Rutland Place (22 page)

“My daughter was not murdered, sir, if that is what you imagine. There is no question of it. Therefore it can have no connection. Do not let your professional ambition give you to see murder where there is nothing but simple tragedy.”

“What did cause her death, sir?” Pitt kept his voice low, aware of the pain he must be inflicting; consciousness of it was stronger than the gulf of feeling and belief between the two men.

“An illness,” Lovell replied. “Quite sudden. But it was not poison. If that has occurred to you as a connection, then you are quite mistaken. You would do better to employ your time investigating Mrs. Spencer-Brown rather than going over other people’s family losses. And I refuse to permit you to trouble my wife with these idiotic questions. She has suffered enough. You can have no idea what you are doing!”

“I have a daughter, sir.” Pitt was reminding himself as much as this stiff little man in front of him. What if Jemima had died suddenly, without warning to the emotions—full of life one day, and nothing but a vivid, beautiful, and agonizing memory the next? Would he now find it intolerable to discuss it as Lovell did?

He could not guess. It was tragedy beyond the ability of the mind to conjure.

And yet Mina had been someone’s daughter too.

“Where did she die, sir?”

Lovell stared at him. “At our house in Hertfordshire. What possible concern is it of yours?”

“And where is she buried, sir?”

Lovell’s face flushed scarlet. “I refuse to answer any more questions! This is monstrous impertinence, and grossly offensive! You are paid to discover the cause of Mina Spencer-Brown’s death, not to exercise your infernal curiosity about my family and its bereavements. If you have anything to ask me about the matter, then do so! I shall do my best to answer you, according to my duty. Otherwise I request that you leave my house immediately, and do not return unless you have legitimate business here! Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Charrington,” Pitt said very softly. “I understand you perfectly. Was your daughter friendly with Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Not particularly. I think they were no more than civil to one another. There was a considerable difference in their ages.”

A completely random thought occurred to Pitt.

“Was your daughter well acquainted with Mr. Lagarde?”

“They had known each other for some time,” Lovell replied stiffly. “But there was no”—he hesitated while he chose his word—“no fondness between them. Most unfortunate. It would have been an excellent match. My wife and I tried to encourage her, but Ottilie had no—” He stopped, his face hardening again. “That is hardly pertinent to your inquiry, Inspector. Indeed, it is not pertinent to anything at all now. Forgive me, but I think you are wasting both your time and mine. There is nothing I can tell you. I bid you good day.”

Pitt considered whether to argue, to insist, but he did not believe that Lovell would tell him anything more.

He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I hope it will not be necessary to trouble you again. Good day, sir.”

“I hope not indeed.” Lovell rose. “The footman will show you out.”

Rutland Place was pale with watery sun. In one or two gardens green daffodil leaves stood like bayonets, yellow banners of bloom held above them. He wished people would not plant them in ranks, like an army.

Whether Mina Spencer-Brown had been right about the ugliness of its nature or not, there was certainly a mystery about Ottilie Charrington’s death. She had neither died nor been buried where her family claimed.

Why should they lie? What really had killed her, and where?

The answer could only be that there was something so painful, or so appalling, that they dared not tell the truth.

F
OR THREE DAYS
there was no progress at all. Pitt followed up every material clue he could find, and Sergeant Harris questioned servants, both kitchen and outdoor. No one told them anything that seemed to be of importance. It became more and more apparent that Mina had been, as Charlotte guessed, an obsessive watcher. Little scraps of information, impressions gathered here and there gradually confirmed it. But what had she seen? Surely something more damning than merely the identity of a petty thief?

Then on the afternoon of the fourth day, a little after one o’clock, Charlotte was standing in the parlor opening the French doors onto the small back garden, breathing in the air that at last had warmth in it and the smell of sweet earth, when Gracie came in at a trot, her heels scuffing up the new rug.

“Oh, Mrs. Pitt, ma’am, there’s a letter come for you by special footman, in a carriage and all, and he says it’s terrible urgent. And please, ma’am, the carriage is still standing there in the street as large as life, and ever so grand!” She held out the envelope at arm’s length for Charlotte to take.

