Southampton Row (10 page)

“There is no need to be flippant,” he criticized. “And wearing a hat does not make one virtuous! As you should know!”

She was stunned. “Why on earth should I know that?”

“Because you are as aware as I am of the laxity and spiteful tongues of many of the women who attend church every Sunday,” he replied. “With hats on!”

“This conversation is absurd,” she said, exasperated. “What is the matter with you? Are you unwell?” She did not mean it in any literal way. He bordered on hypochondria and she no longer had patience with it. Then she realized the remarkable change in him. The little color he had bleached out of his skin.

“Do I look ill?” he demanded.

“Yes, certainly you do,” she answered honestly. “What did you have for luncheon?”

His eyes widened as if a sudden thought had come to him, a bright and uplifting one. Then anger swept over him, color making his cheeks pink. “Grilled sole!” he snapped. “I prefer to dine alone this evening. I have a sermon to prepare.” And without saying anything further, or even glancing up at her, he turned on his heel and went back to his study, closing the door with a sharp snap.

However, at dinnertime he changed his mind. Isadora did not particularly wish to eat, but the cook had prepared a meal and she felt it ungracious not to partake, so she was seated alone at the table when the Bishop appeared. She wondered whether to make any remark on his feeling better, and decided not to. He might construe it as sarcasm, or criticism—or worse, he might tell her, in far more detail than she wished to know, exactly how he was.

For the entire soup course they ate in silence. When the parlormaid brought in the salmon and vegetables the Bishop at last spoke.

“Things are looking dark. I don’t expect you to understand politics, but new forces are gaining power and influence over certain parts of society, those easily enamored of new ideas, simply because they are new—“ He stopped, apparently having forgotten his train of thought.

She waited, more out of courtesy than interest.

“I am afraid for the future,” he said quietly, looking down at his plate.

She was used to pompous statements, so it startled her that she really believed him. She heard fear in his voice, not pious concern for mankind, but real sharp anxiety, the sort that wakens you in the night with sweat on your body and your heart knocking in your chest. What could he possibly know that would shock him out of his habitual complacency? Certitude that he was right was a way of life with him, a shield against all the arrows of doubt that afflict most people.

Could it be anything that mattered? She really did not want to know. It was probably some miserable issue of insult or quarrel within the church hierarchy, or more tragic, someone he cared for fallen from grace. She should have asked him, but tonight she had no patience to listen to some variation on old themes she had heard over and over, in one form or another, all her married life.

“You can only do your best,” she said calmly. “I daresay when you tackle it a day at a time, it will not be so bad.” She picked up her fork and began to eat again.

They both continued in silence for a while, then she looked up at him and saw panic in his eyes. He was staring at her as if he peered far beyond to something unendurable. His hand holding the fish fork was trembling and there were beads of sweat on his lip.

“Reginald, what has happened?” she said with alarm. In spite of herself she was concerned for him. It angered her. She did not want to have any involvement with his feelings at all, but she could not escape the fact that he was profoundly and mortally afraid of something. “Reginald?”

He gulped. “You are quite right,” he said, licking his dry lips. “A day at a time.” He looked down at his plate. “It’s nothing. I should not have disturbed your dinner. Of course it’s nothing. I am seeing”—he took a deep, shuddering breath—“much too far ahead. Trust the divine . . . divine . . .” He pushed himself back from the table and stood up. “I have had sufficient. Please excuse me.”

She half rose herself. “Reginald . . .”

“Don’t disturb yourself!” he snapped, walking away.

“But . . .”

He glared at her. “Don’t make an issue of it! I am going to do some work, reading. I need to study. I need to know . . . more.” And he closed the door with a bang, leaving her alone in the dining room confused and just as angry as he was, but with a growing feeling of unease.

The cottage on the edge of Dartmoor was beautiful, exactly what Charlotte had hoped for, but without Pitt it lacked its heart, and for her its purpose. She had found the Whitechapel affair very hard to bear. More than Pitt himself, she had burned at the injustice of it. She accepted that it was pointless to fight, but it did not ease the anger inside her. It had seemed in Buckingham Palace as if, at a terrible price for Great-aunt Vespasia, it was all going to be all right for Pitt. Voisey was robbed of his chance ever to be president of a Republic of Britain, and Pitt was back in charge at Bow Street.

