Pitt did feel compassion for her, but he had felt it for the guilty as well as the innocent many times before. For Julian Danver it was different: either he was a superb actor, or it had not occurred to him that the truth was anything other than what had already been presumed.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized honestly. “Mr. York told me on a previous visit that he would not know the vase again. It was Mrs. Piers York who described it to me. I can ask a servant, if you prefer: with your permission?”
Veronica was struggling to master herself. “You are being unfair, Julian,” she said with some difficulty. She swallowed dryly and caught her breath. She was still bloodlessly pale. “Mr. Pitt is only doing his duty. It would not be any less distressing to Mother-in-law.” She raised her eyes to meet Pitt’s, and he was struck again by the power of emotion in her; she was no mere society beauty but a woman who would be unique and compelling anywhere. “I am afraid I am not sure whether it is our vase or not,” she said, struggling to keep her voice in control, “I never took much notice of it. It was in the library, which is a room I did not frequent a great deal. Perhaps if you would ask one of the servants, rather than distress my mother-in-law with seeing it?”
“Of course.” Pitt had hoped to find an excuse to speak to the servants, and this was ideal. “If you will instruct your butler or housekeeper that you have given your permission, I shall go through to the servants quarters and perhaps find the housemaid who dusted the library at that time.”
“Yes,” she agreed, unable to hide her relief. “Yes, that would be an excellent idea.”
“I’ll attend to it,” Danver offered. “Would you prefer to go to your room for a while, my dear? I’ll make your apologies to Harriet and Papa.”
She swung round quickly, “Please don’t tell them.”
“Of course not,” he assured her. “I’ll merely say you felt a little faint and went to lie down for half an hour and will rejoin them later. Would you like me to call for your maid, or your mother-in-law?”
“No!” This time there was a fierceness in her voice, and her hand on his arm was clawlike in its grip. “No—please don’t! I shall be perfectly all right. Don’t disturb anyone else. I shall go up for a little eau de cologne and then return to the withdrawing room. If you will be kind enough to call Redditch and explain to him about Mr. Pitt and the vase?”
He acquiesced with some reluctance, uncertainty still plain in his face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said courteously, turning away. Danver opened the door for her, and she disappeared into the hall.
Danver rang for the butler, a mild, slightly anxious-looking man of middle age who still retained some of the bewildered innocence of extreme youth. It was an odd combination in the dignity and responsibility of his position. Pitt’s errand was explained to him, Danver excused himself, and Pitt was conducted across the hall, through the green baize door, and into the housekeeper’s sitting room, which was unoccupied at present.
“I’m not sure who was downstairs maid at the time, sir,” the butler said dubiously. “Most of the staff have changed since Mr. Robert was killed. I’m new myself; so is the housekeeper. But the scullery maid was here then. She might remember.”
“If you would?” Pitt agreed.
He was left for some twenty minutes to sit and wait, turning over his thoughts on Veronica York, until at last a pleasant-looking girl in her early twenties came in. She was wearing a blue stuff gown and a small white apron and cap. Obviously she was not the scullery maid; her looks were trim and soft and her hands were not reddened by constant water. It had been a long time since she had scrubbed a floor. The butler came with her, presumably to make sure she was discreet in her answers.
“I’m Dulcie, sir,” she said with a tiny bob. Policemen did not rank a full curtsy; they were something like servants themselves. “I was the tweeny ’ere when Mr. Robert was killed. There’s only me and Mary, the scullery maid, left. Mr. Redditch said as I could ’elp you, sir?”
It was a pity the butler remained, but Pitt should have expected that: any senior servant in his position would have.
“Yes, if you please.” Pitt took out the silver vase again and held it up for her. “Look at this carefully, Dulcie, and tell me if it is the vase that used to be in the library, up to the time of Mr. Robert York’s death.”
“Oh!” She looked startled. Apparently Redditch had been very fair and told her only that she was wanted because she had been a housemaid three years ago. Her eyes widened and fixed on the vase in Pitt’s hand. She did not touch it.
“Well, Dulcie?” Redditch prompted. “Is that the vase, girl? You must have dusted it often enough.”
“It’s very like it, sir, but I don’t think that’s it. Like I remember it, it had four sides to it. But I could be wrong.”
It was the best answer she could have given. It allowed him to pursue the subject.
“Never mind,” he said easily, smiling at her. “Just think back to what you used to do three years ago. Do you remember that week?”
“Oh yes,” she said, her voice hushed.
“Tell me something about it. Were there many visitors to the house?”
“Oh yes.” Memory brought a momentary smile to her face. “There was lots of people then.” The light vanished. “Of course, after Mr. Robert’s death all that stopped, only people coming to give their condolences.”
“Ladies calling in the afternoons?” Pitt suggested.
“Yes, most days, either on Mrs. Piers or Mrs. Robert. There was usually one of them in, and one out paying visits ’erself.”
“Dinner parties?”
“Not very often. More often they dined out, or went to the theater.”
“But some came here?”
“Of course!”
“Mr. Danver?”
“Mr. Julian Danver, and ’is father Mr. Garrard, and Miss ’arriet,” she replied quickly. “And Mr. and Mrs. Asherson.” She mentioned half a dozen more names which Pitt wrote down under the disapproving eye of the butler.
“Now see if you can recall a particular day,” he went on, “and go through your duties one by one.”
“Yes, sir.” She looked at her folded hands and recited slowly, “I got up at ’alf past five and came downstairs to clean out all the grates, taking out the cinders to the back. Mary’d give me a cup o’ tea, then I’d make sure all the ’arths was clean and things blacked as should be, and the brasses, firedogs, and the like polished, and I’d lay the fires and light them so when the family came down in the rooms’d be warm. I’d make sure the footman brought in the coals and the scuttles was full—sometimes you ’ave to be be’ind them all the time. Then after breakfast I’d start dusting and cleaning—”
“Did you clean the library?” He had to press for an identification to justify his position.
“Yes sir—sir! I remember now: that’s very like the vase we ’ad, but it in’t it!”
“You’re sure?” the butler put in sharply.
“Yes, Mr. Redditch. That in’t our vase; I’d swear to it.”
“Thank you.” Pitt could think of nothing else to ask. At least he had some names and could begin looking for a possible amateur thief. He stood up and thanked them.
Redditch relented.
“Would you like a cup of tea in the kitchen, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt accepted immediately. He was thirsty, and he would very much like a hot cup of tea. He would also like an opportunity to observe as many of the servants as he could.
Half an hour later, after three cups of tea and two slices of Madeira cake, he went back to the main hallway and opened the library door. It was a gracious room, lined with bookshelves on two sides, the third taken up with windows from floor to ceiling curtained in rust red velvet. On the fourth side was a huge marble fireplace flanked by semicircular tables inlaid with exotic wood. There was a massive desk in oak and green leather, its back to the windows, and three large leather-covered armchairs.