by Anne Perry
Tellman would already be searching. Would he begin by asking questions, or by looking for the place where it had happened? Or for some conveyance in which Carvell had taken the inert body of the butler to the horse trough in the park? Or the weapon? Presumably he had kept the weapon right from the beginning. Dangerous. Was he supremely confident he had hidden it, or that it would never be searched for in the right place? Or that if it was found it would not implicate him?
“Mr. Carvell?”
Carvell sat motionless.
“Mr. Carvell?”
“Yes?”
“When did you last see Scarborough alive?”
“I don’t know.” Carvell lifted his face. “Dinner time? You should ask the other servants, they would have seen him after I did.”
“Did he lock up last night?”
“I really don’t know, Superintendent. Yesterday was Aidan’s Requiem service. Do you imagine I cared who locked up the house? It could have been open all night for all I thought of it”
“How long had Scarborough been in your service?”
“Five years—no, six.”
“Were you satisfied with him?”
Carvell looked bemused. “He was good at his job, if that’s what you mean. If you want to know if I liked the man, no I didn’t. He was an objectionable creature, but he ran the house excellently.” He stared at Pitt with unfocused eyes. “I never had domestic trouble of any sort,” he said hollowly. “Every meal was on time, well cooked, and the household accounts were in perfect order. If there was ever a crisis, I didn’t hear about it. I have friends who were always having complaints of one sort or another. I never did. If he sneered occasionally I really didn’t care.” A self-mocking smile touched his mouth. “He was superb at arranging to entertain. He would see to any size or scale of dinner party or reception. I never had to see to anything myself.”
A maid crossed the landing above them but Carvell did not seem to be aware of her, or of the sounds of movement now coming from beyond the green baize door at the end of the hall.
“I would simply say, ‘Scarborough, I wish to have ten people to dinner next Thursday evening,’ ” he went on. “ ‘Will you see to it,’ and he did, and supplied an elegant menu at very reasonable cost. He hired in extra staff if they were needed, and none of them were ever impertinent, slack or dishonest. Yes, he was a condescending devil, but he was good enough at his profession for me to overlook it. I don’t know how I shall find anyone to replace him.”
Pitt said nothing.
Carvell gulped and gave a choking little laugh that ended in a sob.
“Or perhaps I shall be hanged, and then I won’t have to bother.”
“Did you kill Scarborough?” Pitt said very gently.
“No I didn’t,” Carvell replied quite calmly. “And before you ask me, I haven’t the slightest idea who did, or why.”
He was wretchedly miserable and frightened. Pitt questioned him for a further ten minutes, but he learned nothing that added either to his knowledge or to his impression of the man. He left him sitting crumpled up in the hall and went to see what Tellman had discovered.
He found him in the servants’ hall, a comparatively small place compared with some he had been in, but very comfortably furnished and with a pleasant smell of lavender and beeswax polish. The odor of luncheon cooking made him suddenly aware of hunger. The white-faced footman was standing to attention. An upstairs maid was in tears, a duster in her hand, a broom leaning against the wall. The housekeeper sat upright in a wooden-backed chair, her keys at her waist, ink, presumably from the household ledgers, on her fingers, her face looking as if she had just found something unspeakable on her plate. The scullery maid and the cook were absent. The kitchen maid was facing Tellman, a smudge of black lead on her sleeve from the stove, her expression tearful and obstinate.
Tellman looked around at Pitt. Seemingly his questioning of the maid was not worth pursuing.
“What have you learned?” Pitt asked quietly.
Tellman came over to him. “Very little,” he said, his face showing some surprise. “After the reception the staff spent a great deal of the afternoon clearing up. The extra footmen and maids hired for the event were paid off and left. One of them had been dismissed earlier for unbecoming conduct, I don’t know what it amounted to, some domestic misdemeanor. Nobody seemed to know exactly what. Carvell spent the afternoon out somewhere, the staff don’t know where, but the footman thinks it was simply to be alone and grieve in his own way.”
