Rutland Place (15 page)

Pitt left no wiser, and certainly no happier. If he could feel certain that there was some unresolved tragedy, as Tormod Lagarde had seemed convinced, then he would be satisfied to leave it decently alone. On the other hand, Ambrosine Charrington had been sure that such a thing was utterly out of character. If it had been some preposterous accident, should he persist until he had done all he could to discover precisely what? Did he owe it to Mina herself? To be buried in a suicide’s grave was a disgrace, a stigma not easy to bear for her survivors. And did he perhaps owe it to Alston Spencer-Brown to show him that his wife had not been so unhappy as to prefer death to life? Might not Spencer-Brown go on torturing himself with hurt and confusion in the belief that she had loved someone else and found life insupportable without him? And other people—would they believe something secret and perhaps obscure about Alston that had driven his wife to such an end?

Was it possible that no matter how ugly, or how expensive, the facts were better? The truth deals only one wound, but suspicions a thousand.

Because Theodora had mentioned that Amaryllis and she were sisters, Amaryllis Denbigh was a complete surprise to Pitt. Without giving it conscious thought, he had been expecting someone similar, and it was a faintly unpleasant readjustment to meet a woman younger, not only in years but jarringly so in fashion, manner, and deportment.

She met him with cool civility, but the spark of interest was in her eyes and in the suppressed tightness of her body. He never for a moment feared that she might decline to talk. There was something hungry in her, something seeking, and yet at the same time contemptuous of him. She had not forgotten that he was a policeman.

“Of course I understand your situation, Inspector—Pitt?” She sat down and arranged her skirts with white fingers that stroked the silk delicately; he could almost feel its rippling softness himself, as if it slid cool beneath his own skin.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He eased himself into the chair across the small table from her.

“You are obliged to satisfy yourself that there has been no wrong done,” she reasoned. “And naturally that requires you to discover the truth. I wish I could be of more assistance to you.” Her eyes did not leave his face, and he had the feeling she knew every line of it, every shade. “But I fear I know very little.” She smiled coolly. “I have only impressions, and it would be less than fair to represent them as facts.”

“I sympathize.” He found the words hard to say, for no reason that he could frame. He made an effort to concentrate his mind upon Mina, and his reason for being here. “Yet if anyone had known facts, surely they would have prevented the tragedy? It is precisely because there are only impressions and understandings that have come with the wisdom of hindsight that these things occur so startlingly, and we are left with mysteries and perhaps unjust beliefs.” He hoped he was not being sententious, but he was trying to follow her own line of reasoning and convince her to speak. He believed he could judge what to trust and what to discard as malicious or unrelated.

“I had not thought of it like that.” Her eyes were round and blue and very direct. She must have looked much like this in feature and expression when she was still in pigtails and dresses to her knees: the same frankness, the same slightly bold interest, the same softness of cheek and throat. “Of course you are quite right!”

“Then perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me of your impressions?” he invited, disliking himself for it even as he spoke. He despised the sort of mischievous speculation that he was encouraging—indeed would listen to with the same eagerness as a gossip selecting dirt to relish and refine before whispering it with laughter and deprecation to the next hungry ear.

She was too subtle to excuse herself again; to do so would imply she needed excuse. Instead she fixed her eyes on a bowl of flowers on a side table against the wall and began to speak.

“Of course Mina—that is, Mrs. Spencer-Brown—was very fond of Mr. Lagarde, as I expect you know.” She did not look back at him. The temptation was there; he saw it in the tightening of her neck, but she resisted it. “I do not, for one moment, mean to imply anything improper. But there are always people who will misunderstand even the most innocent of friendships. I have wondered once or twice if there was someone who so misunderstood Mina’s regard, and perhaps was caused great unhappiness by it.”

“Such as who?” he asked, a little surprised. It was a possibility he had not thought of: a simple misunderstanding leading to jealousy. He had only considered an unrequited love.

“Well, I suppose the obvious answer is Mr. Spencer-Brown,” she replied, facing him at last. “But then the truth is not always the obvious, is it?”

“No,” he agreed hastily. “But if not him, then who?”

She breathed a deep sigh and appeared to reflect for a few moments.

“I really don’t know!” She lifted her head suddenly as if she had newly made up her mind about something. “I imagine it is possible—” She stopped. “Well, all sort of other things—other people? I know Inigo Charrington was very attached to Eloise at one time. She would not even consider him. I’ve no idea why! He seems pleasing enough, but to her it was as if he did not exist in that sense. She was civil enough to him, naturally. But then one is!”

“I don’t see what that has to do with Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death,” he said frankly.

“No.” She gave him a wide, blue look. “Neither do I. I expect it has nothing at all. I am only seeking possibilities, people who might have said something at one time or another which could have given rise to misunderstanding. I did tell you, Inspector, that I knew nothing! You asked me for my impressions.”

“And your impression is that Mrs. Spencer-Brown was in normally good spirits as far as you knew?” Without intending to, he had used Tormod’s words.

“Oh yes. If something happened to distress her, it must have occurred quite suddenly, without any warning. Maybe she learned something appalling?” Again her eyes were wide and round.

“Mr. Lagarde says she was not at all upset when she left his house,” he pointed out. “And from the hour her servants have reported, it appears she went straight home.”

“Then perhaps she met someone in the street? Or there was a letter waiting for her when she arrived?”

A letter was something that had not occurred to him. He should have asked the servants if there had been any messages. Perhaps Harris had thought of it.

It was too late to cover his mistake; she had seen it in his face. Her smile became surer.

“If she destroyed it, as indeed would be the natural thing,” she said softly, “then we shall never know what it contained. And perhaps that is best, do you not think?”

