Paragon Walk

by Anne Perry

  “Murder often isn’t,” Pitt said softly. Then he thought of the filthy, teeming rookeries squatting just behind stately streets, where crime was the road to survival, infants learned to steal as soon as they could walk, and only the cunning or the strong made it to adulthood. But all that was irrelevant in Paragon Walk. Here it was shocking, alien, and naturally they sought to disown it.

  Cayley was sitting quite still, eaten up with some inner moil of emotions.

  Pitt waited. Outside, carriage wheels crunched on the gravel and passed.

  At last Cayley looked up.

  “Who on earth would want to do that to a harmless little creature like Fanny?” he said quietly. “It’s so bloody pointless!”

  Pitt had no answer for him. He stood up.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Cayley. Presumably she recognized the rapist, and he knew it. But why he assaulted her in the first place, only God knows.”

  Cayley banged a hard, tight fist on the table, not loudly, but with tremendous power.

  “Or the devil!” He put his head down and did not look up again, even when Pitt went out of the door and closed it behind him.

  Outside the sun was warm and clear, birds chattered in the gardens across the Walk, and somewhere out of sight beyond the curve a horse’s hooves clattered past.

  He had seen the first open grief for Fanny, and although it was painful, a reminder that the mystery was trivial, the tragedy real—that long after everyone knew who had killed her, and how, and why, she would still be dead—yet he felt cleaner for it.

  He went to see Diggory Nash. It was the middle of the afternoon when he could no longer put off going back to Emily and George. He had learned nothing that would allow him to avoid asking the question. Diggory Nash had offered nothing positive either. He had been away from home, gambling, so he said, at a private party, and was reluctant to name the other players. Pitt was not prepared at this stage to insist.

  Now he must see George. Not to do so would be as obvious and thereby as offensive as any questions he could ask.

  Vespasia Cumming-Gould was taking tea with Emily and George when Pitt was announced. Emily took a deep breath and asked the parlormaid to have him shown in. Vespasia looked at her critically. Really, the girl was wearing her corset far too tightly for one in her stage of pregnancy. Vanity was all very well in its place, but child-bearing was not its place, as every woman should know! When the opportunity arose, she must tell her what apparently her own mother had neglected to. Or was the poor girl so fond of George, and so unsure of his affection, as to be trying still to capture his interest? If she had been a little better bred she would have been brought up to expect the weaknesses of men and take them in her stride. Then she could have treated the whole thing with indifference, which would have been far more satisfactory.

  And now this extraordinary creature, the police inspector, was coming into the withdrawing room, all arms and legs and coattails, with hair like the scullery maid’s mop, falling in every direction.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Pitt said courteously.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” she replied, extending him her hand without rising. He bent over and brushed it with his lips. It was a ridiculous gesture from a policeman, who after all was more or less a tradesman, but he did it without an iota of self-consciousness, even a kind of odd grace. He was not as uncoordinated as he appeared. Really, he was the oddest creature!

  “Please sit down, Thomas,” Emily offered. “I shall send for more tea.” She rang the bell as she spoke.

  “What is it you wish to know this time?” Vespasia enquired. Surely the fellow could not be paying a social call?

  He turned a little to face her. He was uncommonly plain, and yet she found him not displeasing. There was great intelligence in his face and a better humor than she had observed in anyone else in Paragon Walk, except perhaps that marvelously elegant Frenchman all the women were making such fools of themselves about. Surely that could not be why Emily was tying herself in? Could it?

  Pitt’s reply cut across her thoughts.

  “I was not able to see Lord Ashworth when I called before, ma’am,” he answered.

  Of course. Suppose the wretched man had to see George. It would appear odd if he did not.

  “Quite,” she agreed. “I suppose you want to know where he was?”

  “Yes, please?”

  She turned to George, sitting a little sideways on the arm of one of the easy chairs. Wish he would sit properly, but he never had since he was a child. Always fidgeted, even on a horse; only saving grace was that he had good hands, didn’t haul an animal about. Got it from his mother. His father was a fool.

  “Well!” she said sharply, turning to him. “Where were you, George? You weren’t here!”

  “I was out, Aunt Vespasia.”

  “Obviously!” she snapped. “Where?”

  “At my club.”

  There was something in the way he was sitting that made her feel uncomfortable and distrust his answer. It was not a lie, and yet it was somehow incomplete. She knew it from the way he shifted his bottom a little. His father had done exactly the same as a child when he had been in the butler’s pantry trying the port. The fact that the butler had imbibed the majority of it himself was immaterial.

  “You have several clubs,” she pointed out tartly. “Which were you at on that occasion? Do you wish to send Mr. Pitt scouring all the gentlemen’s clubs in London asking after you?”

  George colored.

  “No, of course not,” he said with irritation. “I was at Whyte’s, I think, most of the evening. Anyway, Teddy Aspinall was with me. Although I don’t suppose he kept time, any more than I did. But I suppose you could ask him, if you have to?” He twisted to look at Pitt. “Although I’d rather you didn’t press him. He was pretty well soaked, and I don’t suppose he can remember much. Rather embarrassing for him. His wife is a daughter of the Duke of Carlisle, and a bit straitlaced. Make things rather unpleasant.”