A glance was sufficient to see that it was Caroline’s writing. Charlotte tore the envelope open and read:

My dear Charlotte,

The most appalling thing has happened. I hardly know how to tell you, it seems so utterly tragic.

As you know, Eloise Lagarde was most distressed by Mina’s death and the circumstances of it, and Tormod took her to their country house to rest and recover her spirits.

My dear Charlotte, they have returned this morning after the most dreadful accident I have ever known! I feel quite sick to think of it, it is almost past enduring. While out driving, returning from a picnic one evening with friends, poor Tormod was at the reins of the carriage and he slipped from the box and fell, right under the wheels. As if that in itself was not terrible enough, a group of friends were right behind them. It was past dusk, and they did not see what had happened! Charlotte, they drove straight over him! Horses and carriage!

That poor young man, hardly older than yourself, is crippled beyond any hope! He lies on his bed in Rutland Place and, for all we can believe or pray, will do so for the rest of his life!

I am so distressed I cannot think what to say or do. How can we help? What response is there in the face of such total tragedy?

I felt you would wish to know as soon as possible, and I have sent the carriage for you, in case you wish to come this afternoon. I would dearly like your company, even if only to share with someone my shock at such pain. Your father is at business and shall be dining out this evening, and Grandmama is of no comfort at all.

I have also written to Emily and sent the letter by messenger.

Your loving mother,

Caroline Ellison.

Charlotte read the letter a second time, not that she doubted she had understood it, but to give herself time to allow its meaning, with the weight of pain it carried, to sink into her consciousness.

She tried to imagine the night, the dark road, Tormod Lagarde as she had last seen him, with his high, pale brow and wave of black hair, standing on the driving box; then perhaps a horse swerving, an unexpected turn in the road, and suddenly he was lying in the mud, the carriage above him, the noise and the rattle, the wheels passing over a leg or an arm, the crushing weight, bones snapped. A moment’s silence, the night sky, and then the smashing, pummeling hooves of the other carriage and the crushing weight, agony as his body was broken—

Dear God! Better, infinitely more merciful, if he had been killed outright, simply never to have known sensibility or light again.

“Ma’am?” Gracie’s voice came urgently. “Ma’am? Are you all right? You look terrible white! I think as you ought to sit down. I’ll get the salts, and a good cup of tea!” She turned to go, determined to rise to the occasion and do something useful.

“No!” Charlotte said at last. “No, thank you, Gracie. It’s all right. I’m not going to faint. It is most terrible news, but it is an acquaintance, not a member of my family or a close friend. I shall go and call upon my mother this afternoon. It is a friend of hers. I cannot say how long I shall be. I must put on something more suitable than this dress. It is far too cheerful. I have a dark dress which is quite smart. If the master comes home before I do, please show him this letter. I’ll put it in the desk.”

“You look terrible pale, ma’am,” Gracie said anxiously. “I think as you should have a nice cup of tea before you goes anywhere. And shall I ask the footman if he’d like one too?”

Charlotte had forgotten the footman; indeed her mind had slipped back to the past and she had not even remembered that the carriage was not her own.

“Yes, yes, please do that. That would be excellent. I shall go upstairs and change, and you may bring my cup of tea there. Tell the footman I shall not be long.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Caroline was very somber when Charlotte was shown in. For the first time since Mina’s death, she was dressed in black and there was no lace at her throat.

“Thank you for coming so soon,” she said the moment the maid had closed the door. “Whatever is happening to Rutland Place? It is one unspeakable tragedy after another!” She seemed unable to sit down; she held her hands tightly together and stood in the middle of the floor. “Perhaps it is wicked of me to say so, but I feel as if in a way this is even worse than poor Mina! It is only what the servants say, and I should not listen to it, but it is the only way of hearing anything,” she excused herself quite honestly. “According to Maddock, poor Tormod is”—she took a breath—“completely crushed! His back and his legs are broken.”

