Callander Square - Anne Perry [6]
“Yes, sir?” she said after a moment.
“Good afternoon. May I speak with Mrs. Bolsover, if she is at home. My name is Pitt; I am from the police.”
“The police!”
“If I may?” He moved to step inside and she retreated nervously.
“Mrs. Bolsover is expecting callers,” the maid said quickly. “I don’t think—”
”It’s important,” Pitt insisted. “Please ask her.”
The girl hesitated; he knew she was concerned in case he was still there when the lady callers arrived, thus embarrassing her mistress. After all, respectable people did not have the police in the house at all, let alone at the front door.
“The sooner you ask her, the more quickly I shall be able to finish my business,” Pitt pointed out persuasively.
She saw his argument and scurried off to comply; anything to get him off the doorstep.
Sophie Bolsover was a pretty woman, not unlike her own parlormaid, had the girl been dieted a little, dressed in silk, and her hair curled and coiffed.
“Good afternoon,” she said quickly. “Polly says you are from the police.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He respected her social embarrassment and explained his business as rapidly as possible, then asked her permission to speak to her servants as he had done in the other houses. It was granted hastily and he was almost physically bundled into the housekeeper’s parlor to conduct his inquiries safely out of sight. He began with the parlormaid Polly, to leave her free for her afternoon duties as soon as the first caller should arrive.
He learned nothing but names and faces; he would store them all in his mind, consider them, rule out the impossibilities. Perhaps the sheer tension, the presence of the police in the house, would frighten someone into indiscretions, mistakes. Or perhaps they would never find out what sordid affair, or private tragedy of love and deceit, lay behind the small deaths.
The Campbells and the Dorans were, as General Balantyne had said, not in residence at the moment. He passed the vacant house, ascertained that the reclusive Housmann did indeed employ only menservants, and it was after four o’clock when he knocked at the last door—that of Sir Robert and Lady Carlton.
It was opened by a startled parlormaid.
“Yes, sir?”
“Inspector Pitt, from the police.” He knew he was intruding, as it was the most inconvenient of all times to call, the time when the rigid etiquette of the social hierarchy was observed to the letter, the intricacies of rank, whether one called to visit, or merely left a card, whether calls were acknowledged, returned, who spoke to whom, and on what terms. To have the police at such a time was unforgettable. He endeavored to make his presence as inoffensive as possible. They could not have been taken by surprise. Backdoor gossip would long ago have reached them carrying his purpose, whom he had seen, what had been asked, probably even a minute description of him and an acute assessment of his precise social status.
The parlormaid took a deep breath.
“You had better come in,” she stepped back, surveying him with anxiety and disapproval, as if he might have brought crime in with him like a disease. “Come through to the back, we’ll find a place for you. The mistress can’t see you, of course. She has callers. Lady Townshend,” she added with pride. Pitt was ignorant of Lady Townshend’s importance, but he endeavored to look suitably impressed. The parlormaid saw his expression and was mollified. “I’ll get Mr. Johnson,” she added. “He’s the butler.”
“Thank you.” Pitt sat down where she pointed and she swept out.
At home Charlotte Pitt had attended to the ordering of her house, which took her no more than an hour, then had immediately dispatched her single housemaid to purchase a daily newspaper so that she might discover what it was