Now, inexplicably, it was all gone again. The Inner Circle had not collapsed, as they had hoped. In spite of the Queen, it had had the power to remove Pitt again and send him back to Special Branch, where he was junior, unskilled in whatever arts they required, and responsible to Victor Narraway, who had no loyalty to him and, it seemed, no sense of honor to keep his promises regarding a holiday which had been more than earned.

But again, they were not in a position to fight, or even to complain. Pitt needed the job in Special Branch. It was almost as well paid as Bow Street had been, and they had no resources other than his salary. For the first time in her life, she was aware not just of having to be very careful with money, but of the real danger that they might cease to have any to be careful with.

So she held her peace, and pretended to the children and to Gracie that being here in this wild, sun- and wind-drenched countryside was what she wanted, and the fact that they were alone was only temporary. It was for the excitement and the adventure of it, not because Pitt felt they were safer out of London where Voisey did not know how to find them.

“I never seen so much air in all me life!” Gracie said in amazement as they walked up a long, steep incline to the top of the track and stared out across the vast panorama of the moors, stretching into the distance in hazy greens and sorrels, splashed with gold here and there, cloud-shadowed to people in the distance. “Are we the only ones wot’s ’ere?” she said in awe. “Just now nobody else lives ’ere?”

“There are farmers,” Charlotte answered, gazing around to the dark rise of the moor itself to the north, and the softer, more vivid slopes of the hills and valleys to the south. “And the villages are mostly on the lee sides of the slopes. Look . . . you can see smoke over there!” She pointed to a slim column of gray smoke so faint one had to peer to make it out.

“’Ere!” Gracie shouted suddenly. “You look out, Your Lordship!”

Edward grinned at her, then hared over the grass with Daniel after him. They tumbled together in the green bracken and went rolling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs, the sound of laughter quick and happy.

“Boys!” Jemima said in disgust. Then suddenly she changed her mind and went running and jumping easily after them.

In spite of herself, Charlotte smiled. Even without Pitt it could be good here. The cottage was only half a mile from the center of the village, a pleasant walk. People seemed friendly and willing to be helpful. Away from the city the roads were narrow and winding; the views from the upstairs windows seemed to stretch forever. The silence at night was unfamiliar, and once they had blown the candles out, the darkness was total.

But they were safe, and even if that was not what seemed most important to her, it was to Pitt. He had felt the possibility of danger, and to bring the children here was the only way now in which she could help.

She heard a noise behind her and turned to see a pony and trap coming up the winding track just below them. There was a man driving it, face wind-burned, eyes narrowed against the brilliance of the light, as if searching for something. He saw them, and as he drew level he looked at her more closely.

“Arternoon,” he said pleasantly enough. “You’ll be the lady as ’as come to rent the Garths’ cottage over yon.” He nodded, but it was a statement that seemed to require an answer.

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed.

“That’s wot I told ’em,” he said with satisfaction, picking up the reins again and urging the pony forward.

Charlotte looked at Gracie. Gracie took a step after the man, then stopped. “Mebbe it’s just interest, like?” she said quietly. “There can’t be much ’appens ’round ’ere.”

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte agreed. “All the same, don’t let the children go out of sight. And we’ll lock the doors at night. Safer, even out here.”

“Yeah . . . o’ course,” Gracie said firmly. “Don’t want no wild animals wanderin’ in . . . foxes and the like, or wotever. I dunno wot they ’ave ’ere.” She stared into the distance. “I’nt it . . . beautiful! D’yer think mebbe I should keep a diary, or summink? I might never see anyfink like this again.”

“That’s a very good idea,” Charlotte said instantly. “We all will. Children! Where are you?” She was absurdly relieved when she heard their answer and all three of them came chasing back over the tussocky grass. She must not allow herself to spoil their happiness with fears for which there was no reason.

