by Anne Perry
Meissonier raised his eyebrows a little, not enough for sarcasm, just sufficient to indicate that the question was unnecessary.
“I wished to assure myself that he had not met with an accident while leaving for his holiday. It was unlikely, but not impossible. And of course I wished to be courteous to all officials of Her Majesty’s government, with whom we enjoy the most cordial relations and whose guests we are.” It was a polite but unmistakable reminder of his diplomatic standing.
There was nothing Pitt could do but concede. “Thank you, Monsieur Meissonier. It was most gracious of you to come, and at this hour. I am pleased it was not your countryman.” That at least was true. The last thing Pitt wished was an international scandal, and were the body that of a French diplomat, scandal would be almost impossible to avoid, although it would have been his unenviable task to try.
Meissonier gave the same little bow as before and then climbed up the rest of the steps and disappeared. A moment later Pitt heard his carriage move away.
The mortuary wagon came, and Pitt watched as the manacles were removed and the body was lifted up and carried away for the surgeon to examine in more detail at the morgue.
Tellman returned with the river police, who took the punt to safeguard it. It would have to remain on the water, but be moved somehow to sufficiently shallow a place it did not sink altogether.
“Was it the Frenchie?” Tellman asked when he and Pitt were alone on the embankment. The traffic was now heavy and moving in both directions past them. The wind had risen a little and carried the smells of salt and mud and fish, and although the day was bright, it was definitely chilly.
“He said not,” Pitt replied. He was hungry and longing for a hot cup of tea.
Tellman grunted. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” he said darkly. “If he’s lying, can we prove it? I mean, if he’s French, and he gets all the embassy to cover him, what can we do? We can hardly fetch all Paris over here to take a look!” He pulled his face into an expression of disgust.
Pitt had already had his own doubts. The thought was increasingly unpleasant.
“It’ll be hard enough to find out who did this,” Tellman went on, “without not knowing who he is either.”
“Well, he’s either Bonnard or he’s someone else,” Pitt said dryly. “We’d better assume he’s someone else, and start looking. The punt, in the state it is, won’t have come more than a couple of miles down the river . . .”
“That’s what the river police said,” Tellman agreed. “Somewhere up Chelsea, they reckoned.” He wrinkled his nose. “I still think it’s the Frenchman, and they just don’t want to say so.”
Pitt was not disposed to argue with Tellman’s prejudices, at least not yet. Personally, he would very much prefer it to be an Englishman. It was going to be ugly enough without working with a foreign embassy.
“You had better go with the river police and see the sorts of places the punt could have been kept within a mile or two of the Chelsea reach. And see if by any extraordinary chance anyone saw it drifting . . .”
“In the dark?” Tellman said indignantly. “In that mist? Anyway, barges passing upriver of here before dawn will be way beyond the Pool by now.”
“I know that!” Pitt said sharply. “Try the shore. Someone may know where it is usually moored. It’s obviously been lying in water for some time.”
“Yes sir. Where’ll I find you?”
“At the morgue.”
“Surgeon won’t be ready yet. He’s only just gone.”
“I’m going home for breakfast first.”
“Oh.”
Pitt smiled. “You can get a cup of tea from the stall over there.”
Tellman gave him a sideways look and went, back stiff, shoulders square.
Pitt unlocked his front door and went into a silent house. It was full daylight as he took off his coat and hung it in the hall, then removed his boots, leaving them behind him, and padded in his stocking feet along to the kitchen. The stove was about out. He would have to riddle it, carry out the dead ash, and nurture the last of the embers into flame again. He had seen Gracie do it often enough that he should know the idiosyncrasies of this particular grate, but there was something peculiarly desolate about a kitchen without a woman busy in it. Mrs. Brady came in every morning and attended to the heavy work, the laundry and ordinary housecleaning. She was a good-hearted soul and quite often also brought him a pie or a nice piece of roast beef, but she would not make up for the absence of his family.
Charlotte had been invited to go to Paris with her sister, Emily, and Emily’s husband, Jack. It was only for three weeks, and it had seemed to Pitt that it would have been mean-spirited for him to forbid her going or to be so resentful that it would effectively ruin her pleasure. In marrying a man so far beneath her own financial and social status Charlotte would have been the first to say she had gained enormously in freedom to become involved in all manner of pursuits impossible to ladies of her mother’s or sister’s situation. But the marriage also denied her many things, and Pitt was wise enough to realize that however much he missed her, or would like to have been the one to take her to Paris, the greater happiness of both of them rested in his agreeing to her going with Emily and Jack.
Gracie, the maid who had been with them now for seven and a half years—in fact, since she was thirteen—he considered almost as family. She had taken the children, Jemima and Daniel, to the seaside for a fortnight’s holiday. They had all three of them been beside themselves with excitement, fervently packing boxes and chattering about everything they intended to see and to do. They had never been to the coast before, and it was an enormous adventure. Gracie felt her responsibility keenly and was very proud that she should be given it.
So Pitt was left at home with no company except the two cats, Archie and Angus, now curled up together in the clothes basket where Mrs. Brady had left the clean linen.