  The old Duke of Carlisle was dead, and anyway Daisy Aspinall was as used to her husband’s drinking as she had been to her father’s. However, Vespasia forbore from saying so. But why did George not want Pitt to ask? Was he nervous that Pitt would let fall that he was George’s brother-in-law? No doubt George would get ragged about it, but one was not accountable for the peculiar tastes of one’s relatives, as long as they were discreet about it. And so far Emily had been excellently discreet, as much as loyalty to her sister would allow. Vespasia admitted to a rapidly mounting curiosity about this sister she had never seen. Why had Emily not invited her? Since they were sisters, surely the girl had been tolerably well brought up? Emily certainly knew how to behave like a lady. Only someone of Vespasia’s immense and subtle experience would have known she was not—not quite.

  She had missed some of the conversation. Hope to heavens she was not becoming deaf! She could not bear to be deaf. Not to hear what people were saying would be worse than being buried alive!

  “—time you came home?” Pitt finished.

  George scowled. She could remember the same expression on his face when doing sums as a child. He always chewed the ends of his pencils. Disgusting habit. She had told his mother to soak them in aloes, but the softhearted woman had refused.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t look,” George answered after a few moments. “I think it was pretty late. I didn’t disturb Emily.”

  “What about your valet?” Pitt enquired.

  “Oh—yes,” George seemed uncertain. “I doubt he’ll remember. He’d fallen asleep in my dressing room. Had to waken him up.” His face brightened. “So it must have been pretty late. Sorry, I can’t help you. Looks as if I was miles away at the time that matters. Didn’t see a thing.”

  “Were you not invited to the Dilbridges’ party?” Pitt asked with surprize. “Or did you prefer not to go?”

  Vespasia stared at him. Really, he was a most unexpected person. He was sitting now on the couch, taking up more than half of it in
pure untidiness. None of his clothes seemed to fit him properly, poverty, no doubt. In the hands of a good tailor and barber he might even have looked quite well. But there was a suppressed energy about him that was hardly decent. He looked as if he might laugh at any time, any inappropriate time. Actually, when she thought about it, he was quite entertaining. Pity it had taken a murder to bring him here. On any other occasion he would have been a distinct relief from the boredom of Eliza Pomeroy’s ailments, Lord Dilbridge’s excesses, as recited by Grace Dilbridge, Jessamyn Nash’s latest gown, Selena Montague’s current involvement, or the general decay of civilization as monitored by the Misses Horbury and Lady Tamworth. The only other diversion was the rivalry between Jessamyn and Selena as to who should attract the beautiful Frenchman, and so far neither of them had made any progress that she had heard about. And she would have heard. What was the point in making a conquest if one could not tell everybody about it, preferably one by one and in the strictest confidence? Success without envy was like snails without sauce—and, as any cultivated woman knew, the sauce is everything!

  “I preferred not to go,” George said, his brow wrinkled. He also failed to see the relevance of the question. “It was not the sort of occasion to which I would wish to take Emily. The Dilbridges have some—some friends of decidedly vulgar tastes.”

  “Oh, do they?” Emily looked surprised. “Grace Dilbridge always looks so tame.”

  “She is,” Vespasia said impatiently. “She does not write the guest list. Not that I think she would object to it. She is one of those women who like to suffer; she has made a career of it. If Frederick were to behave properly, she would have nothing to talk about. It is the sole source of her importance—she is put upon.”

  “That’s terrible!” Emily protested.

  “It’s not terrible,” Vespasia contradicted. “She is perfectly happy with it, but it is extremely tedious.” She turned to Pitt. “No doubt that is where you will find your murderer, either among Frederick Dilbridge’s guests, or among their servants. Some of the most reprehensible persons can drive a carriage-and-pair extraordinarily well.” She sighed. “I can remember my father had a coachman who drank like a sot and bedded every girl in the village, but he could drive better than Jehu—best hands in the south of England. Gamekeeper shot him in the end. Never knew whether it was an accident or not.”

  Emily looked helplessly at Pitt, anxiety driving the laughter out of her eyes.

  “That’s where you’ll find him, Thomas,” she said urgently. “No one in Paragon Walk would have done it!”

  There was still time for Pitt to see Fulbert Nash, the last brother, and he was fortunate to find him at home a little before five. Apparently, to judge from Fulbert’s face, he had been expected.

  “So you are the police,” Fulbert looked him up and down with undisguised curiosity, as one might regard some new invention, but without the desire to purchase it.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Pitt said a little more stiffly than he had intended.

  “Oh, good afternoon, Inspector.” Fulbert mimicked the tone very slightly. “Obviously you are here about Fanny, poor little creature. Do you want her life history? It’s pathetically short. She never did anything of note, and I don’t suppose she ever would have. Nothing in her life was as remarkable as her death.”

  Pitt was angered by his flippancy, although he knew how often people covered grief they could not bear with apparent indifference, or even laughter.

  “I have no reason yet, sir, to suppose she was anything but a chance victim, and therefore her life story need not be inquired into so far. Perhaps if you would tell me where you were on that evening, and if you saw or heard anything that might help us?”

