He would take his tea in the kitchen. There was nothing else he could ask Beau Astley at the moment, but there might be something to be learned in the servants’ quarters, even inadvertently. Then later, when the first news had been broken, he would have to see Miss May Woolmer, who apparently had been the last person they knew of to talk with Bertram Astley before he left for the Devil’s Acre.
During that brief respite in the kitchen’s warmth, nursing a mug of tea, Pitt learned a great deal of detail from Hodge, the footman, the valet, and from several of the maids. Later he had an excellent luncheon with the entire staff, very sober, at their long table. Housemaids were sniffling, footmen silent, cook and kitchenmaid red-nosed.
But none of it, as far as he could judge, amounted to anything other than the outline of an ordinary young man of title, of very much more than adequate means and extremely pleasing looks. His character had not been unusuaclass="underline" a little selfish, as one might expect in an elder son who had known from birth that he had the exclusive right of inheritance. But if he had practiced either malice or outward greed, it appeared his household had been blind to it. His personal habits had been typicaclass="underline" a little high-spirited gambling now and then-but who did not, if he could afford it? Occasionally he drank rather too much, but he was neither quarrelsome nor licentious. None of the maids had complained, and he was not niggardly with the expenses of the house. Altogether he was a fine gentleman.
A little after two o’clock, Pitt was permitted into the Woolmer house, again reluctantly and only in order to keep him from being observed importuning on the doorstep by inquisitive neighbors. No one wished it known that there were police in the house, whatever the reason!
“Miss Woolmer will be unable to see you,” the footman said coolly. “She has received news of a bereavement, and is indisposed.”
“I am aware of the bereavement,” Pitt answered. “Unfortunately, because Sir Bertram apparently dined here yesterday, I am obliged to ask Miss Woolmer what she may know of his frame of mind, any remark he may have made as to his intentions….”
The man stared at him, abhorring his crassness. “I’m sure if Miss Woolmer knows anything of value to you, she will be happy to inform you when she is recovered,” he said coldly.
All day Pitt had felt nothing but grief; now at last he found release for it in anger. “I am afraid the pursuit of murder cannot wait upon the convenience of Miss Woolmer,” he retorted. “There is an insane creature loose in the Devil’s Acre. Three people have been murdered and mutilated already, and if we do not catch him, there is no reason to doubt there will be a fourth and a fifth. There is no time to wait upon indisposition! Will you please inform Miss Woolmer that I regret the necessity of disturbing her at such a time,” Pitt continued, “but she may be able to give me information that will assist us to arrest whoever killed Sir Bertram.”
The footman’s face was white. “Yes-if it is unavoidable,” he conceded grudgingly. He left Pitt alone and went down the hall searching in his mind for words to relay the order.
More than half an hour passed before Pitt was shown into the withdrawing room, a place crowded with pictures, ornaments, lace, crochetwork, and embroidery. A brilliant fire burned and all the lamps were lit. Of course the curtains were lowered, as suited a house suffering a violent bereavement.
May Woolmer was a remarkably handsome girl with a fine figure, now draped in elegant grief on a chaise longue. She was dressed in dove gray-neither too colorful for such a delicate moment nor yet an ostentatious display of her feelings. Her hair was thick and shining like honey, and her features were regular. She stared at Pitt with her large, wide-spaced eyes, and held a handkerchief in one white hand.
Mrs. Woolmer stood behind her like a sentry, her large bosom encased in beaded purple, suitable for half mourning, very appropriate in such awkward circumstances. Her hair was as fair as her daughter’s, but faded in patches, and her face was heavier, her chin too soft, her throat thick. Without question, she was grossly offended, and Pitt was the obvious target for her wrath. He was here, and she assumed he was without defense. She glared at him.
“I cannot imagine why you feel it necessary to intrude upon our distress,” she said icily. “I trust you have sufficient good taste to be brief.”
Pitt wanted to be equally rude in return, to tell her what be believed good taste really was: a matter of self-mastery, of consideration so that you did not avoidably discomfort others, least of all those unable to retaliate. “I shall try to, ma’am,” he said simply. “Mr. Beau Astley tells me that Sir Bertram expected to dine here yesterday evening. Did he in fact do so?”
They did not invite him to sit down, and Mrs. Woolmer still remained standing, on guard. “Yes he did,” she answered bluntly.
“What time did he leave?”
“A little after eleven. I cannot tell you precisely.”
“Was he in good health, and good spirits?” It was almost a meaningless question. If they had had a furious quarrel, neither of these women would be in the least likely to tell him.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Woolmer lifted her chin. “Sir Bertram was always most happy here. He was devoted to my daughter. In fact, he had approached me with a view to asking for her hand.” She took a breath, and a shadow of indecision flickered across her face.
Was that a lie that no one could now disprove? No-Beau Astley had said much the same. Then why the doubt? Had there been some ill-feeling last night, a change of mind?
“I am most distressed for you, ma’am,” he said automatically. “Did Sir Bertram say anything about where he intended to go after he left here?”
Her eyebrows went up. “Why-home, I assume!”
“I can’t understand it.” May spoke for the first time. She had a pleasant voice, a little soft, but agreeably low. “I simply cannot understand it at all.”
“Of course you can’t!” Mrs. Woolmer said irritably. “It is incomprehensible to any person of decency. One may only assume he was kidnapped. That is the course you should follow, Mr.-” She disregarded his name, hunching one shoulder to indicate its unimportance. “Poor Sir Bertram must have been abducted. Then when the perpetrators of this crime became aware of whom they had taken, they were afraid-”
“Perhaps Bertie fought them?” May suggested. Tears came to her eyes. “How brave of him! He would!”
Mrs. Woolmer liked that explanation. “It is perfectly dastardly! That is what must have occurred, I am sure of it. I don’t know why we pay the police, when they allow such things to happen!”
Pitt had already questioned the Astley coachman over luncheon. “Sir Bertram did not leave in his own carriage?” he said aloud.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Woolmer had expected an apology or an attempt at defense, not this extraordinary question.
“No,” May answered for her. “He dismissed his own brougham, and then had Willis call him a hansom. We offered to have our carriage take him, but he would not hear of it. He was most considerate.” She dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief. “Most.”
“If only we had been more persuasive, he might not have been abducted!” Mrs. Woolmer still directed the accusation at Pitt; it was the police who were at fault. People of quality should not have to protect themselves from blackguards in the streets.
It was possible that Astley had been abducted, but extremely unlikely. Still, if the Woolmers did not know of his habit of occasionally slumming in the Devil’s Acre, there was no point in telling them now. They would probably not believe him anyway. And perhaps this anger was their way of encountering grief; it was not uncommon. In illness it was the doctor who could not save who received the blame; in crime it was the police.