Pitt had grown up on a large country estate, and for some time his mother had worked in the kitchens. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself, although since his marriage he had lost the knack for it. He missed the comfort of all the small things Charlotte did for him, but these were nothing compared with the loneliness. There was no one to talk to, with whom to share his feelings, to laugh or simply to speak of the day.
And he missed the sound of the children’s voices, giggling, their running footsteps, their incessant questions and demands for his attention or approval. No one interrupted him to say “Look at me, Papa” or “What is this for?” or “What does this mean?” or the favorite “Why?” Peace was not peace anymore, it was simply silence.
It took over ten minutes for the stove to begin to draw properly, and another ten after that before the kettle boiled and he was able to make himself a pot of tea and toast some bread for breakfast. He considered frying a pair of kippers as well, and then thought of the fishy smell, and the trouble of washing the dishes and the frying pan, and abandoned the idea.
The first post came, bringing only a bill from the butcher. He had been hoping there would be a letter from Charlotte. Perhaps it was too soon to expect one, but he was surprised how disappointed he was. Fortunately he was going to the theatre that evening with his mother-in-law, Caroline Fielding. After Charlotte’s father, Edward Ellison, had died, and a decent period of mourning had passed, Caroline had met and fallen in love with an actor, considerably younger than herself. She had scandalized Edward’s mother by marrying again, and mortified her by being apparently very happy. She had also adopted a rather more liberal way of life, which was another point of conflict. Old Mrs. Ellison had absolutely refused to live under the same roof with Caroline and her new husband. As a result she had been obliged to move in with Emily, whose husband, Jack Radley, was a Member of Parliament and eminently more respectable than an actor, even if he had rather too much charm than was good for him and no title or breeding worth mentioning.
Emily suffered her grandmother with fortitude most of the time. Oc
casionally she was just as forthright back to the old lady, who then retreated into icy rage until she got bored and sallied out for the next attack.
However, since Emily and Jack were in Paris, and taking the opportunity of their absence to have the plumbing in the house redone, Grandmother was once again staying with Caroline. Pitt hoped profoundly that she was not well enough to accompany them to the theatre that evening. He had every cause to be optimistic. The sort of play that Caroline attended these days was not what old Mrs. Ellison considered fit entertainment, and even consumed with curiosity as she might be, she would not allow herself to be seen there.
By late morning Pitt was at the morgue listening to the police surgeon summing up the very little of use he had found.
“Exactly what I said. Hit on the head with something round and heavy, wider than a poker, more regular than a branch from a tree.”
“What about an oar or a punting pole?” Pitt asked.
“Possible.” The surgeon thought about it for a moment. “Very possible. Have you got one?”
“We don’t know where he was killed yet,” Pitt protested.
“Of course, it might be floating in the river.” The surgeon shook his head. “Probably never find it, or if you do all the blood will be long since washed off it. You may surmise but you won’t prove anything.”
“When did he die?”
“Late last night, as near as I can tell.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “By the time I saw him he’d certainly been dead five or six hours. Of course, when you find out who he is—if you do—then you may be able to narrow it down better than that.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Between thirty and thirty-five, I should say.” The surgeon considered carefully. “Seemed in very good health. Very clean. No calluses on his hands, no dirt. No parts of his body exposed to the sun.” He pursed his lips. “Certainly didn’t work manually. He either had money of his own or he did something with his mind rather than his hands. Or could be an artist of some sort, or even an actor.” He looked sideways at Pitt. “Hope I’m not saying that because of the way the dratted fellow was found.” He sighed. “Ridiculous!”
“Couldn’t he have sat like that himself, and been struck where he was?” Pitt asked, although he knew the answer.
“No,” the surgeon said decisively. “Blow struck him on the back of the head. Couldn’t have been in the boat unless he was sitting up, and he wasn’t—couldn’t have been. Those manacles are too short. Ankles spread too wide. Couldn’t sit up like that. If you don’t believe me, try it! Not enough blood there anyway.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t wearing that dress when he was killed?” Pitt pressed.
“Yes I am.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because there are no bruises that there would have been if he had been held or forced,” the surgeon explained patiently. “But there are tiny scratches, as if someone had caught him with a fingernail while trying to force the dress over his head and get it straight on his body. It’s damned difficult to dress a dead body, especially if you’re trying to do it by yourself.”
“It was one person?” Pitt said quietly.
The surgeon drew in his breath between his teeth.
“You are right,” he conceded. “I was making assumptions. I simply cannot imagine this sort of . . . lunacy . . . being a mutual affair. There is something essentially solitary about obsession, and obsessive—dear God—this is, if anything in the world is. I suppose some alternative is conceivable, but you’ll have to prove it to me before I’ll believe it. In my opinion one solitary man did this because of a perverse passion, a love or a hatred so strong that it broke all the bands of sense, even of self-preservation, and not only did he strike that man and kill him, he then was compelled to dress him like a woman and set him adrift on the river.” He swiveled to look at Pitt sharply. “I can’t think of any sane reason for doing that. Can you?”
“It obscures his identity . . .” Pitt said thoughtfully.
