by Anne Perry
Obediently she put the food in her mouth, watching him. His face was calm, the anger entirely gone, but his shoulders were tense and he had forgotten to take any of the gravy she had so carefully made. Was he so moved by the death of the girl-or was it something far worse, fear that the investigations would uncover things uglier, close to him, something about George?
Two
The following morning Pitt went first to the police station, where Forbes was waiting with a lugubrious face.
“Morning, Forbes,” Pitt said cheerfully. “What’s the matter?”
“Police surgeon’s been looking for you,” Forbes replied with a sniff. “Got a message about that corpse from yesterday.”
Pitt stopped.
“Fanny Nash? What message?”
“I don’t know. ’E wouldn’t say.”
“Well, where is he?” Pitt demanded. What on earth could the man have to say beyond the obvious? Was she with child? It was the only thing he could think of.
“Gone to ’ave a cup of tea,” Forbes shook his head. “I suppose we’re going back to Paragon Walk?”
“Of course, we are!” Pitt smiled at him and Forbes looked glumly back. “You can see a little more of how the gentry live. Try all the staff at that party.”
“Lord and Lady Dilbridge?”
“Precisely. Now I’m going to find that surgeon.” He swung out of the office and went to the little eating house on the corner where the police surgeon in a dapper suit was sitting over a pot of tea. He looked up as Pitt came in.
“Tea?” he inquired.
Pitt sat down.
“Never mind the breakfast. What about Fanny Nash?”
“Ah.” The surgeon took a long gulp from his cup. “Funny thing, that. May mean nothing at all, but thought I should mention it. She has a scar on her buttock, left buttock, low down. Looks pretty recent.”
Pitt frowned.
“A scar? Healed. So what does that matter?”
“Probably not at all,” the surgeon shrugged. “But it’s sort of cross-shaped, long bar with shorter cross bar toward the lower end. Very regular, but the funny thing about it is that it’s not a cut.” He looked up, his eyes very brilliant. “It’s a burn.”
Pitt sat perfectly still.
“A burn?” he said incredulously. “What on earth could burn her like that?”
“I don’t know,” the surgeon replied. “So help me, I don’t even care to think.”
Pitt left the tea house puzzled, unsure if it meant anything at all. Perhaps it was no more than a perverse and rather ridiculous accident. Meanwhile he must continue the dreary task of establishing where everyone had been at the time the murder was committed. He had already seen Algernon Burnon, the young man engaged to marry Fanny, and found him pale but as composed as was proper in the circumstances. He claimed to have been in the company of someone else all that evening, but refused to say whom. He implied it was a matter of honor that Pitt would not understand, but was too delicate to phrase it quite so plainly. Pitt could get no more from him and for the present was content to leave it so. If the wretched man had been indulging in some other affair at the very time his fiancee was being ravished, he would hardly care to admit it now.
Lord and Lady Dilbridge had been with company since seven o’clock, and could be written off. The household of the Misses Horbury contained no men at all. Selena Montague’s only manservant had been either in the servants’ hall or in his own pantry in view of the kitchen all the relevant time. That left Pitt with three more houses to call on and then the distressing duty of going back to the Nashes’ to see Jessamyn’s husband, the half brother of the dead girl. Lastly there was the personally awkward necessity of asking George Ashworth to account for his time. Pitt hoped, above anything else in the case, that George could do so.
He wished he could have got that interview over with first, but he knew that George would not be available so early in the morning. More than that, there was a foolishness in him that hoped he might discover some strong clue before he came to the necessity, something so urgent and pointed he could avoid asking George at all.
He began at the second house in the Walk, immediately after the Dilbridges’. At least this unpleasant task could be put behind him. There were three Nash brothers, and this was the house of the eldest, Mr. Afton Nash and his wife, and the youngest, Mr. Fulbert Nash, as yet single.