CHAPTER
FIVE

The day after the murder of Maude Lamont the newspapers gave it sufficient importance to place it on the front page, along with election news and foreign events. There was no question that it had been a crime rather than an accident or natural causes. The police presence confirmed as much, but there had been no statement issued beyond the fact that the housekeeper, Miss Lena Forrest, had summoned them. She had refused to speak, and Inspector Tellman had said only that the matter was being investigated.

Standing by the kitchen table, Pitt poured himself a second cup of tea and offered to do the same for Tellman, who was moving impatiently from one foot to the other. He declined.

“We’ve seen half a dozen of the other clients,” he said, frowning. “They all swear by her. Say she was the most gifted medium they’d ever known. Whatever that means.” He threw it out almost as a challenge, as if he wanted Pitt to explain it. He was deeply unhappy with the whole subject, and yet obviously whatever he had been told since Pitt had last seen him had disturbed the simple contempt he had had before.

“What did she tell them, and how?” Pitt asked.

Tellman glared at him. “Spirits coming out of her mouth,” he said, waiting for the derision he was certain would follow. “Wavering and sort of . . . fuzzy, but they were quite sure it was the head and face of someone they knew.”

“And where was Maude Lamont while this was going on?” Pitt asked.

“Sitting in her chair at the head of the table, or in a special sort of cabinet they had built, so her hands couldn’t escape. She suggested that herself, for their belief.”

“What did she charge for this?” He sipped his tea.

“One said two guineas, another said five,” Tellman answered, biting his lip. “Thing is, if she’s just saying it’s entertainment, and they won’t bring a charge against her, there wouldn’t have been anything we could do anyway. Can’t arrest a conjurer, and they paid willingly. I suppose it’s a bit of comfort . . . isn’t it?”

“It probably comes in the same category as patent medicines,” Pitt thought aloud. “If you believe it will cure a nervous headache, or make you sleep better, maybe it will? And who’s to say you have no right to try it?”

“Because it’s nonsense!” Tellman responded with vehemence. “She’s making a living out of people who don’t know any better. She tells them what they want to hear. Anybody could do that!”

“Could they?” Pitt said quickly. “Send your men back to ask more carefully. We need to know if she was getting real information that wasn’t public knowledge, and we can’t account for how she heard it.”

Tellman’s eyes opened wide in disbelief and then a shadow of real alarm.

“If she’s got an informant, I want to know about it!” Pitt snapped. “And I mean a flesh-and-blood one.”

Tellman’s face was comical with relief, then he blushed hot, dull red.

Pitt grinned. It was the first time he had found anything to laugh at since Cornwallis had told him he was back in Special Branch. “I assume you have already made enquiries about anyone seen in the street near Cosmo Place,” he went on, “that evening, or any other, who might be our anonymous client?”

“Of course I have! That’s what I have sergeants and constables for,” Tellman said tartly. “You can’t have forgotten that so soon! I’m coming with you to see this Major General Kingsley. I’m sure your judgment of him will be very perceptive, but I want to make my own as well.” His jaw tightened. “And he’s one of the only two witnesses we have who were there at the . . . séance.” He invested the word with all the anger and frustration he felt in dealing with people who exercised their rights to make fools of themselves and involve him in the results. He did not want to be sorry for them, still less to understand, and the struggle to maintain his dispassion was clear in his face, and that he had already lost.

Pitt searched for fear or superstition, and saw not even a shadow. He put down his empty cup.

“What is it?” Tellman said sharply.

Pitt smiled at him, not in humor but in an affection which surprised him. “Nothing,” he replied. “Let’s go and speak to Kingsley, and ask him why he went to Miss Lamont, and what she was able to do for him, most especially on the night she died.” He turned and walked along the passage to the front door, and allowing Tellman to pass him, closed it and locked it behind him.

“Morning, sir,” the postman said cheerfully. “Lovely day again.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, not recognizing the man. “Good morning. Are you new on this street?”

“Yes, sir. Just two weeks,” the postman replied. “Getting to know people, like. Met your missus a few days ago. Lovely lady.” His eyes widened. “’Aven’t seen her since, though. Not poorly, I ’ope? Colds can be wicked to get rid of this time o’ year, which don’t seem fair, bein’ so warm, an’ all.”