“Rubbish!” the surgeon snapped. “Could have taken his clothes off and wrapped him in a blanket to do that. Certainly didn’t have to set him out like the Lady of Shalott—or Ophelia, or whoever it is.”
“Didn’t Ophelia drown herself ?” Pitt asked.
“All right—Lady of Shalott, then,” the surgeon snapped. “She was stricken by a curse. Does that suit you better?”
Pitt smiled wryly. “I’m looking for something human. I don’t suppose you can tell if he was French, can you?”
The surgeon’s eyes opened very wide. “No—I cannot! What do you expect—‘made in France’ on the soles of his feet?”
Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets. He felt self-conscious now for having asked. “Signs of travel, illnesses, past surgery . . . I don’t know.”
The surgeon shook his head. “Nothing helpful. Teeth are excellent, one small scratch on the finger, just an ordinary dead man wearing a green dress and chains. Sorry.”
Pitt gave him a long, level stare, then thanked him and left.
Early afternoon found Pitt at the French Embassy—after he had eaten a sandwich in a public house, with a pint of cider. He did not wish to see Meissonier again. He would only repeat what he had said at Horseferry Stairs, but Pitt was not convinced that the man in the boat was not the diplomat Bonnard. So far it was the only suggestion he had, and Meissonier had been acutely uncomfortable. There had been relief in his face when he had seen the body more closely, but his anxiety had not vanished altogether. Had it been only because there was nothing that could be traced to him and he was free to deny it was Bonnard?
How could Pitt now question him again? He would appear to be calling Meissonier a liar, which, considering he was a foreign diplomat— a guest in England, as he had pointed out—would be sufficient to cause an unpleasant incident for which Pitt would rightly get the blame.
The answer was that he must find some other excuse to call. But what could that be? Meissonier had denied all connection with the corpse. There were no questions to ask him.
Pitt was already at the door. He must either knock or continue along the street. He knocked.
The door was opened by a footman in full livery.
“Yes sir?”
“Good afternoon,” Pitt said hastily. He produced a card and handed it to the footman, speaking at the same time. “One of your diplomats was reported missing, I now believe in error, according to Monsieur Meissonier. However, before I alter the police record I should like to speak to the person who made the original report. It would look better if he were the person to withdraw it. Tidier . . .”
“Indeed? Who would that be, sir?” The footman’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I don’t know.” He had only just thought of the excuse. He should have asked the constable at Horseferry Stairs, but it had not mattered then. “The gentleman reported missing is Monsieur Bonnard. I imagine it would be whoever he works with, or is his friend.”
“That will be Monsieur Villeroche, I daresay, sir. If you care to take a seat I shall ask when he is able to see you.” He indicated several hard-backed leather benches, and left Pitt to make himself, if not comfortable, at least discreet.
The footman returned within minutes.
“Monsieur Villeroche will see you in a quarter of an hour, sir. He is presently engaged.” He said no more, and left Pitt to make up his own mind if he wished to wait.
As it turned out, Monsieur Villeroche must have finished with his visitor earlier than expected. He came out into the hallway himself to find Pitt. He was a dark, good-looking young man dressed with great elegance, but at the moment he was obviously perturbed. He looked in both directions before approaching Pitt.
“Inspector Pitt? Good. I have a small errand to run. Perhaps you would not mind walking with me? Thank you so much.” He did not give Pitt time to refuse. He ignored the footman and went to the door, leaving Pitt to follow behind. “Most civil of you,” he said as he
stepped outside.
Pitt was obliged to walk smartly to keep up with him until they were around the corner of the next street, where Villeroche stopped abruptly.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” He spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I did not wish to speak where I might be overheard. The matter is . . . delicate. I do not mean to cause embarrassment for anyone, but I am concerned . . .” He stopped again, seemingly uncertain how to continue.
Pitt had no idea whether he knew of the body at Horseferry Stairs or not. The midday newspapers had carried the story, but possibly none of them had reached the embassy.
Villeroche lost patience with himself. “I apologize, monsieur. I reported to your excellent police that my friend and colleague Henri Bonnard has disappeared . . . that is to say, he is not where we would expect to find him. He is not at his work, he is not at his apartment. None of his friends have seen him in several days, and he has missed appointments of business as well as social functions at which he was expected.” He shook his head quickly. “That is most unlike him! He does not do these things. I fear for his welfare.”
“So you reported him missing,” Pitt concluded. “Monsieur Meissonier has told us that he is on leave. Is it possible he went without the courtesy of informing you?”
“Possible, of course,” Villeroche agreed, not taking his eyes from Pitt’s face. “But he would not have missed his duties. He is an ambitious man who values his career, at least . . . at least he would not jeopardize it for a trivial matter. He might . . . er . . .” He was obviously at a loss, trying to explain himself without saying more than he intended, and driven to speak at all only by the most acute anxiety.
“What sort of man is he?” Pitt asked. “What does he look like? What are his habits, his pastimes? Where does he live? What parties were these that he missed?” His mind pictured the man in the punt and the extraordinary green velvet dress. “Does he enjoy the theatre?”
Villeroche was patently uncomfortable. His gaze did not waver from Pitt’s, as if he willed him to understand without the necessity of words.
