“If she destroyed it, as indeed would be the natural thing,” she said softly, “then we shall never know what it contained. And perhaps that is best, do you not think?”
“Not if it was blackmail, ma’am!” he said tartly; he was angry with himself, and with her for seeing what he had not, and for the feeling he had that it amused her.
“Blackmail!” She looked startled. “What a terrible idea! I can hardly bear to think you are right. Poor Mina! Poor, poor woman.” She took a deep breath and tightened her fingers on the silk across her thighs, clasping till the knuckles shone pale. “But I suppose you know more about these things than we do. It would be childish to close one’s eyes. The truth will not go away for ignoring it, or we could get rid of everything unpleasant simply by refusing to look at it. You must have patience with us, Inspector, if we see only reluctantly, and more slowly than we should. We have been used to the easier things in life, and such ugliness cannot always be acknowledged without a little period of adjustment. Perhaps even some force?”
He knew what she said was true, and his reason applauded her. Perhaps he had been unfair in his judgment. Prejudice was not confined to the privileged. He knew it in himself: the bitter aftertaste of opinions forced back and found unjust, formed in envy or fear, and the need to rationalize hate.
“Of course.” He stood up. He wanted no more of the interview. She had already given him more than enough to consider. And he had mentioned blackmail rather to shock her than because he really thought it a possibility. Now he was obliged to recognize it. “As yet I know of no truth, pleasant or unpleasant, so the less that is said the less pain that will be caused. It may well have been no more than a tragic accident.”
Her face was quite calm, almost serene, with its pink and white coloring and girlish lines.
“I do hope so. Anything else will increase the distress for everyone. Good day to you, Inspector.”
“Good day, Mrs. Denbigh.”
He had put the matter out of his mind and was working on a number of fires, two of which were in his area and were probably arson, when at half past four in the afternoon a constable with black hair plastered neatly to his head with water knocked on his door and announced that there was a visitor, a gentleman of quality.
“Who is it?” Pitt was expecting no one, and his immediate thought was that the man had been misdirected from the Chief Superintendent’s office and they would be able to be rid of him with a few words of assistance.
“A Mr. Charrington, sir,” the constable answered. “A Mr. Lovell Charrington, of Rutland Place.”
Pitt put the paper he was reading aside, facedown, on the desk.
“Ask him to come in,” he said with a feeling of misgiving. He could imagine no reason at all why Lovell Charrington should come to the police station, unless it was to impart something both secret and urgent. Regarding any ordinary event, he could either have sent for Pitt to attend upon him or simply waited until he returned in the ordinary course of the investigation.
Lovell Charrington came in with his hat still on, beaded with rain, and his umbrella folded but untied, hanging from his hand. His face was pale, and there was a drop of water on the end of his nose.
Pitt stood up. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”
“You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?” Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.
“Yes, sir.” Pitt tried to help him. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. “Is it something to do with the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
Lovell sat reluctantly. “Yes. Yes, I have been—considering—weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not.” It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time—like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. “One desires to do one’s duty, however painful!” He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.
Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.
“Of course,” he answered. “Not always easy.”
“Quite.” Lovell coughed. “Quite so.”
“What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?”
Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“You have quite the wrong word. I do not wish to say it, Inspector; I feel an obligation, which is quite different!”
“Indeed.” Pitt breathed out patiently. “Of course it is. Excuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?”
“Mrs. Spencer-Brown . . . ” Lovell sniffed and kept the handkerchief knotted up in his fingers for a moment before folding it and replacing it in his pocket. “Mrs. Spencer-Brown was not a happy woman, Inspector. Indeed I would go so far as to say, speaking frankly, that she was somewhat neurotic!” He spoke the word as if it were faintly obscene, something to be kept between men.
Pitt was startled, and he had difficulty in preventing its showing in his face. Everyone else had said the opposite, that Mina was unusually pragmatic, adjusted very precisely to reality.
“Indeed?” He was aware of repeating himself, but he was confused. “What makes you say that, Mr. Charrington?”
“What? Oh—well, for goodness’ sake, man.” Now Lovell showed impatience. “I’ve had years of observing the woman. Live in the same street, you know. Friend of my wife. Been in her house and had her in mine. Know her husband, poor man. Very unstable woman, given to strong emotional fancies. Lot of women are, of course. I accept that, it’s in their nature.”
Pitt had found most women, especially in Society, to have fancies of an astoundingly practical nature, and to be most excellently equipped to distinguish reality from romance. It was men who married a pretty face or a flattering tongue. Women—and Charlotte had showed him a number of examples—far more often chose a pleasant nature and a healthy pocket.
“Romance?” Pitt said, blinking.
“Quite,” Lovell said. “Quite so. Live in daydreams, not used to the harsh facts of life. Not suited for it. Different from men. Poor Mina Spencer-Brown conceived a romantic attachment for young Tormod Lagarde. He is a decent man, of course, upright! Knew she was a married woman, and years older than he is into the bargain—”
“I thought she was about thirty-five?” Pitt interrupted.
“So she was, I believe.” Lovell’s eyes opened wide and sharp. “Good heavens, man, Lagarde is only twenty-eight. Be looking for a girl of nineteen or twenty when he decides to marry. Far more suitable. Don’t want a woman set in her ways—no chance to correct her then. One must guide a woman, you know, mold her character the right way! Anyhow, all that’s beside the point. Mrs. Spencer-Brown was already married. Stands to reason she realized she was making a fool of herself, and was afraid her husband would find out—and she couldn’t bear it anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Had to tell you. Damned unpleasant, but can’t have you nosing around asking questions and raising suspicions against innocent people. Most unfortunate, the whole affair. Pathetic. Great deal of suffering. Poor woman. Very foolish, but terrible price to pay. Nothing good about it.” He sniffed very slightly and dabbed at his nose.
“There very seldom is,” Pitt said dryly. “How do you come to know about this affection of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s for Mr. Lagarde, sir?”
“What?”
Pitt repeated the question.
Lovell’s face soured sharply.
“That is a highly indelicate question, Inspector—er—Pitt!”