Rutland Place (30 page)

She looked up at him at last, and he was stricken by the pain and horror in her eyes—not for him, but for something else, something only she could see. Her expression was devoid of any kind of anger, any hatred—only horror, endless immeasurable horror.

Was this madness he was seeing? Or perhaps the knowledge of madness in one still sane enough to see herself and know what lies ahead, the irrevocable descent into the black corridors of lunacy?

No wonder Tormod had tried to protect her! He yearned to do so himself, to prevent it, to bring her back any way he knew how. He could not think of anything to say. There was nothing large enough to encompass the enormity of what he thought he had seen.

He could not bear it. He stood up. There was no need to twist the knife with questions. The evidence was what mattered. Without that there was nothing they could do anyway, whatever he knew—or guessed.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll go and help Sergeant Harris. If there is anything else, I shall ask one of the servants. I’ll try not to interrupt you again.”

“Thank you.” She sat quite still and did not even turn to watch as he walked to the door and opened it. He left her motionless, looking neither at the fire nor at the white flowers on the table, but at something he could not see and had never seen.

It did not take them long to find at least one answer. Sergeant Harris had brought the empty bottle found in Mina’s bedroom and shown it to the servants. The butler recognized it.

“Did you give one of these to Miss Lagarde before Mrs. Spencer-Brown came here the day she died?” Pitt asked him grimly.

The man was not unintelligent. He saw the importance of the question, and his face was pale, a small muscle ticking in his jaw.

“No, sir. Miss Eloise never cared for it.”

“Mr. Bevan—” Pitt began.

“No, sir. I understand what you are saying. We bring half a dozen bottles or so when we come back from the country. But Miss Eloise never had any of it. She disliked it. Neither does she have keys to my pantry. I have one set, and Mr. Tormod had the other, but he left them in Abbots Langley last year at Christmas, and they are still there.”

Pitt took a deep breath. There was nothing to be served by shouting at the man.

“Mr. Bevan—” he began again patiently.

“I know what you are going to say, sir,” Bevan cut in. “I gave the wine to Mr. Tormod, a bottle at a time, as he asked for it. He had a bottle the night before Mrs. Spencer-Brown came. He used to drink it sometimes, and I thought nothing of it.”

Pitt could not blame him. When he and Harris had been there before, they had searched discreetly, but, fearing a guilty or even a protective servant would destroy the bottle, they had not described it or brought the one they had.

“What happened to the bottle, do you know?” he asked. “May I speak to the upstairs maid?”

“That will not be necessary, sir. I’ve asked her just now, since Mr. Harris came. She doesn’t know, sir. She hasn’t seen it again.”

“Then it could be the one given to Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Yes, sir, I imagine it must be.”

“Is every other bottle accounted for?”

“Yes, sir. It is rather strong stuff, so I keep a check on it.”

“Why did you not mention it when we asked before, Mr. Bevan?”

“It is not a table wine, sir, so I imagine the other servants had not seen it. Such things are more usually kept in a medicine chest, or by a bedside. Since that was the last bottle, when a search was made no more would have been found.”

Pitt was irritated that a butler should explain his job to him so thoroughly. Or perhaps he was still thinking of Eloise, alone and unreachable. This man was not to blame. He could not have known the composition of the wine with which Mina was poisoned.

“So Mr. Tormod had the last bottle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In his bedroom?”

“Yes, sir.” The man’s face was very solemn.

“Did he complain of missing it?”

“No, sir. And I would have heard of it if he had. We are most strict about intoxicating liquors.”

So when had Eloise poisoned it and given it to Mina?

Bevan moved from one foot to the other.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, what makes you think Miss Eloise had the wine or gave it to Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

“Information,” Pitt said dryly.

“Not from anyone in this house, sir!”

“No.” There was no point in being coy. “Mrs. Denbigh.”

Bevan’s face changed. “Indeed. Mrs. Denbigh is a very wealthy lady, sir, if you’ll pardon me for making so ill-mannered an observation. Very wealthy indeed, and handsome too. She was remarkably fond of Mr. Tormod, and I believe they might well have married. Always providing, of course, Mr. Tormod had no other involvements.”

Pitt took his meaning perfectly.