The butler let him in with weary resignation, warning him that the family was still at breakfast, and he must oblige him to wait. Pitt thanked him and, when the door was closed, began slowly to walk around the room. It was traditional, expensive, and yet made him feel uncomfortable. There were numerous leather-bound volumes in the bookcase in such neat order as to look unused. He ran his finger along them to see if there was dust on them, but they were immaculate, more to the credit of the housekeeper, he guessed, than of any reader. The bureau held the usual clutter of family photographs. None of them smiled, but that was usual; one had to hold a pose for so long that smiling was impossible. A sweetness of expression was the best that could be hoped for, and it had not been achieved here.
An embroidered sampler hung above the mantel, a single, baleful unblinking eye, and underneath it in cross stitch, “God sees all.”
He shivered and sat down with his back to it.
Afton Nash came in and closed the door behind him. He was a tall man, becoming portly, with strong, straight features. But for a certain heaviness and a tightening in the mouth, it should have been a handsome face. Curiously, it was not even pleasing.
“I don’t know what we can do for you, Mr. Pitt,” he said coldly. “The poor child lived with my brother Diggory and his wife. Her moral welfare was their concern. Perhaps on hindsight it would have been better if we had taken her, but it appeared a perfectly adequate arrangement at the time. Jessamyn cares for Society more than we do, and therefore was more suitable to introduce Fanny.”
Pitt should have been used to it, the defensive drawing together, the protestations of innocence, even of noninvolvement. They came in some form or other every time. And yet this was peculiarly repellent to him. He remembered the girl’s face, so unmarked by life; she had hardly begun, and she was destroyed so quickly. Here in the comfortless room her brother was talking about “moral welfare” and looking to exonerate himself from whatever blame there turned out to be.
“One cannot ‘make arrangements’ against murder,” Pitt could hear the edge in his own voice.
“One can surely make arrangements against rape,” Afton answered tartly. “Young women of virtuous habits do not court such an end.”
“Have you some reason to suppose your sister was not of virtuous habits?” Pitt had to ask, although everything in him already knew the answer.
Afton turned round and regarded him with a curl of distaste.
“She was raped before she was murdered, Inspector. You must know that as well as I. Please do not be coy. It is disgusting. You would be better employed speaking to my brother Diggory. He has some curious tastes. Though I would have expected even he would not infect his sister with them, but I could be mistaken. Perhaps one of his less salubrious friends was in the Walk that night? I assume you will do your best to ascertain precisely who was here?”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed with equal coolness. “We shall be determining the whereabouts of everyone we can.”
Afton’s eyebrows rose a little.
“The residents of the Walk can hardly interest you-the servants perhaps, although I doubt it. I, for one, am most particular about the type of manservant I employ, and I do not allow my women servants to have followers.”
Pitt felt a twinge of pity for the servants, and the bleak, joyless lives they must lead.
“A person might be in no way involved,” he pointed out, “and yet possibly have seen something of significance. The smallest observation may help.”
Afton grunted in irritation that he had not seen the point for himself. He flicked a nonexistent crumb fr
om his sleeve.
“Well, I was at home that night. I remained in the billiard room most of the evening, with my brother Fulbert. I neither saw nor heard anything.”
Pitt could not afford to give up so easily. He must not let his dislike of the man show. He had to struggle.
“Perhaps you noticed something earlier, in the last few weeks-” he began again.
“If I had noticed such a thing, Inspector, do you not imagine I should have done something about it?” Afton’s heavy nose twitched minutely. “Apart from the unpleasantness for all of us of such a thing happening here, Fanny was my sister!”
“Of course, sir-but with the perception of hindsight?” Pitt finished the question.
Afton considered again.
“Not that I can recollect,” he said carefully. “But if something does occur, I shall inform you. Was there anything else?”
“Yes, please I would like to speak to the rest of your family.”
“I think if they had observed anything they would have spoken to me of it,” Afton said with impatience.
“Nevertheless, I would like to see them,” Pitt persisted.
Afton stared at him. He was a tall man, and they looked eye to eye. Pitt refused to waver.