“Not if it was blackmail, ma’am!” he said tartly; he was angry with himself, and with her for seeing what he had not, and for the feeling he had that it amused her.

“Blackmail!” She looked startled. “What a terrible idea! I can hardly bear to think you are right. Poor Mina! Poor, poor woman.” She took a deep breath and tightened her fingers on the silk across her thighs, clasping till the knuckles shone pale. “But I suppose you know more about these things than we do. It would be childish to close one’s eyes. The truth will not go away for ignoring it, or we could get rid of everything unpleasant simply by refusing to look at it. You must have patience with us, Inspector, if we see only reluctantly, and more slowly than we should. We have been used to the easier things in life, and such ugliness cannot always be acknowledged without a little period of adjustment. Perhaps even some force?”

He knew what she said was true, and his reason applauded her. Perhaps he had been unfair in his judgment. Prejudice was not confined to the privileged. He knew it in himself: the bitter aftertaste of opinions forced back and found unjust, formed in envy or fear, and the need to rationalize hate.

“Of course.” He stood up. He wanted no more of the interview. She had already given him more than enough to consider. And he had mentioned blackmail rather to shock her than because he really thought it a possibility. Now he was obliged to recognize it. “As yet I know of no truth, pleasant or unpleasant, so the less that is said the less pain that will be caused. It may well have been no more than a tragic accident.”

Her face was quite calm, almost serene, with its pink and white coloring and girlish lines.

“I do hope so. Anything else will increase the distress for everyone. Good day to you, Inspector.”

“Good day, Mrs. Denbigh.”

He had put the matter out of his mind and was working on a number of fires, two of which were in his area and were probably arson, when at half past four in the afternoon a constable with black hair plastered neatly to his head with water knocked on his door and announced that there was a visitor, a gentleman of quality.

“Who is it?” Pitt was expecting no one, and his immediate thought was that the man had been misdirected from the Chief Superintendent’s office and they would be able to be rid of him with a few words of assistance.

“A Mr. Charrington, sir,” the constable answered. “A Mr. Lovell Charrington, of Rutland Place.”

Pitt put the paper he was reading aside, facedown, on the desk.

“Ask him to come in,” he said with a feeling of misgiving. He could imagine no reason at all why Lovell Charrington should come to the police station, unless it was to impart something both secret and urgent. Regarding any ordinary event, he could either have sent for Pitt to attend upon him or simply waited until he returned in the ordinary course of the investigation.

Lovell Charrington came in with his hat still on, beaded with rain, and his umbrella folded but untied, hanging from his hand. His face was pale, and there was a drop of water on the end of his nose.

Pitt stood up. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”

“You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?” Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.

“Yes, sir.” Pitt tried to help him. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. “Is it something to do with the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”

Lovell sat reluctantly. “Yes. Yes, I have been—considering—weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not.” It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time—like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. “One desires to do one’s duty, however painful!” He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.

Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.

“Of course,” he answered. “Not always easy.”

“Quite.” Lovell coughed. “Quite so.”

“What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?”

Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.

“You have quite the wrong word. I do not
wish
to say it, Inspector; I feel an obligation, which is quite different!”

“Indeed.” Pitt breathed out patiently. “Of course it is. Excuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?”

“Mrs. Spencer-Brown . . . ” Lovell sniffed and kept the handkerchief knotted up in his fingers for a moment before folding it and replacing it in his pocket. “Mrs. Spencer-Brown was not a happy woman, Inspector. Indeed I would go so far as to say, speaking frankly, that she was somewhat neurotic!” He spoke the word as if it were faintly obscene, something to be kept between men.

Pitt was startled, and he had difficulty in preventing its showing in his face. Everyone else had said the opposite, that Mina was unusually pragmatic, adjusted very precisely to reality.

“Indeed?” He was aware of repeating himself, but he was confused. “What makes you say that, Mr. Charrington?”

“What? Oh—well, for goodness’ sake, man.” Now Lovell showed impatience. “I’ve had years of observing the woman. Live in the same street, you know. Friend of my wife. Been in her house and had her in mine. Know her husband, poor man. Very unstable woman, given to strong emotional fancies. Lot of women are, of course. I accept that, it’s in their nature.”

Pitt had found most women, especially in Society, to have fancies of an astoundingly practical nature, and to be most excellently equipped to distinguish reality from romance. It was men who married a pretty face or a flattering tongue. Women—and Charlotte had showed him a number of examples—far more often chose a pleasant nature and a healthy pocket.

“Romance?” Pitt said, blinking.

“Quite,” Lovell said. “Quite so. Live in daydreams, not used to the harsh facts of life. Not suited for it. Different from men. Poor Mina Spencer-Brown conceived a romantic attachment for young Tormod Lagarde. He is a decent man, of course, upright! Knew she was a married woman, and years older than he is into the bargain—”

“I thought she was about thirty-five?” Pitt interrupted.

“So she was, I believe.” Lovell’s eyes opened wide and sharp. “Good heavens, man, Lagarde is only twenty-eight. Be looking for a girl of nineteen or twenty when he decides to marry. Far more suitable. Don’t want a woman set in her ways—no chance to correct her then. One must guide a woman, you know, mold her character the right way! Anyhow, all that’s beside the point. Mrs. Spencer-Brown was already married. Stands to reason she realized she was making a fool of herself, and was afraid her husband would find out—and she couldn’t bear it anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Had to tell you. Damned unpleasant, but can’t have you nosing around asking questions and raising suspicions against innocent people. Most unfortunate, the whole affair. Pathetic. Great deal of suffering. Poor woman. Very foolish, but terrible price to pay. Nothing good about it.” He sniffed very slightly and dabbed at his nose.

“There very seldom is,” Pitt said dryly. “How do you come to know about this affection of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s for Mr. Lagarde, sir?”