“Not what?” he asked, the edge back in his voice. “Not capable of murder?”
“No,” she said simply. “I don’t think so; not unless he was very frightened, or perhaps in a fit of temper, by accident. But if he did, he would give himself away afterwards. He would never be able to live with it.”
“He has such a delicate conscience?” Pitt said sarcastically.
She was hurt by the hardness in him. She had no idea why it should be. Had he remembered her youthful foolishness and been angered by it, found her silliness annoying, even after all this time? Surely he could not be so unforgiving of what had after all been no more than a girl’s romanticism. She had tortured no one but herself with it. She remembered all that had happened at Cater Street very clearly. Even Sarah had been unaware of her feelings, and Dominic certainly had.
“We all have sides of ourselves we prefer not to acknowledge,” she said quietly. “Sides we reason away with all sorts of arguments why it is wrong for others, but in our case quite justified. Dominic is as good at it as most, perhaps in some things better, but his were only the faults he was brought up to. He learned his values from other people, just as we all do. He could excuse himself easily enough for an affaire with a maid, because that is something most gentlemen accept; but nobody accepts murdering someone in order to marry his widow. There is no way Dominic could excuse that to himself, or to anyone else. After he had done it, he would be terrified. That is what I meant.”
“Oh.” He sat quite still.
For several minutes there was no noise but the crackle of the fire.
“How was Aunt Vespasia?” she asked at length.
“The same as always,” he replied politely. Then he wanted to say more, to establish contact again without exactly apologizing, because that would be to admit to the thoughts he had had. “She asked that you should call upon her sometime. She said that when I saw her at the interment, and I forgot to mention it.”
“Will they inter him again?” she asked. “It seems a bit—ridiculous!”
“I suppose so. But I shan’t let them do it immediately. The body is in police custody now. I want a postmortem.”
“A postmortem! You mean cut him up?”
“If you must put it that way.” Slowly he smiled, and she smiled back. Suddenly the warmth flooded into him again, and he sat grinning idiotically, like a boy.
“The family won’t be pleased,” she pointed out.
“They’ll be furious,” he agreed. “But I mean to—I have no choice now!”
3
IT WAS INEVITABLE the next day that Pitt should call on Alicia. No matter how distasteful it was, he must question her, obliquely, about Lord Augustus, about her relationship with him and with Dominic Corde. Then, of course, he would have to meet Dominic again.
They had not met since Pitt’s wedding to Charlotte nearly four years ago. Then Dominic had been newly a widower, still numb from his fear in the Cater Street murders; and Pitt had been too amazed at his own success in winning Charlotte to be more than dimly aware of anyone else.
Now it would be different. Dominic would be over the shock and would have found a new life for himself away from the Ellisons and memories of Sarah. He was bound to marry again; he could not be more than thirty-two or -three, and eminently eligible. Even if he did not have it in mind himself, Pitt knew enough of society to know that some ambitious mother would grasp him for her unmarried daughter. It would merely be a competition as to who would succeed first.
He did not dislike Dominic for himself, only for his relationship with Charlotte and the dreams she had woven about him, and he felt guilty that he had to be the one to drag him again into the shadow of murder.
If indeed he could not clear up the affair before murder need be put into words?
It was a gray, sullen morning with a sky threatening snow when Pitt pulled the bell of number twelve Gadstone Park and the funereal butler let him in with a sigh of resignation.
“Lady Fitzroy-Hammond is at breakfast,” he said wearily. “If you care to wait in the morning room, I will inform her that you are here.”
“Thank you.” Pitt followed him obediently, passing a small, elderly maid in a neat, white-lace-edged uniform. Her thin face sharpened as she saw him, and her eyes glittered. She turned around and retraced her steps upstairs, whisking across the landing and disappearing as he went into the silent, ice-chill morning room.
Alicia came in about five minutes later, looking pale and a little hurried, as if she had left the breakfast table without finishing her meal.
“Good morning, ma’am.” He remained standing. The room was too cold to conduct any discussion, especially the relaxed, rather rambling exploration he needed now.
She shivered. “What more can there possibly be to speak of? The vicar has assured me he will take care of all the—arrangements.” She hesitated. “I—I am not sure how it should be done—after all—there has already been a funeral—and—” She frowned and shook her head a little. “I don’t know anything more to tell you.”
“Perhaps we could talk somewhere more convenient?” he suggested. He did not wish to say, precisely, somewhere warmer.
She was confused. “Discuss what? I don’t know anything else.”
He spoke as gently as he could. “Desecration of a grave is a crime, ma’am. To disinter the same body twice seems unlikely to be merely an insane coincidence.”
The blood drained out of her face. She stared at him, speechless.
“Could we go to some room where we may speak comfortably?” This time he made it rather more of guidance, as one would instruct a child.
Still without answering, she turned and led him to a smaller, very feminine withdrawing room at the side of the house. A fire was already burning strongly, and there was a radiance of warmth from it. As soon as they were inside she swung round. Her composure was regained.
“What is it you are supposing, Inspector? More than a madman? Something intentional?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied soberly. “Madness is not usually so—directed.”
“Directed at what?” She closed the door and walked over to sit down on the settee. He sat opposite her, feeling the warmth ease out the muscles knotted with cold.
“That is what I must find out,” he replied, “if I am to make sure it does not happen again. You said before that you knew of no enemy who would have wished your husband such harm or could conceivably have behaved in such a manner—”
“I don’t!”
“Then I am left to consider what other motives there could be,” he said reasonably. She was more intelligent than he had expected, calmer. He began to understand how Dominic might be very genuinely attracted to her; neither money nor position need be involved. He thought of what Vespasia had said about laughter and the dreams of youth, and he was angry at the restrictions, the insensitivities of a social convention that could have married her to a man like Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond and bred into her compliance with such a thing. “Or who else might be the intended victim,” he finished.
“Victim?” she repeated, turning it over in her mind. “Yes, I suppose you are right. In a sense we are all victims of this—the whole family.”
He was not prepared yet to ask her about Dominic. “Tell me something about his mother,” he said instead. “She was in the church, wasn’t she? Does she live here?”
“Yes. But I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“Could she be the one intended to be hurt, do you think?”
There was a small flicker over her face, like recognition, even perhaps a momentary harsh, self-mocking humor. Or perhaps that was something he imagined because it was in his own feelings.
“Are you asking me if she has enemies?” She was looking at him very directly.