“I suppose it is necessary,” Afton conceded at last, his face sour. “I do not wish to set a bad example. One must consider one’s duty. I would ask you to be as delicate as you are capable with my wife.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall do my best not to distress her.”
Phoebe Nash was as different from Jessamyn as possible. If there had ever been fire in her, it long since had been damped. She was dressed in tired black, and there was no artificial color in her pale face. At another time she might have been pleasing enough, but now she looked very much the recently bereaved, eyes a little pink, nose puffed, her hair orderly but far less than elegant.
She refused to sit, and stood staring at him, holding her hands tightly together.
“I doubt I can help you, Inspector. I was not even at home that evening. I was visiting an elderly relative who had been unwell. I can give you her name if you wish?”
“I do not doubt you for a moment, ma’am,” he said, smiling as much as he dared without appearing to show undue levity in the face of death. He felt a nameless, sad pity for her. He wanted to put her at ease and did not know how. She was a sort of woman he did not understand. All her feelings were inward, tightly governed; gentility was everything.
“I wondered if perhaps Miss Nash might have confided in you,” he began, “being her sister-in-law, if perhaps someone had paid her unwelcome attention, or passed an offensive remark? Even if she had seen a stranger in the neighborhood?” He kept on trying, “Or if you have yourself?”
Her hands jerked into a knot, and she stared at him, appalled.
“Oh dear heaven! You don’t imagine he’s still here, do you?”
He hesitated, wanting to take away her fear, which at least was a familiar emotion, and yet he knew it was foolish to lie.
“If he’s a vagrant, I don’t doubt he’ll have moved on by now,” he settled for a truth that was without meaning. “Only a fool would stay, when the police are here and looking for him.”
She relaxed visibly, even permitting herself to sit down on the edge of one of the bulging chairs.
“Thank goodness. You’ve made me feel so much better. Of course I should have thought of that for myself.” Then she frowned, drawing her light brows together. “But I don’t recall seeing any strangers in the Walk, at least not of that type. Had I done so, I should have sent the footman to get rid of them.”
He would only terrify and confuse her if he tried to explain that rapists did not necessarily appear different from anyone else. Crime so often surprised people, as if it were not merely an outward act born from the inward selfishness, greed, or hate that had grown too big inside, the dishonesties suddenly without restraint. She expected it to be recognizable, different, nothing to do with the people she knew.
It would be pointless and hurtful to try to change her. He wondered why after so many years he even noticed it, still less allowed it to disturb him.
“Perhaps Miss Nash confided in you?” he suggested. “If anyone had distressed her, or made improper remarks?”
She did not even bother to consider it.
“Certainly not! If such a thing had happened, I should have spoken to my husband, and he would have taken steps!” Her fingers were winding round a handkerchief in her lap, and she had already torn the lace.
Pitt could imagine what Afton Nash’s “steps” might have been. Still he could not quite give up.
“She expressed no anxieties at all, mentioned no new acquaintance?”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently.
He sighed and stood up. There was nothing more to be gained from her. He had a feeling that, if he frightened her with the truth, she would simply banish it from her mind and dissolve all reason and memory in blind fear.
“Thank you, ma’am, I’m sorry to have had to distress you with the matter.”
She smiled with something of an effort.
“I’m sure it is perfectly necessary, or you would not have done so, Inspector. I suppose you wish to see my brother-in-law, Mr. Fulbert Nash? But I’m afraid he was not at home last night. I dare say, if you call this afternoon, he may have returned.”
“Thank you, I shall do that. Oh,” he remembered the peculiar burn the surgeon had remarked, “do you happen to know if Miss Nash had had an accident recently, a burn?” He did not wish to describe the place of the injury if it was avoidable. He knew it would embarrass her exquisitely.
“Burn?” she said with a frown.
“Quite a small burn,” he described its shape as the police surgeon had described it to him. “But fairly deep, and recent.”
To his amazement, every vestige of color fled from her face.
“Burn?” her voice was faint. “No, I cannot imagine. I’m sure I know nothing of it. Perhaps-perhaps she had-” she coughed “-had taken some interest in the kitchen? You must ask my sister-in-law. I–I really have no idea.”
