Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [113]
“Indeed?” she said with polite interest. He thought her voice deliberately softer in pitch than nature had intended it. There was a brightness in her eyes and he tried to assess whether it was a flash of hard intelligence or simply the light from the chandeliers, and could not decide.
“Please come into the withdrawing room and tell me of it,” she offered. “My maid said you are of the police, is that correct?”
“Yes ma’am, from Bow Street.”
“I cannot think why you come to us.” She led the way, walking gracefully and with complete assurance. If she had the slightest apprehension or uncertainty she hid it superbly. “We are hardly in your area, and my husband, as you will no doubt be aware, is a superintendent in Scotland Yard.”
“Yes ma’am, I am aware; and it is not to do with any crime in your area that I have come.”
She opened the double doors into the withdrawing room and swept in, her skirts wide behind her, leaving him to follow. The room was as impressive as the hallway: opulent curtains draped well over the floor around Georgian windows looking onto a small, tree-filled garden, its size disguised by the abundance of leaves so the light and shadows were constantly dancing. She allowed him a moment to appreciate the rest of the room, then she invited him to be seated. The furniture was a little ostentatious for his taste, but extremely comfortable. The carpets had no worn patches that he could see, nor indeed did any of the fabric covering the chairs, nor the embroidered antimacassars on their backs. Again there were dried flower ornaments, glass cases with stuffed birds and silver-framed photographs. The pictures on the walls were large and ornately gilded, but a glance told him they were of little intrinsic value as works of art.
She seemed quite happy that he should be so interested in her home, no doubt admiring it, and she made no move to hurry him.
He felt compelled to say something civil; he had stared long enough to make some remark necessary.
“A very handsome room, Mrs. Latimer.”
She smiled, taking it for admiration not untouched by envy. She knew from his card that his rank was merely inspector.
“Thank you, Mr. Pitt. Now what is this matter in which you believe I may help you?”
She was being more businesslike than he had expected. The childlike air would seem to be part a trick of coloring, part an art she wished to enhance, but in no way marking an indecisive or timorous nature.
He began the story he had prepared. “A most unpleasant person has endeavored to impugn the reputations of several men of importance in London.” That was certainly true, whether it had been Weems or not.
Her gaze remained wide and uncommunicative. It did not touch her yet, and she was unconcerned with others.
“He has suggested financial matters of a dubious nature,” he continued. “Debt, usury, and a certain degree of dishonesty.”
“How unpleasant,” she conceded. “Can you not charge him with slander and silence him? It is a criminal offense to speak ill of people in the way you suggest.”
“Unfortunately he is beyond our reach.” Pitt hid the smile that came naturally to his lips.
“If he has slandered people of importance, Mr. Pitt, he is not beyond the law, whoever he is,” she said with slightly condescending patience.
“He is dead, ma’am,” Pitt answered with satisfaction. “Therefore he cannot be made either to explain his charges or to deny them and make apology.”
Her fair face registered confusion.
“Is that not surely the most effective silencer of all?”
“Most certainly. But the charges have been made, and unless they are proved groundless the smear remains. As discreetly as possible, and without spreading them by the very act of proving them wrong, I must find a way to show that they are groundless and malicious.”
Her blue eyes opened very wide. “But why, if he is dead?”
“Because others know of the charges, and the rumors and whispers may still spread. I am sure you see how damaging that would be—to the innocent.”
“I suppose so. Although I cannot imagine why you come to me. I shall certainly not repeat