“Grieve?” Pitt said quickly.
Tellman looked at him without comprehension.
“Was the footman aware that Carvell had a profound feeling towards Arledge?” Pitt said under his breath, but with a sharpness to his voice.
Tellman shook his head. “Oh—no, I don’t think so. Seems he regarded any death as a very somber affair, needing a space for recovery.”
“Oh! What about Scarborough?”
“Spent the afternoon in his pantry, and checking the stock in the cellar,” Tellman replied, drawing Pitt a little farther away from the servants, who were all staring expectantly. “Dinner was a light affair, a cold collation of some sort. Carvell read in the library for a while, then retired early. Staff were excused at about eight. Scarborough locked up at ten and no one saw him after that.” Tellman’s face was uncompromising in its conviction, his dark, deep-set eyes level, his mouth in a hard line. “No one rang the doorbell, or the other staff would have heard. It rings in the kitchen, and in here.” He turned and gestured to the board with all the bells on, listed by room. The front door was plainly visible.
“And no break-in, I presume,” Pitt said, not even making it a question.
“No sir, nothing at all. All the windows and doors were properly fastened—” Tellman stopped.
“Yes?” Pitt said sharply. “Except?”
Tellman pulled a face. “Except the French doors in the dining room. The housemaid says she thinks they were open when she went in there this morning. At least not open, but unlocked. Carvell probably went out that way, and when he came back, forgot to bolt them.”
“Somebody did,” Pitt agreed. “It is just conceivable Scarborough went out that way himself, alive and quite voluntarily.”
Tellman’s face showed disbelief, and contempt for Pitt’s indecision. “What for?” His sneer was obvious. “Don’t tell me you think the butler went out into the park at night to pick up a woman? I thought we’d abandoned the idea it had anything to do with prostitutes. We knew that was daft when the commissioner said it! This is not a lunatic with an obsession about fornication, it’s a perfectly sane murderer who’s been betrayed in love and was out to get revenge—and then kill anyone who knew about it and threatened him!”
Pitt said nothing.
“Are you still thinking about Mitchell?” Tellman went on. “It makes no sense. Maybe he had a reason for killing Winthrop, but not the others; and certainly not the butler. Why on earth would Mitchell have anything to do with Carvell’s butler?”
“The only reason for anyone killing Scarborough is because he knew something,” Pitt answered. “But no, I can’t see any connection with Mitchell.”
“Then you are going to arrest Carvell?”
“Have you searched the house yet?”
“No, of course I haven’t. I’ve looked in Scarborough’s pantry and I’ve been upstairs to his room. There’s nothing there, but I didn’t expect anything.”
“Papers?”
Tellman looked surprised. “Papers? What sort of papers?”
“Record of money,” Pitt replied. “If he was blackmailing Carvell there should be something to show for it.”
“Over Arledge? Maybe he only just tried it after the murder, and met his payment last night.”
“Why would he wait that long? It’s been days since Arledge was killed.”
“I didn’t find anything, but I didn’t have time to read all the letters and things. I’ve questioned the cook about h
er meat cleaver, and looked in the garden shed for an ax. There isn’t one. They get their kindling wood ready cut.”
“What about the cleaver?”
“Can’t tell.” Tellman dismissed it with his tone. “Cook says it is exactly where she left it. Turned a very funny color, but I think she was telling the truth. Seems a well-disciplined sort of woman, no screaming or outrage. Sensible kind of person.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what he did with the weapon. I expect we’ll find it when we get a whole lot of men down here. My opinion, sir, Carvell will break when we get him in a cell and he realizes he can’t get away with it anymore. He’ll panic and tell us the bits we don’t know.”
“Possibly,” Pitt said, but he did not believe it, and it was there in his voice.
Tellman looked sour. He was fed up with Pitt’s prevarication and he took no trouble to conceal it.