“Are you suggesting, Mr. Bevan, that it was Mr. Tormod, and not Miss Eloise, who murdered Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

Bevan met his gaze without flinching.

“It would seem so, sir. Why should Miss Eloise kill her?”

“Jealousy over her brother’s affection,” Pitt replied.

“The relationship with Mrs. Spencer-Brown was over some time ago, sir. If he had married, it could never have been Mrs. Spencer-Brown—but it could well have been Mrs. Denbigh—a rich and handsome lady, free to marry, and, if you’ll pardon me, more than willing. And yet Mrs. Denbigh is alive and well.”

Pitt turned to Harris. “Have you looked in the conservatory, Harris?”

“Yes, sir. No nightshade. But that’s not to say it was never there. I don’t imagine our murderer would be foolish enough to leave it.”

“No.” Pitt’s face tightened. “No, probably not.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Bevan inquired.

“No, thank you. Not now.” Pitt was reluctant to say it, but it was the man’s due: “Thank you for your help.”

Bevan bowed very slightly. “You are welcome, sir.”

“Damn!” Pitt swore as soon as he judged the butler to be out of earshot. “Hellfire and damnation!”

“I’ll lay any odds you like he’s right,” Harris said with sincerity. “Makes a lot of sense. Rich and handsome widow, like he says. Old mistress making trouble, threatening to tell all, very embarrassing. Stand in the way of a lot of very nice money. Wouldn’t be the first time. Never prove it!”

“I know that!” Pitt said furiously. “Damn it, man, I know that!”

They walked through to the hallway and found Dr. Mulgrew coming down the stairs. He looked bleary-eyed, and his hair stood up in a quiff at the top of his head. He must have been there to treat Eloise.

“Good morning,” Pitt said tersely.

“Perfectly bloody,” Mulgrew agreed, not with Pitt’s words but with his tone of voice. “We’ve lost Tormod, you know. Injuries proved too much for him—heart finally carried him off.” Then he gave a sheepish smile. “I’ve got a head like a tin bucket. Need a hair of the dog, I think! Much obliged to you, Pitt. You’re a good man. Join me in a drink? Call for Bevan. I need something to clear this headache. Shouldn’t drink champagne at my age and then get up at dawn. Not natural.”

“Champagne?” Pitt glared at him.

“Yes, you know, fizzy stuff? ‘There is nothing like the fizz, fizz, fizz,’ ” he sang very softly in a remarkably pleasant baritone. “‘I’ll drink every drop there is, is, is.’ ”

Pitt was forced to smile, although it hurt.

“Thanks,” Mulgrew said, clasping him by the arm. “You’re a generous man.”

When Pitt arrived home in the evening, Charlotte was waiting for him. As soon as he entered the door, she knew from his face something had happened that had saddened and confused him. The day had been warm, and the parlor faced south. She had had the windows open onto the garden, and the smell of fresh grass was in the air. A few white narcissus sat in a slender jug, their fragrance as sharp and clean as spring rain.

“What is it?” Another time she might have waited, but not tonight. “What happened, Thomas?”

“Tormod is dead.” He took his coat off and let it fall onto the sofa. “He died this morning.”

She did not bother to pick it up.

“Oh.” She looked at his face, trying to match the news to the pain in him. She knew it was not enough. “What else?”

He smiled, and there was a sudden sweetness in it. He put out his hand and took hers.

She clung onto it hard. “What else?” she repeated.

“Amaryllis Denbigh came to the police station and told me it was Eloise who killed Mina. She said she had guessed it a long while ago but had said nothing, to protect Tormod. Now that he was dead, she didn’t care anymore.”

“Do you believe her?” she asked carefully. Her own mind wanted to reject the idea, but she knew that murder did not always lie where it was easy to understand, or to hate. Sometimes there is darkness underneath what seems to be light.

“I went to look.” He sighed and sat down, pulling her down next to him. “I found evidence. I don’t know whether it would stand in court—it might. But it doesn’t matter, because all I could say is that it was someone in that house, and the butler swears it must have been Tormod. He’ll stick to that—but whether it’s the truth or to protect Eloise, I don’t know. I probably never will.”

“Why should Eloise kill Mina?” she asked.

