Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [50]
“If you wish, but I assure you my husband is most careful about such things. He is a magistrate, you know, and quite aware of both the nature and the frequency of crime.”
“Indeed, ma’am. If you would prefer …” He left it hanging in the air, hoping she would not accept his withdrawal. He needed to see as much of the house as possible.
“Not at all,” she said graciously. “I shall have Gibson show you all the downstairs doors and windows.” And so saying she rang the bell to summon the butler. When he came, a small man with abundant whiskers, she explained to him Pitt’s office and his purpose.
“Certainly, ma’am.” He turned to Pitt. “If you will come this way, sir,” he said with chill civility. He did not approve of police persons inside the house, and he wished Pitt to realize he was doing this under sufferance.
Pitt thanked Mrs. Carswell again, and followed Gibson’s retreating figure to examine the security of the house.
As he had supposed, the window latches and door locks were all in excellent repair, and he was assured they were checked every night before the last servant retired. Not that he would have expected Gibson to admit to less. What was far more interesting to him was the furnishing and the decor.
The withdrawing room was large, but lacked a look of spaciousness because the walls were covered in patterned paper, and the furniture was of the most modern design, clean lined, but engraved and inlaid so the impression was still of complicated surfaces. The curtains were heavy velvet, tied back with gilded, embossed and fringed sashes.
Pitt felt overpowered with opulence, and yet he knew it was no more than he would have found in most homes of men similarly situated both as to wealth and social rank. He had seen many such fireplaces with marble pilasters up the sides and ornate carving over the top, other gilt and ormolu clocks, other surfaces covered with china. In this case it was a top-heavy, elaborately scrolled Minton potpourri vase of neo-rococo design: blue, gold and white with lush flowers. He thought it hideous, but knew it was well thought of by many, and certainly valuable.
More to his taste in its simple lines was a Bohemian-red etched glass goblet, a souvenir of the Great Exhibition of 1851. Another memento was a painted and gilded lacquer box with pictures of the Crystal Palace.
He inspected the windows to satisfy the story he had told, watched by Gibson, as was his job. At least the man seemed sensible to the fact that callers such as Pitt could be just as dishonest as the thieves they were detailed to prevent. He watched Pitt with eyes like a hunting cat, not missing a gesture. Pitt smiled to himself and inwardly praised the man.
The dining room was equally splendid, and the porcelain in evidence was of excellent quality. There was a certain amount of Chinoiserie, as was popular, but these examples were blue and white and one at least, Pitt thought, was quite old—either Ming or a very good copy. Certainly if Addison Carswell wished to sell something and raise a little money, he could have found many times the amount Weems’s books had him owing.
The ladies’ sitting room, known as the boudoir, was quite different, perhaps decorated according to Mrs. Carswell’s taste rather than her parents-in-law, from whom she had possibly inherited the house. Here were pre-Raphaelite paintings, all brooding and passionate faces, clean lines of design and dark, burning colors. Figures of legend and dream were depicted in noble poses. All sorts of ancient stories were brought to memory and their effect was curiously pleasing. The furniture was William Morris, simple lines and excellent workmanship;