flapped her hands. “I don’t care for the winter, but right now I almost feel I should welcome it!”

“I dare say it will rain soon and be pleasanter.” He did not know how to set her at ease. She was not really listening to him, and she had not looked at him once.

“Oh, I do hope so.” She sat down and stood up again. “This is very trying. Do you not find?”

“You wanted to see me about something, Mrs. Nash?” She was obviously not going to come to the point herself.

“I? Well.” She coughed and took some few moments over it. “Have you found trace of poor Fulbert yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh dear.”

“Do you know something, ma’am?” It appeared she was not going to speak without being pressed.

“Oh, no! No, of course not! If I did, I should have told you!”

“But you did call me here to tell me something,” he pointed out.

She looked flustered.

“Yes, yes, I admit—but not as to where poor Fulbert is, I swear.”

“Then what, Mrs. Nash?” He wanted to be gentle, but it was urgent. If she knew something, then he needed to hear it. He was stumbling around in the dark as much now as when he had first seen Fanny’s body in the morgue. “You must tell me!”

She froze. Her hands went to her neck and the rather large crucifix hanging there. Her fingers wound on round it, her nails digging into her palms.

“There is something terrible and evil here, Mr. Pitt, something truly appalling!”

Was she imagining it, whipping herself into a hysteria? Did she know anything at all, or was it just vague fears in a frightened and silly mind? He looked at her, her face, her hands.

“What sort of evil, Mrs. Nash?” he asked quietly. Whether the cause was real or imaginary, he would swear the fear was genuine enough. “Have you seen something?”

She crossed herself.

“Oh, dear God!”

“What have you seen?” he insisted. Was it Afton Nash, and she knew it, but, because he was her husband, she could not bring herself to betray him? Or had it been Fulbert, incestuous rapist and suicide, and she knew that?

He stood up and put his hand toward her, not to touch her, but in a half-gesture of support.

“What have you seen?” he repeated.

She started to shake, first her head, in little twitches from side to side, then her shoulders, finally her whole body. She made little whimpering sounds, like a child.

“So foolish!” she said furiously between her teeth. “So very foolish. And now it’s all real, God help us!”

“What is real, Mrs. Nash?” he said urgently. “What is it you know?”

“Oh!” she lifted up her head and stared at him. “Nothing! I think I have lost my wits! We will never win against it. We are lost, and it is our own fault. Go away, and leave us alone. You are a decent man, in your own station. Just go away. Pray, if you want to, but go now, before it reaches out and touches you! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“You haven’t warned me. You haven’t told me what to beware of!” he said helplessly. “What? What is it?”

“Evil!” Her face closed, and her eyes were hard and dark. “There is a dreadful wickedness in Paragon Walk. Go away from it, while you can.”

He could not think of anything else to do. He was still searching for something more to say when the maid came in with the tray of tea.

Phoebe disregarded it.

“I can’t leave, ma’am,” he answered. “I have to stay until I’ve found him. But I shall take care. Thank you for your concern. Good afternoon.”

She did not reply, but stood staring at the tray.

Poor woman, he thought outside in the heat. The whole incident, first her sister-in-law and now her brother-in-law, had been too much for her. She had become hysterical. And doubtless she got little sympathy from Afton. It was a pity she had no work to do and no children to absorb her mind and keep it from fancies. There were moments, surprizing and disorienting him, when he was as sorry for the rich as for any of the poor. Some of them were as pathetic, as imprisoned in the hierarchy—welded to their function, or lack of function, in it.

It was late in the afternoon when the Misses Horbury called on Emily; in fact, it was later than was at all suitable for visiting. Emily was more than a little irritated when the maid came to announce them. She even debated with herself whether to say she was unavailable, but since they were close neighbors, and she was obliged to meet with them regularly, it was better not to give offense, in spite of this extraordinary behavior.

They came in in a cloud of yellow, which was peculiarly unbecoming on both of them, although for entirely different reasons. On Miss Laetitia it was too sallow, giving her skin a jaundiced look; on Miss Lucinda it clashed with her sandy yellow hair, lending her the appearance of a rather fierce little bird far gone in the process of moulting. She trailed bright wisps behind her as she bounced into the room, her eyes fixed on Emily.

“Good afternoon, Emily, my dear.” She was unusually informal, in fact verging on the familiar.

“Good afternoon, Miss Horbury,” Emily said coolly. “What a pleasant surprise”—she emphasized the word “surprise”—“to see you.” She smiled distantly at Miss Laetitia, who was standing somewhat reluctantly a little further back.

Miss Lucinda sat down without being invited.

Emily was not going to offer them refreshment at this time in the afternoon. Had neither of them any sense of propriety?

“It doesn’t look as if the police are going to discover anything,” Miss Lucinda remarked, settling herself deeper the chair. “I don’t think they have any idea, myself.”

“They wouldn’t tell us if they had,” Miss Laetitia said to no one in particular. “Why should they?”

Emily sat down, resigned to being civil, at least for a while.

“I’ve no idea,” she said wearily.

Miss Lucinda leaned forward.

“I think there is something going on!”

“Do you?” Emily did not know whether to laugh or be cross.

“Yes, I do! And I mean to discover what it is! I have visited this Walk every Season since I was a girl!”