The narrow flower beds were empty now, just dark strips of earth. The grass in the middle had a lifeless, wintry look, and the laurel bushes under the windows seemed sour, holding darkness and stale water. Immaculate lace curtains hung at all the windows, evenly spread. In an hour they would be obscured by the drawn blinds of mourning.
He raised the polished door knocker and let it fall with a jarring sound. It was several moments before a startled betweenmaid opened it a crack, her pasty face peering out. No one called this early.
“Yes, sir?”
“I have come to speak with Mrs. Pomeroy. It is urgent.”
“Oooh, I don’t know as she can see you now.” The tweeny was obviously confused. “She ain’t even”-she swallowed and remembered her loyalties to the house-“even ’ad ’er breakfast yet. Could you come back in an hour or two, sir?”
Pitt was sorry for the girl. She was probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, and this would be her first job. If she lost it through annoying her mistress, she would be in difficult straits. She might even end up wandering the streets, less fortunate than the women with the skill or the personality to end up in a bawdy house with someone like Victoria Dalton.
“I’m from the police.” Pitt took the responsibility from her. “I have bad news for Mrs. Pomeroy, and it would be most cruel to let her hear it by rumor, rather than to tell her discreetly ourselves.”
“Oooh!” The girl swung the door wide and let Pitt step inside. She stared at his dripping clothes; even in the face of crisis, her training was paramount. “’Ere, you’re soakin’ wet! Better take off them things and give ’em to me. I’ll ’ave cook ’ang ’em up in the scullery. You wait in there, an’ I’ll go upstairs an’ tell Mrs. Pomeroy as you’re ’ere, an’ it’s urgent.”
“Thank you.” Pitt took off his coat, hat, and muffler and handed them to her. She scurried out, almost hidden by the bulk of them. He stood obediently until Mrs. Pomeroy should appear.
He looked around the room. It was quite a good size; the furniture was of heavy, dark wood without luster in the thin light. There were embroidered antimacassars on the backs of the chairs, but no extra cushions on the seats. The pictures on the walls were views of Italy painted in hard blues-blue sea, blue sky-with harsh sunlight. He found them ugly and offensive; he had always imagined Italy to be a beautiful place. There was an embroidered religious text over the mantelpiece: “The price of a good woman is above rubies.” He wondered who had selected it.
On the chiffonier at the side there was a vase of artificial silk flowers, delicate things with gay, gossamer petals. It was a surprising touch of beauty in an unimaginative house.
Adela Pomeroy was at least fifteen years younger than her husband. She stood in the doorway in a lavender robe, trimmed with froths of lace at throat and wrists, and stared at Pitt. Her hair tumbled down her back; she had not bothered to dress it. Her face was fine-boned, her neck too slender. For another few years she would be lovely, before nervous tensions ate the lines deeper and marred the roundness of the flesh.
“Birdie said you are from the police.” She came in and closed the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy. I am sorry, but I have bad news for you.” He wished she would sit down, but she did not. “A man was found this morning whom we believe to be your husband. He had letters identifying him, but we will have someone make certain, of course.”
She still stood without movement or change of expression. Perhaps it was too soon. Shock was like that.
“I am sorry,” he repeated.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes wandered around the room, looking at familiar things. “He wasn’t ill. Was it an accident?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I am afraid it was murder.” She would have to know; there was no kindness in pretending.
“Oh.” There seemed to be no emotion in her. Slowly she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Automatically she pulled across her knees the silk of the robe, and Pitt thought momentarily how beautiful it was. Pomeroy must have been a wealthy man, and more generous than his face suggested. Perhaps it was not a meanness he had seen, but merely the emptiness of death. Maybe he had loved this woman very much, and saved hard to give her these luxuries-the flowers and the robe, Pitt felt what could be a quite unjust dislike well up inside him that he could see no agony or grief in her.
“How did it happen?” she asked.
“He was attacked in the street,” he replied. “He was stabbed. It was probably over very quickly. I dare say there was only a moment of pain.”
Still there was nothing in her face, then a faint surprise. “In the street? You mean he-he was robbed?”
What had she expected? Robbery was not such an uncommon crime, although it was not usually accompanied by such dreadful violence. Maybe he carried little of value. But then robbers were not to know that, until too late.
“He had no money on him,” he answered her. “But his watch was still in his pocket, and a very good leather case for cards and letters.”
“He never carried much money.” She was still staring ahead of her, as if Pitt were a disembodied voice. “A guinea or two.”
“When did you last see him, Mrs. Pomeroy?” He would have to tell her the rest; where he was found, the mutilation. Better she hear it from him …
“Yesterday evening.” Her answer cut into his thoughts. “He was going to deliver a book to one of his pupils. He was a teacher. But you probably know that-mathematics.”
“No, I didn’t know. Did he tell you the name of the pupil, and where he lived?”
“Morrison. I’m afraid I don’t know where-not far away. I think he intended to walk. He would have a note of it in his books. He was very meticulous.” Still there was no emotion in her voice except the faint surprise, as if she could not comprehend that such a violent thing should have happened to so ordinary a man. She stood up and went to the window. She was very slight and fragile, like a bird. Even in this apparent state of numbness she had a grace that was individual, a way of holding her head high. Pitt found it hard to imagine her in the arms of the man whose face he had seen in the Devil’s Acre. But then so often one cannot fathom the loves or hates of other people. Why should this be comprehensible? He knew nothing of either of them.
“Can you think of any reason he should go to the Devil’s Acre, ma’am?” he asked. As usual, it was brutal, but she seemed so emotionless; perhaps this was the best time.
She did not turn, but stayed with her back to him. He was not sure whether it was his imagination that the delicate shoulders stiffened under the lavender silk. “I have no idea.”
“But you did know that he went there, from time to time?” he pressed.
She hesitated for a moment. “No.”
There was no point in arguing with her. It was only an impression. He remained silent; perhaps in her speech she would give something away.
“Is that where he was found?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it-the same-the same as the others?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Ah.”
She stood so long he could not tell if she kept her back to him to hide some overwhelming private feelings, if perhaps he should call a maid to help her, to bring her some restorative, or if she preferred the dignity of being left alone. Or was she simply waiting for him to speak again?
“Can I call your maid to bring something, ma’am?” He broke the silence from his own necessity.
“What?”
He repeated the offer.
At last she turned around; her face seemed perfectly composed. “No, thank you. Is there anything else you wish to know from me?”
He was worried for her; this dry, calm shock was dangerous. He must have some responsible servant call her doctor. “Yes, please. I would like the names and addresses of his pupils, and any close acquaintances you believe he may have seen in the last few weeks.”