Pitt was about to reply that she was on holiday, but he realized with a sudden chill that the man could be anyone, or pass on gathered information anywhere!

“No, thank you,” he responded briskly. “She is quite well. Good day.”

“Good day, sir.” And whistling through his teeth, the postman moved on.

“I’ll get a cab,” Tellman offered, looking up and down Keppel Street and seeing none available.

“Why not walk?” Pitt asked, dismissing the postman from his mind and swinging into a long, easy stride eastward towards Russell Square. “It’s not more than half a mile or so. Harrison Street, just the other side of the Foundling Hospital.”

Tellman grunted and did a couple of double steps to catch up with him. Pitt smiled to himself. He knew Tellman was wondering exactly how he had discovered where Kingsley lived without the assistance of the police station, which he would know Pitt had not sought. He would be wondering if Special Branch already had an interest in Kingsley.

They walked in silence around Russell Square, across the traf-fic of Woburn Place, and along Berner Street towards Brunswick Square and the huge, old-fashioned mass of the hospital. They turned right, instinctively avoiding the children’s burial ground. Pitt was touched by sadness, as he always was, and glanced sideways to see the same lowered eyes and twist of the lips in Tellman. He realized with a jolt that for all the years they had worked together, he knew very little of Tellman’s past, except the anger at poverty which showed naked so often he almost took it for granted now, not even wondering what real pain lay behind it. Gracie probably knew more of the man within the rigid exterior than Pitt did. But then Gracie was a child of the same narrow alleys and the fight for survival. She would not need to be told anything. She might see it differently, but she understood.

Pitt had grown up the son of the gamekeeper on Sir Arthur Desmond’s country estate. His parents were servants; his father had been accused and found guilty of poaching and deported, wrongly, Pitt believed. The passion of that conviction had never changed. But he had not been hungry for more than a day, nor walked in danger of attack, except by the boys his own age. A few bruises were his worst affliction, and the odd very sore backside from the head gardener, richly deserved.

In silence they passed the infants’ burial place. There was too much to say, and nothing at all.

“He has a telephone,” he said at last as they turned into Harrison Street.

“What?” Tellman had been lost in his own thoughts.

“Kingsley has a telephone,” Pitt repeated.

“You called him?” Tellman was startled.

“No, I looked him up,” Pitt explained.

Tellman blushed hotly. He had never thought of a private person’s owning one, although he knew Pitt did. Perhaps one day he could afford it, and maybe even have to, but not yet. Promotion was still fresh and raw to him, uncomfortable as a new collar. It did not fit—most especially with Pitt dogging his footsteps every day, and taking his first case from him, it abraded the tender skin.

They continued side by side until they reached Kingsley’s house and were admitted. They were shown through a rather dark, oak-paneled hall hung with pictures of battles on three of the walls. There was no time to look at the brass plates beneath them to see which ones they were. At a glance, most of them looked roughly Napoleonic. One appeared to be a burial. It had more emotion than the others, and better interest of light and shadow, a sense of tragedy in the huddled outline of the bodies. Perhaps it was Moore after Corunna.

The morning room was rigidly masculine also, greens and browns, lots of leather and bookcases with heavy, uniform volumes. On the farther wall hung a variety of African weapons, assegais and spears. They were dented and scarred with use. There was a fine but rather stylized bronze of a hussar on the central table. The horse was beautifully wrought.

When the butler had gone Tellman gazed around with interest, but no sense of comfort. The room belonged to a man of a social class and a discipline alien to him and representing all he had been brought up to resent. One experience in particular had forced him to see a retired army officer as human, vulnerable, even to be deeply admired, but he still regarded that as an exception. The man who owned this room and whose life was mirrored in the pictures and furnishings was eccentric to say the least, almost a contradiction in conceptions. How could anyone who had done that most hideously practical of things, leading men in war, have so lost his grasp on reality as to be consulting a woman who claimed she spoke to ghosts?