“Jealousy. She was intensely possessive of Tormod.”

“Then she would have killed Amaryllis. Amaryllis was the one he could have married,” she argued. “He wouldn’t have married Mina—she was no danger. She could never have been anything more than a mistress, and I doubt she was even that!”

“That’s what Bevan said—”

“The butler?”

“Yes.”

“Amaryllis is the possessive one.” Charlotte was thinking, turning ideas over in her mind, memories. “She hates Eloise enough to come to you and tell a lie like that. Even with Tormod dead, she still hates.”

“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t arrest Eloise.” He tightened his arm around her. “I haven’t any proof.”

She pulled away and looked straight at him. “What do you believe?”

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes on her as if he would explore her thought also.

“I think it was Tormod,” he answered at last. “I think Mina was being troublesome, pestering him, and he wanted to marry Amaryllis—for her money, among other things—and he killed Mina to keep her quiet. Perhaps she was threatening him.”

Charlotte sat back slowly, thinking. Poor Amaryllis had been so infatuated with Tormod that it had destroyed the gentleness in her, all the power of friendship, and had left no room for other loves or even decencies. Now she and Eloise could not even comfort each other.

“Strange what obsession can do,” she said aloud. “It’s very frightening. It seems to devour everything else. All your other values get eaten up.” She thought of Caroline and Paul Alaric, but she did not want to say it aloud. Better it was forgotten, even by Pitt, especially now that Edward showed signs of reforming. Last evening he had escorted Caroline to the Savoy Theatre to see the
Mikado
and had presented her with a garnet brooch besides.

Had Paul Alaric ever glimpsed the power he possessed to arouse women’s emotions? He had the kind of face that suggested great currents of passion underneath—a suggestion built upon all too easily by romantic women needing mystery, escaping from familiar men they believed they read without effort. Whether he had ever felt such great tides of passion himself, she could not know, but in that last moment when she and Caroline had left him staring at them helplessly, the shock of their passing had been like a wound in his face. For that alone she would always think well of him.

Tormod had awoken an even wilder hunger in Amaryllis. Something about him, some quality of body or mind, had enraptured her till she could think of nothing and no one else. He must have had an overwhelming charm, a magnetism that obliterated all other judgment.

And naturally Eloise had loved him; they had spent all their lives together. No wonder Amaryllis was jealous, excluded from all those years—

Suddenly an appalling thought flashed across her mind, so ugly she could not even name it, and yet the breath of it left her body cold.

“What’s the matter?” Pitt asked. “You’re shivering!”

The thought had been so hideous she was not prepared to give it words, even to him. Now that it had come to her, she would have to talk to Eloise and see if it was true, but not tonight—and perhaps she would not tell Pitt?

“Just glad it’s over,” she answered, and moved closer to him. She took his hand again and held it. The lie did not bother her. After all, it was only an idea.

In the morning she dressed in her darkest clothes and caught the omnibus. She got off at the nearest stop to Rutland Place and walked the rest of the way. She did not call on Caroline; in fact, if she was not seen, she did not mean to mention her visit at all.

The footman opened the door.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said in a hushed voice, stepping back to allow her in.

“Good morning,” she replied gravely. “I have called to express my sympathies. Is Miss Lagarde well enough to receive me?”

“I will inquire, ma’am, if you care to come this way. Mr. Tormod is in the morning room, but you will find it very chill in there.”

For a moment she was startled by the mention of Tormod as if he were alive; then she realized that naturally he would be laid out, and there would be those whose last respects included a look at the dead. Perhaps it was expected of her also?

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then went to view the dead man.

The room was dark, and as chill as the footman had said, possessed of the peculiar coldness of decay. Black crepe festooned the walls and the table legs, and there was a black cloth on the sideboard.

Tormod was in a dark, polished coffin on the table in the center, and the gas lamps were unlit. The outside sun, filtered through the blinds, gave a diffuse light, quite clear, and she was compelled against her will to go over and look at him.

The eyes had been closed, and yet she felt as if the expression were unnatural. There was no peace in the face. Death had taken the spirit, but his features held the unmistakable impression that his last emotion had been one of hatred, impotent and corroding hatred.