  “I was here,” Fulbert replied with slightly raised eyebrows. He was more reminiscent of Afton than of Diggory, having something of Afton’s faintly supercilious expression, features that should have been handsome, but were not. Diggory, on the other hand, was less well constructed, but there was a pleasingness in the irregularity, character in the stronger, darker brows, something altogether warmer.

  “All evening,” Fulbert added.

  “In company, or alone?” Pitt asked.

  Fulbert smiled.

  “Didn’t Afton say I was with him, playing billiards?”

  “Were you, sir?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t. Afton’s several inches taller than I am, as I dare say you’ve noticed. It irritates the hell out of him that he can’t beat me, and Afton in a bad temper is more than I care to put up with.”

  “Why don’t you let him beat you?” The answer seemed obvious.

  Fulbert’s light-blue eyes opened wide, and he smiled. His teeth were small and even, too small for a man’s mouth.

  “Because I cheat, and he’s never been able to work out how. It’s one of the few things I do better than he does,” he answered.

  Pitt was a little lost. He could not imagine any pleasure in a competition to see who could cheat the best. But then he did not enjoy games himself. He had never had time in his youth, when he might have learned the skills. Now it was too late.

  “Were you in the billiard room all evening, sir?”

  “No, I thought I just told you that! I wandered round the house a bit, library, upstairs, into the butler’s pantry and had a glass of port, or two.” He smiled again. “Long enough for Afton to have nipped out and raped poor Fanny. And since she was his sister, you’ll be able to add incest to the charge—” He saw Pitt’s face. “Oh, I’ve offended your sensibilities. I forgot how puritanical the lower classes are. It’s only the aristocracy and the guttersnipes who are frank about everything. And on reflection, perhaps we are the only ones who can afford to be. We are so arrogant we think no one can shift us, and the guttersnipes have nothing to lose. Do you really imagine my painfully self-righteous brother crept out between billiard balls and raped his sister in the garden? She wasn’t stabbed with a billiard cue, was she?”

  “No, Mr. Nash,” Pitt said coldly and clearly. “She was stabbed with a long knife, sharp point and probably single-edged.”

  Fulbert shut his eyes, and Pitt was glad he had hurt him at last.

  “How revolting,” he said quietly. “I didn’t go out of the house, which is what you want to know, nor did I see or hear anything odd. But you can be damned sure that if I do, I’ll look a good deal harder! I suppose you’re working on the hypothesis it is some lunatic? Do you know what a hypothesis is?”

  “Yes, sir, and so far I am merely collecting evidence. It is too early for hypotheses.” He deliberately used the plural to show Fulbert that he knew it.

  Fulbert observed and smiled.

  “I’ll lay you odds two to one it is not! I’ll lay you it’s one of us, some nasty, grubby little secret that snapped through the civilized veneer—and rape! She saw him, and he had to kill her. Look into the Walk, Inspector, look at us all very, very carefully. Sift us through a small sieve, and comb us with a fine-tooth comb—and see what parasites and what lice you turn up!” He giggled very lightly with amusement and met Pitt’s angry eyes squarely, brilliantly. “Believe me, you’ll be amazed what there is!”

  Charlotte was waiting anxiously for Pitt all afternoon. From the time she had put Jemima upstairs for her afternoon sleep, she found herself repeatedly glancing at the old brown clock on the dining room shelf, going up to it to listen for the faint tick to make sure it was still going. She knew perfectly well it was foolish, because he could not return before five at the very earliest, and more likely six.

  The reason for her concern was Emily, of course. Emily was newly with child, her first, and, as Charlotte could remember only too well, those first months could be very trying. Not only did one feel a natural unsureness at one’s new condition, but there were nausea and the most unreasonable depressions to overcome.

  She had never been to Paragon Walk. Emily had invited her, naturally, but Charlotte was not sure if she had really wished her to go. Ever since they were g
irls, when Sarah had been alive, and they had lived in Cater Street with Mama and Papa, Charlotte’s lack of tact had been a social liability. Mama had found umpteen suitable young men for her, but Charlotte had had no ambitions, like the others, to make her curb her tongue and seek to impress. Of course, Emily loved her, but she was also aware that Charlotte would not be comfortable in the Walk. She could not afford the clothes, nor the time from her household tasks. She knew none of the gossip, and her life would soon be seen to be utterly different.

  Now she wished she could go, to see for herself that Emily was quite well and not afraid because of the appalling crime. Of course her sister could always remain at home, go out only with a servant, and in daylight, but that was not the real terror. Charlotte refused to remember or think of that.

  It was after six when she finally heard Pitt at the door. She dropped the potatoes she was straining in the sink and knocked over the salt and pepper on the edge of the table running out to meet him.

  “How’s Emily?” she demanded. “Have you seen her? Have you discovered who killed that girl?”

  He closed her in a hard hug. “No, of course I haven’t. I’ve barely begun. And yes, I saw Emily, and she seemed quite well.”

  “Oh.” She pulled away. “You haven’t discovered anything! But you know at least that George had nothing to do with it, don’t you?”