The door opened and a tall, rather gaunt man came in. His face had an ashen look, as if he were ill. His hair was clipped short and his mustache was little more than a dark smudge over his upper lip. He stood straight, but it was the habit of a lifetime which kept him so, not any inner vitality.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My butler tells me you are from the police. What may I do for you?” There was no surprise in his voice. Possibly he had read of Maude Lamont’s death in the newspapers.

Pitt had already decided not to mention his connection with Special Branch. If he said nothing of it, Kingsley would assume he was with Tellman.

“Good morning, General Kingsley,” he replied. “I am Superintendent Pitt, and this is my colleague Inspector Tellman. I am sorry to tell you that Miss Maude Lamont died two nights ago. She was found yesterday morning, in her home. Because of the circumstances, we are obliged to investigate the matter very thoroughly. I believe you were there at her last séance?”

Tellman stiffened at Pitt’s bluntness.

Kingsley took in a deep breath. He looked distinctly shaken. He invited Pitt and Tellman to be seated, and then sank into one of the large leather chairs himself. He offered nothing, waiting for them to begin.

“Will you tell us what happened, sir, from the time of your arrival at Southampton Row?” Pitt asked.

Kingsley cleared his throat. It seemed to cost him an effort. Pitt thought it odd that a military man who must surely be accustomed to violent death should be so disturbed by murder. Was not war murder on a grand scale? Surely men went into battle with the express intention of killing as many of the enemy as possible? It could hardly be that this time the dead person was a woman. Women were all too often the victims of the violence, looting and destruction that went with war.

“I arrived at a few minutes after half past nine,” Kingsley began. “We were due to begin at a quarter to ten.”

“Were the arrangements long-standing?” Pitt interrupted.

“They were made the previous week,” Kingsley answered. “It was my fourth visit.”

“With the same three people?” Pitt said quickly.

Kingsley hesitated only a moment. “No. It was only the third with exactly the same.”

“Who were they?”

This time there was no hesitation at all. “I don’t know.”

“But you were there together?”

“We were there at the same time,” Kingsley corrected. “In no sense were we together, except that . . . that it helps to have the force of several personalities present.” He added no explanation as to what he meant.

“Can you describe them?”

“If you know I was there, Superintendent, my name and where to find me, do you not also know the same of them?”

A flash of interest crossed Tellman’s face. Pitt saw it in the corner of his vision. Kingsley was at last behaving like the leader of men he was supposed to be. Pitt wondered what shattering thing had happened to him that he had ever thought of turning to a spiritualist. It was painful and repellent intruding into the wounds of people’s lives, but the motives of murder were too often hidden within terrible events in the past, and to understand the core of it he had to read it all. “I know the name of the woman,” he replied to the question. “Not the third person. Miss Lamont designated him in her diary only by a little diagram, a cartouche.”

Kingsley frowned slightly. “I have no idea why. I can’t help you.”

“Can you describe him to me . . . or her?”

“Not with any accuracy,” Kingsley replied. “We did not go there as a social event. I had no desire to be more than civil to anyone else present. It was a man of average height, as far as I recall. He wore an outdoor coat in spite of the season, so I don’t know his build. His hair seemed light rather than dark, possibly gray. He remained in the shadows towards the back of the room, and the lamps were red, so the light distorted. I imagine I might know him if we were to meet again, but I am not certain.”

“Who was the first to arrive?” Tellman cut across.

“I was,” Kingsley replied. “Then the woman.”

“Can you describe the woman?” Pitt interrupted, thinking of the long, pale hair around Maude Lamont’s sleeve button.

“I thought you knew who she was?” Kingsley retorted.

“I have a name,” Pitt explained. “I would like your impression of her appearance also.”

Kingsley resigned himself. “She was tall, taller than most women, very elegant, with pale blond hair dressed in a sort of . . .” He gave up.

Pitt felt a knot tighten almost to suffocation inside himself. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Please continue.”

“The other man was the last to come,” Kingsley resumed obediently. “As far as I can recall, he was last on the other occasions as well. He came in through the garden doors, and left before we did.”