“And of course he comforted her the best he could,” Duncan continued. “He knew the wretched medium was a fraud, but Penelope wouldn’t listen. She was desperate to have any belief at all that her child still existed somewhere, poor creature. She wasn’t very old herself. Of course, Francis has had something of a passion against all kinds of spiritualist activity ever since then. From time to time he has launched something of a crusade.”
“Yes,” Pitt said, pity twisting inside him with a hard, empty pain. “I can understand his feelings. There can be little more bitterly cruel, even if possibly it is not meant so.”
“Yes.” Duncan nodded. “Yes, indeed. One cannot blame his anger. I think I felt much the same myself at the time.”
Pitt thanked him and excused himself. There was nothing more to learn from other people. It was time he faced Wray again and pressed him further to account more precisely for his whereabouts on the evenings Cartouche was recorded in Maude Lamont’s diary as having been at Southampton Row.
At Udney Road, Mary Ann welcomed him in without question, and Wray himself met him in the study doorway with a smile. He did not even ask Pitt if he would stay for tea, but sent Mary Ann straightaway to prepare it, with sandwiches and fruit scones with greengage jam. “It was an excellent crop last year,” he said enthusiastically, leading the way back into the study and offering Pitt a chair. He blinked and his voice dropped and became suddenly very gentle. “My wife was extremely good at making jam. Greengage was one of her favorites.”
Pitt felt wretched. He was sure guilt must be written in his face at the thought of probing the grief of this man who so obviously liked and trusted him, and had not the remotest suspicion that Pitt was here not in friendship but in pursuit of his job.
“Perhaps I should not take it?” he said unhappily. “Would you not rather keep it for . . .” He was not sure what he wanted to say.
“No, no,” Wray assured him. “Not at all. I am afraid the raspberry is all gone. I rather indulged myself. I should be delighted to share this with you. She really was very good.” Sudden concern filled his eyes. “Unless, of course, you do not care for it?”
“Oh, I do! I like it very much!”
“Good. Then we shall have it.” Wray smiled. “Now, tell me why you are here, and how you are, Mr. Pitt. Have you found this unfortunate man who was consulting the medium who died?”
Pitt was not ready to pursue it yet. He had thought his plan was clear, and now it was not. “No . . . no, I haven’t,” he replied. “And it is important that I do. He may have knowledge which would make it much plainer why she was killed, and by whom.”
“Oh dear.” Wray shook his head. “How very sad. Evil always comes of such things, you know. We should not meddle with them. To do so, even in the imagination of innocence, is to awaken the devil to our weaknesses. And never doubt it, Mr. Pitt, it is an invitation he will not pass by.”
Pitt was embarrassed. It was an area of thought he had never considered, perhaps because his faith was more of morality than the metaphysics of God or Satan, and certainly he had never considered belief in calling upon spirits. Yet Wray was in deadly earnest; no one looking at the passion in his face could mistake it.
Pitt compromised. “It seems likely that she was in the practice of a very human evil, Mr. Wray, namely that of blackmail.”
Wray shook his head. “A kind of moral murder, I think,” he said very quietly. “Poor woman. She has forfeited a great deal of herself, I fear.”
He was prevented from saying any more on the subject by a knock on the door, and a moment later Mary Ann appeared with their tea. The tray was so laden with plates that it looked precariously heavy, and Pitt shot to his feet to take it from her in case in her efforts to hold both it and the door, she should drop it.
“Thank you, sir,” she said uncomfortably, flushing a little. “But you shouldn’t!”
“It is no trouble,” Pitt assured her. “It looks excellent, and very generous. I had not realized I was hungry, but now I definitely am.”
She bobbed a little curtsy of satisfaction and almost ran out, leaving Wray to pour, smiling at Pitt as he did so. “A nice child,” he said with a nod. “She does everything she can to care for me.”
There was no answer to make that would not have been trite. The contents of the tray were stronger evidence of her care than any words could have been.
They ate in silent appreciation for several minutes. The tea was hot and fragrant, the sandwiches delicious, and the fresh scones crumbled at the touch, rich with butter and the sharp, sweet jam.
Pitt bit into it, and looked up. Wray was watching him intently, waiting to see if he truly liked the greengage jam, and he could not bear to ask.
Pitt did not know whether to praise it highly, if that would sound artificial, in the end a condescension worse than silence. Pity could be the ultimate offense. And yet if he were lukewarm that would be wrong, too, insensitive and of little use.
“I hate to eat the last of it,” he said with his mouth full. “You won’t get the like of it again. There is a richness and a delicacy to it. It must be exactly the right amount of sugar because there is no cloying sweetness to mar the taste of the fruit.” He took a deep breath and thought of Charlotte, and Voisey, and everything he could lose and how it would destroy all that was good and precious in his world. “My wife makes the best marmalade I’ve ever tasted,” he said, and was horrified to hear his voice husky.
“Does she?” Wray struggled to keep control, to speak with something like normality. They were two men who were barely acquaintances, sharing afternoon tea, and thoughts of preserves, and the women they loved more profoundly than any words about anything at all could say.
The tears brimmed in Wray’s eyes and slid down his cheeks.
Pitt swallowed the last mouthful of scone and jam.
Wray bent his head and his shoulders trembled, and then began to shake. He struggled for a moment or two.
Pitt stood up quietly and went around the table, and sat sideways on the arm of the old man’s chair. Tentatively at first, then with more assurance, he put his hand on Wray’s shoulder, feeling it startlingly frail, then around him, and as he relaxed his weight, allowed him to weep. Perhaps it was the first time Wray had permitted himself to do so since his wife’s death.
Pitt had no idea how long they sat like that, until at last Wray ceased to move, to shake, and finally straightened himself up.
He must be allowed dignity. Without looking at him, Pitt rose to his feet and walked out of the French doors into the garden and the sun. He would give him ten minutes at least to compose himself, wash his face, and then they could both pretend nothing had happened.
He was standing facing the road when he saw the carriage coming. It was a very handsome vehicle with excellent horses and a coachman in livery. To his great surprise it stopped at the gate and a woman alighted carrying a basket covered with a cloth. She was of very striking appearance, dark-haired, with a face not immediately beautiful, but of powerful intelligence and character. She walked with unusual grace, and appeared to notice him only as her hand was on the latch. Perhaps at first she had assumed he was a gardener, until she looked more clearly and saw his clothes.
“Good afternoon,” she said calmly. “Is Mr. Wray at home?”
“Yes, but he is a little unwell,” he answered, moving towards her. “I daresay he will be pleased to see you, but in courtesy I think we should allow him a few minutes to recover himself, Mrs. . . .”
“Cavendish,” she replied. Her look was very direct. “I know his doctor, and you are not he. Who are you, sir?”
“My name is Pitt. I am merely a friend.”
“Should we call his doctor? I can send my carriage immediately.” She half turned. “Joseph! Dr. Trent . . .”