Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [39]
It seemed Helen did not want to abandon the possibility either, no matter how slim.
“Yes—yes, he may have put it upstairs. I will show you his dressing room; that would be a private place to keep such a thing. There would be no chance of my finding it and being distressed.” And she led him out into the hall and up the lovely curved staircase and along the landing to the master bedroom and the dressing room beside it. Here the curtains were not fully drawn, and Pitt had time to notice the view across the mews to the loveliness of the gardens of Lambeth Palace.
He turned to find Helen standing beside a dresser, the top drawer of which had a brass-bound keyhole. Silently she unlocked it for him and pulled out the drawer. It contained Etheridge’s personal jewelry, two watches, several pair of cuff links set with semiprecious stones and three plain gold pair, engraved with a crest, as well as two finger rings, one a woman’s with a fine emerald.
“My mother’s,” Helen said softly at Pitt’s shoulder. “He kept it himself. He said I should have it after he was ... dead... .” For a moment her composure broke and she swung round to hide her face till she should regain it.
There was nothing Pitt could do; even to show that he had noticed would be inappropriate. They were strangers, of opposite sexes, and socially the gulf between them was unbridgeable. To share whatever pity he felt, whatever understanding, would be inexcusable.
Instead he searched the drawers as quickly as possible, seeing quite easily that there was nothing of a threatening nature: an old love letter from Etheridge’s wife, two bank notes, for ten pounds and twenty pounds, respectively, and some photographs of his family. Pitt slid the drawer shut and looked up to find that Helen had turned to face him again, the moment mastered.
“No?” She spoke as though she had known the conclusion.
“No,” he agreed. “But then, as you say, ma’am, it is the sort of thing one destroys.”
“Yes... .” She seemed to want to say something more, but could not find the form of it.
Pitt waited. He could not help her, although he was as aware of her anxiety as of the sunlight which filled the room. Finally he could bear it no longer.
“It may be in his office in the House of Commons,” he said quietly. “I have yet to go there.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“But if you think of anything else to tell me, Mrs. Carfax, please send a message to Bow Street, and I shall call on you at your first convenience.”
“Thank you—thank you, Inspector,” she replied, seeming a little relieved. She led him back onto the landing. As he was passing the top of the stairs he noticed two faded patches on the wallpaper, only slight, but it seemed a picture had been removed, and two others changed in position to return the balance.
“Your father sold one of his paintings recently,” he said. “Would you know to whom?”
She was startled, but she did not refuse to answer. “It was my painting, Mr. Pitt. It can have nothing to do with his death.”
“I see. Thank you.” So she had recently acquired an amount of money. He would have to investigate it discreetly and discover how much.
The front door opened and James Carfax came in on a gust of spring wind and sunlight. The footman came forward and took his hat, coat, and umbrella, and James strode across the hall, stopping as the movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye, his face darkening with irritation and then, as he recognized Pitt, anger.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “For God’s sake, man, my wife’s just lost her father! Get out on the streets and look for whatever lunatic’s responsible. Don’t waste your time here harassing us!”
“James—” Helen started down the stairs, her hand white, on the bannister.