He was puzzled. She was plainly horrified. Was it simply that she knew the site of the injury and was agonized with embarrassment by it because he was a man, and an infinitely inferior person in her social hierarchy? He did not understand her well enough to know.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it is of no importance.” And with further polite murmurings he was shown out by the footman into the light and sun again.
He stood for several minutes before deciding whom to call upon next. Forbes was somewhere in the Walk, talking to the servants, relishing his new importance in investigating a murder, and indulging a long cherished curiosity about the precise workings of the households of a social order beyond all his previous experience. He would be a mine of information tonight, most of it useless, but in all the welter of trivial habit, there might be some observation that led to another-and another. He smiled broadly as he thought of it, and a passing gardener’s boy stared at him with amazement, and a little awe for one who was obviously not a gentleman and yet could stand idle in the street and grin at himself.
In the end he tried the central house, belonging to one Paul Alaric, and was told very civilly that Monsieur Alaric was not expected home until dark, but if the Inspector would care to call then, no doubt Monsieur would receive him.
He had not yet composed in his mind what he meant to say to George, so he shelved it and tried the house further on, belonging to a Mr. Hallam Cayley.
Cayley was still at a very late breakfast but invited him in, offering him a cup of strong coffee, which Pitt declined. He preferred tea anyway, and this looked as thick as the oiled water in the London docks.
Cayley smiled sourly and poured himself another cupful. He was a good-looking man in his early thirties, although excellent, somewhat aquiline features were spoiled by a deeply pocked skin, and already there was a shade o
f temper, a slackness, marking itself around his mouth. This morning his eyes were puffed and a little bloodshot. Pitt guessed at a heavy engagement with the bottle the evening before, perhaps several bottles.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Cayley began before Pitt asked. “I don’t know anything. I was at the Dilbridges’ party most of the night. Anyone’ll tell you that.”
Pitt’s heart sank. Was everyone going to be able to account for themselves? No, that was foolish. It did not matter, it was almost certainly some servant who had had too much to drink, got above himself, and then when the girl had screamed, he had knifed her in fear, to keep her quiet, perhaps not even meaning to kill. Forbes would probably find the answers. He himself was merely asking the masters because someone had to, as a matter of form, so they would know the police were doing their jobs-and better he than Forbes, with his awkward tongue and his glaring curiosity.
“Do you happen to recall who you were with about ten o’clock, sir?” he recalled himself to his questions.
“Actually, I had a row with Barham Stephens,” Cayley helped himself to yet more coffee and shook the pot irritably when it did no more than half-fill his cup. He slammed it down, rattling the lid. “Fool said he didn’t lose at cards. Can’t stomach a bad loser. No one can.” He glared at his crumb strewn plate.
“You had this disagreement at ten o’clock?” Pitt asked.
Cayley remained staring at the plate.
“No, bit before, and it was more than a disagreement. It was a bloody row.” He looked up sharply. “No, not what you would call a row, I suppose. No shouting. He may not behave like a gentleman, but we’re both sufficiently wellbred not to brawl in front of women. I went outside for a walk to cool off.”
“Into the garden?”
Cayley looked down at the plate again.
“Yes. If you want to know if I saw anything-I didn’t. There were loads of people milling around. Dilbridges have some peculiar social tastes. But I suppose you’ve got a guest list? You’ll probably find it was some footman hired for the evening. Some people do hire carriages, you know, especially if they’re only up for the Season.” His face was suddenly very grave, and he looked at Pitt un-blinkingly. “I honestly haven’t an idea who could have murdered poor Fanny.” His face crumpled a little with a strange pain, subtler than simple pity. “I know most of the men on the Walk. I can’t say I care for all of them, but neither can I honestly believe any of them capable of sticking a knife into a woman, a child like Fanny.” He pushed his plate away with repugnance. “I suppose it could be the Frenchman, odd sort of fellow, and a knife sounds a French kind of thing. But it doesn’t really seem likely.”