“We’ve no reason not to now! We may not know all the details yet, but that’s only a matter of time. Even if we can’t get him for the bus conductor, we’ve got him for Arledge and Scarborough.” He turned and moved a step away. “Shall I send for the wagon, or can we take him in a hansom? I don’t think he’ll give any trouble. Not the sort.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed reluctantly. “Take him in a hansom.” He was about to add not to force on him any unnecessary indignity, then realized how foolish that was, and how unlikely to affect Tellman in the way he acted.
“You’re not coming?” Tellman said in surprise, already the sneer in his eyes that Pitt would not do it himself.
“I’ll arrest him,” Pitt said. “You take him to the station. I want to stay here and see what else I can find.”
Carvell was not surprised when he saw them return. He was still sitting in the hall where they had left him, looking pale and sick. He raised his head when he recognized Pitt’s step. He said nothing, but the question was plain in his eyes.
“Jerome Carvell.” Pitt hated the sound of his voice as he said the familiar words. The change in tone, the sudden complete formality presaged what he was going to say, and Carvell’s face suddenly took a numb, almost bruised look, all his fear become reality. “I am arresting you for the murder of Albert Scarborough.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Carvell said quietly, without hope of being believed. He rose to his feet and held out his hands. He looked at Pitt. “Or any of the others.”
There was nothing for Pitt to say. He wanted to believe him, and some small fraction of him did, but the evidence could no longer be ignored.
“Inspector Tellman will take you to the station. There is no need for manacles.”
“Thank you,” Carvell said almost under his breath, and dutifully, shoulders stooped, face white, he went across the hall with Tellman and out of the front door. He made no attempt to move suddenly, still less to loose himself from Tellman’s grip. The passion, even the life, seemed to have gone out of him as if a long-awaited and inevitable blow had finally fallen.
Pitt went upstairs to the butler’s room and searched it meticulously; he found no more than Tellman had. He came down again and looked through the house, the main reception rooms and the servants’ hall, butler’s pantry, housekeeper’s sitting room and kitchen, laundry, scullery and still room, and found nothing of interest Lastly he went out into the mews and stables, where the footmen told him Carvell kept one horse and a light two-seater gig which he sometimes used on a summer afternoon, driving himself with considerable skill and pleasure. The animal was looked after by the bootboy, who took delight in escaping from the house on any pretext, and really there were few enough boots to occupy his time. He also assisted the gardener when there was little to do outside, and the winter mud necessitated extra grooming and polishing.
“Yes sir?” he said in a businesslike fashion when Pitt approached him, his broad, good-natured face full of concern.
“May I look at your stable and carriage house?” Pitt asked, although it was a formality. He would not have accepted a refusal.
“Yes sir, if you want to.” The boy looked surprised. “But there’s nothing missing, sir. Gig’s there, and all the harness, like.”
“Nevertheless I’d like to look.” Pitt walked past him and up to the stable door. It was a long time since he had been near horses. The warm smell of the animal, the paved yard under his feet, the odor of leather and polish brought back memories of long ago on the estate where he had grown up, of the stables and tack rooms there, and then of the feeling of a horse under him, its power and speed, matching its will to his, the art and the joy of being one with the animal. And then the work afterwards, the brushing and cleaning, the putting away, the aching muscles and the exhilaration, and then the peace. It all seemed a very long time ago now. Dulcie Arledge would have understood, with her love of horses, the long ride to hounds, the exhaustion of muscles, the ache that was half pleasure.
Absentmindedly he patted the animal’s neck. The boy was just behind him.
“Have you brushed him this morning?” Pitt asked, looking at the horse’s hooves and seeing a few smears of mud on them, a few dry grasses clinging to the hair of its fetlocks.
“No sir. What with Mr. Scarborough being gorn, like, and nobody knowing what ’ad happened to ’im, the ’ole kitchen is in a state.”
“Did you brush him last night?”
“Oh, yes sir! Shone like a new penny, ’e did. ’E’s got a real good coat on ’im. ’aven’t yer, Sam?” he said, patting the animal and receiving a gentle nuzzle in reply.
Pitt pointed to the mud.
