Rutland Place (16 page)

“What?”

Pitt repeated the question.

Lovell’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 course!” 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 understand 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 McInnes 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 McInnes 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.” McInnes 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.

McInnes 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.

C
HARLOTTE 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 everything before he spoke and had intended it exactly as it came.

Yes, quite definitely, she must do something, and quickly—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 Ashworth 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 happened 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. I 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 transpired 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 soirées 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 Gracie 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 upstairs 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?”

“Only partly.” Charlotte had him so clearly in her mind even now, here in her own kitchen, it had to be something more than that. “He was able to laugh at us and yet at the same time make us believe that he liked us.”

“Indeed?” Emily’s eyes widened and her delicate nose flared a little. “I find that a most infuriating mixture. And I am perfectly sure that Selena at least desired of him a great deal more than simply to be ‘liked’! Friendship does not arouse that kind of excitement and discomfort in anyone!”

“He has become acquainted with Mama.” Charlotte hoped for a considerable reaction from Emily. She was disappointed: Emily was not interested.

“This soup is really rather nice with salt in it,” she remarked with surprise. “But I shall have to sit at the far side of the room and shout at everyone. You might have thought of that! What if Mama has met Monsieur Alaric? Society is very small.”

“Mama carries a picture of him in her locket.”

That had the desired effect. Emily dropped her spoon and stared, appalled.

“What did you say? I don’t believe it! She couldn’t be so—so idiotic!”

“She was.”

Emily shut her eyes in relief. “But she stopped!”

“No. The locket was lost—probably stolen. A lot of small things have been stolen from around Rutland Place—a silver buttonhook, a gold chain, a snuffbox.”

“But that’s awful!” Emily’s eyes were wide and dark with anguish. “Charlotte, it’s, simply dreadful! I know the servant problem is bad, but this is preposterous. One owes it to one’s friends to see at least that they are honest. What if someone finds this locket? And knows it is Mama’s with that—Frenchman—in it! What would they say? What would Papa think?”

“Exactly,” Charlotte said. “And now Mina Spencer-Brown is dead—probably murdered—almost next door to Mama. But she still doesn’t mean to stop seeing him. I’ve tried to dissuade her, and it has been exactly as if she had not heard me.”

“Haven’t you pointed out to her—” Emily began incredulously.

“Of course I have!” Charlotte cut her off before she could finish. “But did you ever take any notice of advice when you were in love?”

Emily’s face fell. “Don’t be ridiculous! What on earth do you mean, ‘in love’? Mama is fifty-two! And she is married—”

“That’s just years,” Charlotte said sharply, waving away the unimportance of time with her soup spoon. “I don’t suppose one feels any different. And to imagine that being married prevents you from falling in love is too naïve for words. If you are going to grasp at Society with both hands, Emily, at least practice some of its realism as well as its sophistry and silly manners!”

Emily shut her eyes and pushed her soup dish away.

“Charlotte, it’s awful!” she said in a tight, pained voice. “It would be total disaster. Have you any idea what happens to a woman who is known to be—without morals? Oh, it might be all right if it were with some earl or duke or something, and one was important enough oneself—but for someone like Mama— never! Papa could even divorce her! Oh, dear heaven! It would be the end for all of us. I should never be received anywhere again!”