Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [37]
When he alighted from the cab he found the house as he had expected, all the curtains drawn and a dark wreath on the door. The parlormaid who answered his knock wore black crepe in her hair instead of the crisp white cap she would normally have had, and no white apron. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, but some mixture of uncertainty, fear, and the aftermath of shock made her choose the simpler measure and ask him in.
“I don’t know whether Mrs. Carfax will see you,” she said warningly.
“How about Mr. Carfax?” Pitt asked as he followed her into the morning room.
“He’s gone out to attend some business. I expect he’ll be back after luncheon.”
“Would you ask Mrs. Carfax if I may have permission to look through Mr. Etheridge’s study to see if I can find the letter she mentioned to me last night?”
“Yes sir, I’ll ask,” she said doubtfully, and left him to wait alone. He looked round the room more closely than he had the previous night. Guests who might call unexpectedly would be received here, and residents of the house might spend a quiet morning attending to correspondence. The mistress would come here to order the affairs of the day, give the cook and the housekeeper their instructions, and discuss some domestic or cellar matter with the butler.
There was a Queen Anne writing desk in one corner, and a table with a number of framed photographs on it. He studied them carefully; the largest was obviously Etheridge himself as a young man, with a gentle-faced woman beside him. They looked stiff as they faced the photographer, but even in the formal pose there was a confidence that shone through, a composure that had more to do with happiness than discipline. To judge from the fashions it had been taken about twenty years ago. There was also a picture of a boy of about thirteen, thin, with the large, intense eyes of an invalid. The picture was mounted in black.
The elderly woman who reminded Pitt of a benign, rather lugubrious horse was presumably Etheridge’s mother. The family resemblance was there; she had the good brow and tender mouth, recalling her granddaughter as she might have been in another age.
To the left side of the table was a large picture of Helen herself with James Carfax. She looked startlingly innocent, her face very young, eyes full of hope and the kind of radiance that belongs to those in love. James also smiled, but only with his mouth and his beautiful teeth; his eyes held satisfaction, almost relief. He seemed more aware of the camera than she.
The date was in the corner, 1883. Possibly it was shortly after their marriage.
Pitt went to the bookcase. A man’s choice of books said much of his character, if the books were actually read; if, on the other hand, they were meant to impress, they revealed something of the people whose opinion mattered to him. If they were merely to decorate the wall they revealed nothing, except the certain shallowness of a person who used books for such a purpose. These were well-used volumes of history, philosophy, and a few classic works of literature.
It was Helen herself who appeared nearly ten minutes later, ashen-faced and dressed entirely in black, which made her look younger, but also wearier, as if she were recovering from a long and confining illness. But her composure was admirable.
“Good morning, Inspector Pitt,” she said levelly. “I believe you wish to search for the letter I mentioned last night? I doubt you will find it—I don’t imagine my father will have preserved it. But of course you may look.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Carfax.” He wanted to apologize for disturbing her, but he could think of nothing that would not sound trivial in the circumstances and so found himself following her silently across the gaslit hallway. An upstairs maid with a pile of laundry and a tweeny of about fourteen