“Then you know more of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death than I do, sir,” Pitt replied levelly. “Because as yet I have no knowledge as to what caused it, or who, let alone why.”
Lovell’s skin was white, drawn in painful lines around his mouth and jaw. Cords of muscle stood out in his neck, making his high collar sit oddly.
“My daughter was not murdered, sir, if that is what you imagine. There is no question of it. Therefore it can have no connection. Do not let your professional ambition give you to see murder where there is nothing but simple tragedy.”
“What did cause her death, sir?” Pitt kept his voice low, aware of the pain he must be inflicting; consciousness of it was stronger than the gulf of feeling and belief between the two men.
“An illness,” Lovell replied. “Quite sudden. But it was not poison. If that has occurred to you as a connection, then you are quite mistaken. You would do better to employ your time investigating Mrs. Spencer-Brown rather than going over other people’s family losses. And I refuse to permit you to trouble my wife with these idiotic questions. She has suffered enough. You can have no idea what you are doing!”
“I have a daughter, sir.” Pitt was reminding himself as much as this stiff little man in front of him. What if Jemima had died suddenly, without warning to the emotions—full of life one day, and nothing but a vivid, beautiful, and agonizing memory the next? Would he now find it intolerable to discuss it as Lovell did?
He could not guess. It was tragedy beyond the ability of the mind to conjure.
And yet Mina had been someone’s daughter too.
“Where did she die, sir?”
Lovell stared at him. “At our house in Hertfordshire. What possible concern is it of yours?”
“And where is she buried, sir?”
Lovell’s face flushed scarlet. “I refuse to answer any more questions! This is monstrous impertinence, and grossly offensive! You are paid to discover the cause of Mina Spencer-Brown’s death, not to exercise your infernal curiosity about my family and its bereavements. If you have anything to ask me about the matter, then do so! I shall do my best to answer you, according to my duty. Otherwise I request that you leave my house immediately, and do not return unless you have legitimate business here! Do you understand me, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Charrington,” Pitt said very softly. “I understand you perfectly. Was your daughter friendly with Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
“Not particularly. I think they were no more than civil to one another. There was a considerable difference in their ages.”
A completely random thought occurred to Pitt.
“Was your daughter well acquainted with Mr. Lagarde?”
“They had known each other for some time,” Lovell replied stiffly. “But there was no”—he hesitated while he chose his word—“no fondness between them. Most unfortunate. It would have been an excellent match. My wife and I tried to encourage her, but Ottilie had no—” He stopped, his face hardening again. “That is hardly pertinent to your inquiry, Inspector. Indeed, it is not pertinent to anything at all now. Forgive me, but I think you are wasting both your time and mine. There is nothing I can tell you. I bid you good day.”
Pitt considered whether to argue, to insist, but he did not believe that Lovell would tell him anything more.
He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I hope it will not be necessary to trouble you again. Good day, sir.”
“I hope not indeed.” Lovell rose. “The footman will show you out.”
Rutland Place was pale with watery sun. In one or two gardens green daffodil leaves stood like bayonets, yellow banners of bloom held above them. He wished people would not plant them in ranks, like an army.
Whether Mina Spencer-Brown had been right about the ugliness of its nature or not, there was certainly a mystery about Ottilie Charrington’s death. She had neither died nor been buried where her family claimed.
Why should they lie? What really had killed her, and where?
The answer could only be that there was something so painful, or so appalling, that they dared not tell the truth.
Chapter Eight
FOR THREE DAYS there was no progress at all. Pitt followed up every material clue he could find, and Sergeant Harris questioned servants, both kitchen and outdoor. No one told them anything that seemed to be of importance. It became more and more apparent that Mina had been, as Charlotte guessed, an obsessive watcher. Little scraps of information, impressions gathered here and there gradually confirmed it. But what had she seen? Surely something more damning than merely the identity of a petty thief?
Then on the afternoon of the fourth day, a little after one o’clock, Charlotte was standing in the parlor opening the French doors onto the small back garden, breathing in the air that at last had warmth in it and the smell of sweet earth, when Gracie came in at a trot, her heels scuffing up the new rug.
“Oh, Mrs. Pitt, ma’am, there’s a letter come for you by special footman, in a carriage and all, and he says it’s terrible urgent. And please, ma’am, the carriage is still standing there in the street as large as life, and ever so grand!” She held out the envelope at arm’s length for Charlotte to take.
A glance was sufficient to see that it was Caroline’s writing. Charlotte tore the envelope open and read:
My dear Charlotte,
The most appalling thing has happened. I hardly know how to tell you, it seems so utterly tragic.
As you know, Eloise Lagarde was most distressed by Mina’s death and the circumstances of it, and Tormod took her to their country house to rest and recover her spirits.
My dear Charlotte, they have returned this morning after the most dreadful accident I have ever known! I feel quite sick to think of it, it is almost past enduring. While out driving, returning from a picnic one evening with friends, poor Tormod was at the reins of the carriage and he slipped from the box and fell, right under the wheels. As if that in itself was not terrible enough, a group of friends were right behind them. It was past dusk, and they did not see what had happened! Charlotte, they drove straight over him! Horses and carriage!
That poor young man, hardly older than yourself, is crippled beyond any hope! He lies on his bed in Rutland Place and, for all we can believe or pray, will do so for the rest of his life!
I am so distressed I cannot think what to say or do. How can we help? What response is there in the face of such total tragedy?
I felt you would wish to know as soon as possible, and I have sent the carriage for you, in case you wish to come this afternoon. I would dearly like your company, even if only to share with someone my shock at such pain. Your father is at business and shall be dining out this evening, and Grandmama is of no comfort at all.
I have also written to Emily and sent the letter by messenger.
Your loving mother,
Caroline Ellison.
Charlotte read the letter a second time, not that she doubted she had understood it, but to give herself time to allow its meaning, with the weight of pain it carried, to sink into her consciousness.
She tried to imagine the night, the dark road, Tormod Lagarde as she had last seen him, with his high, pale brow and wave of black hair, standing on the driving box; then perhaps a horse swerving, an unexpected turn in the road, and suddenly he was lying in the mud, the carriage above him, the noise and the rattle, the wheels passing over a leg or an arm, the crushing weight, bones snapped. A moment’s silence, the night sky, and then the smashing, pummeling hooves of the other carriage and the crushing weight, agony as his body was broken—
Dear God! Better, infinitely more merciful, if he had been killed outright, simply never to have known sensibility or light again.