“It’s not wicked, Mama.” Charlotte shook her head in a tiny gesture, putting out her arm to touch Caroline. “If you have any faith, death cannot be so terrible—only, on occasion, the manner of it. And surely it would have been better, if he is as dreadfully injured as they say, that he should have died quickly? If he cannot recover? And I would not trust to Maddock for that. I daresay he got it from the cook, and she from one of the maids, who will have had it from an errand boy, and so on. Do you intend to call, to express your sympathies?”

Caroline’s head came up quickly. “Oh yes, I feel that would only be civil. One would not stay, of course, but even if only to acknowledge that one is aware and to offer any help that may be possible. Poor Eloise! She will be quite shattered. They are very close. They have always been so fond of each other.”

Charlotte tried to imagine what it would be like to love someone so dearly and have to watch him day after day, mutilated beyond reparation, awake and sane, and be unable to help. But imagination stopped short of any sort of reality. She could remember Sarah’s death, of course, but that had been quick— violent and horrible, to be sure—but thank God, there had been no lingering, no stretching out of pain day after day.

“What can we possibly do?” she asked helplessly. “Just to call and say we are sorry seems so wretchedly trivial.”

“There isn’t anything else,” Caroline answered quietly. “Don’t try to think of everything today. Perhaps in the future there may be something—at least companionship.”

Charlotte received that in silence. The sunlight streaming across the carpet, picking out the garlands of flowers, seemed remote, more like a memory than anything present. The bowl of pink tulips on the table looked stiff, like an ornamental design, hieratic and foreign.

The maid opened the door. “Lady Ashworth, ma’am.” The maid bobbed a curtsy, and immediately behind her Emily came in, looking pale and less than her usually immaculate self.

“Mama, what a fearful thing! How ever did it happen?” She caught hold of Charlotte’s arm. “How did you hear? Thomas is not here, is he? I mean it’s nothing—”

“No, of course not!” Charlotte said quickly. “Mama sent the carriage for me.”

Caroline shook her head in confusion. “It was an accident. They were out driving. It was fine, and they had had a picnic somewhere and returned late, by a longer and more pleasant way. It’s all perfectly ridiculous!” For the first time there was anger in her voice as the futility of it struck her. “It need never have happened! A skittish horse, I suppose, or some wild animal cutting across a country road, frightening them. Or maybe it was an overhanging branch from some tree.”

“Well, that’s what one keeps woodsmen for!” Emily said in an explosion of impatience. “To see that there are no overhanging branches across carriageways.” Then equally quickly her anger vanished. “What can we do to help? I don’t really see what there is, except one’s sympathy. And little use that will be!”

“It is still better than nothing.” Caroline moved toward the door. “At least Eloise will not feel that we are indifferent, and then if there comes a time when she wishes something, even if it is only company, she will know that we are ready.”

Emily sighed. “I suppose so. It seems like offering a bucket to bail out the sea!”

“Sometimes merely to know you are not alone is some comfort,” Charlotte said, as much to herself as to them. Out in the hallway Maddock was waiting.

“Shall you be returning for afternoon tea, ma’am?” he inquired, holding Caroline’s coat for her.

“Oh yes.” Caroline nodded and allowed him to put it around her shoulders. “We are merely going to call upon Miss Lagarde. We will hardly be long.”

“Indeed,” Maddock said gravely. “A most terrible tragedy. Sometimes these young men drive most rashly. I have always believed that racing was a highly dangerous and foolish exercise. Most conveyances are not designed for it.”

“Were they racing?” Charlotte asked quickly, turning to face him.

Maddock’s features were without expression. He was a servant and knew his place, but he had also been with the Ellisons since Charlotte was a young girl. Little she did could surprise him.

“That is what they are suggesting, Miss Charlotte,” he replied impassively. “Although it would seem a somewhat foolish occupation along a country road, and almost bound to cause injury to someone, even if only the horses. But I have no idea if it is true or merely backstairs speculation. One cannot prevent servants from exercising their imaginations about such a disaster. No amount of chastisement will silence them.”

“No, of course not,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t waste time trying—as long as it is not quite irresponsible.” She raised her eyebrows a little. “And they are not neglecting their duties!”