“Well that weren’t ’ere last night!” the boy said indignantly. ’Ere!” His face paled and his eyes widened. “Yer mean someone ’ad ’im out? In the night, like?”
“Looks like it,” Pitt answered, gazing around the stable floor just to make sure there was no mud tracked in and that the horse could have stood in it, but it was immaculate. Bootboy or not, he was a diligent groom. “Let’s have a look at the gig.” He turned towards the carriage house. Now the boy was almost treading on his heels.
He swung open the carriage house door and saw a smart gig propped up, its shafts gleaming in the sunlight, its paintwork spotless. He turned to the boy. “Look at it carefully. Look at the harness. Is it exactly how you left it?”
There was a long silence while the boy looked minutely at everything, every piece of leather or brass, without touching a thing. Finally he let out his breath in a long sigh and faced Pitt.
“I can’t be sure, sir. It sort of looks the same, but I’m not certain about them straps up there. The harness was on that ’ook, but I don’t think them bridles next to it was that way ’round. I couldn’t swear to it, mind!”
Pitt said nothing but went over to the gig and peered inside. It was clean, polished, doors fastened, seats bare.
“ ’As it bin used, sir?” the boy asked from just behind him.
“Not so far as I can see,” Pitt replied, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He unlatched the door and opened it. It swung wide on well-greased hinges. He looked down at the step and saw a thread of fabric caught around the screw that held down the sill. He bent to catch it between his finger and thumb and ease it very gently away. He held it up towards the light. It was long, pale, coiled like a corkscrew.
“Watcha got?” the boy asked, his eyes fixed on it.
“I don’t know yet,” Pitt replied, but that was not true. He was almost sure it was a thread from a footman’s livery stockings. “Thank you,” he added. “I’ll see if there’s anything else. Does Mr. Scarborough ride in this gig, do you know?”
“No sir. Mr. Scarborough stayed in the ’ouse, sir. Mr. Carvell drove it ’isself, and if he sent anyone on an errand it were me.”
“Do you ever wear livery?”
The boy’s face split into a grin. “What, me! No sir. Mr. Scarborough’d ’ave a fit if I got fancy ideas like that. Put me in me place right quick, ’e would.”
“No stockings?”
“No! Why?” He looked at the thread
again, suddenly serious. “Did that come from someone’s stockings?”
“Probably.” Pitt would rather not have had him realize that, but it was too late now, and the questions were unavoidable. It would have been proof of nothing if Scarborough had used the gig himself. He put the thread into a screw of paper and then into his inside pocket. There was little point in asking the boy not to repeat it to the rest of the household, but he did anyway.
“Oh no, sir,” the boy replied solemnly, backing away, then following Pitt as he searched the rest of the gig and the carriage house before returning to the back door, unaccountably tired, as if the energy were drained out of him.
Pitt did not go back to Bow Street. He was angry, with no reason, and loath to go and see the formal charge against Carvell. Farnsworth would be oozing satisfaction and it would gall Pitt bitterly. He felt no sense of achievement at all. It was a tragedy of such proportions all he could think of was the darkness and the pain of it. When he closed his eyes he could see Dulcie’s sweet, intelligent face, and the terrible shock in it when he had told her of her husband’s love for another man. She had accepted that he had had some involvement with another person, but that it should have been a man had almost broken her courage.
And yet deeply as Pitt abhorred it, there was a part of him still suffering a kind of shock, not yet accepting that it was Carvell.
He gave the cabdriver Nigel Uttley’s address. It would serve no purpose at all, but he wished to tell Uttley he knew it was he who had attacked Jack. It would be acutely satisfying to frighten the man, and he could not see how it would harm Jack. Anything Uttley was able to do in that line, he would do anyway, regardless of Pitt.
He arrived there to find Uttley out, which was infuriating, but he should not have been surprised. It was very close to the by-election now. He might well be absent all day.
“I really cannot say, sir,” the footman replied coolly. “It is possible he may return before dinner. If you wish to wait you may sit in the morning room.”
