Callander Square - Anne Perry [99]
He was correct. Reggie was still at the table, and about to expostulate at the footman’s unseemly interruption, and to tell him rather sharply that the police could wait, when he glanced past the man’s sober figure to see the enormous caped figure of Pitt who had followed him in; precisely to avoid being dismissed in such a fashion.
“Really!” Reggie glared at him. “I appreciate that you have a difficult job to do, but a little unpleasantness in the square does not absolve you from all need to follow the ordinary dictates of good manners. I shall see you when I have finished my breakfast! You may wait until then in the morning room, if you wish.”
Pitt eyed the footman, and found to his satisfaction that the man’s fear of the police was greater than his fear of his employer. He retreated like water going down a sink, flowing outward with a somewhat circular motion and disappearing down the passage.
“The matter is too urgent to admit of delay,” Pitt said firmly. “Dr. Bolsover has been murdered.”
Reggie stared at him glassily.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dr. Bolsover has been murdered,” Pitt repeated. “His body was found this morning, at a few minutes after eight o’clock.”
“Good God!” Reggie dropped his fork laden with food and it fell with a clatter, upsetting his knife and sliding to the floor, taking bacon and sausage with it. “Good God,” he said again. “What a frightful thing.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed, watching him closely. Did he really have the wit to act so well? He seemed stupefied with shock. “Murder is always frightful,” he went on. “One way and another. Of course many people who are murdered rather bring it upon themselves.”
“What in blazes do you mean?” Reggie’s heavy face flushed scarlet. “I call that damned impertinent! Damned bad taste! Poor old Freddie lying dead somewhere, and you stand there saying he deserved it!”
“No,” Pitt corrected carefully. “You leaped to that conclusion. What I said was that some people who are murdered bring it upon themselves; blackmailers, and so on,” he leaned a little forward, watching Reggie’s face minutely. He saw what he was looking for, the ebb of color, the nervous spasm of muscles.
“Blackmailers?” Reggie repeated hoarsely, his eyes unfocused like a stuffed doll’s.
“Yes,” Pitt pulled up a chair and sat down. “Blackmailers rather often get murdered. Victim sees it as his only way out. Blackmailers don’t seem to realize when they’ve reached the critical point. They press too far.” He opened his hands wide to express an explosion, an eruption.
Reggie swallowed convulsively, his eyes fixed on Pitt as if mesmerized. He seemed to be unable to speak.
Pitt gambled.
“That is what happened to Dr. Bolsover, isn’t it, sir?”
“Dr.—Bolsover—?”
“Yes. He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”
“No—no! I told you! It—it was Jemima, the governess. I said that to you before.”
“So you did: you said that the governess was blackmailing you over the fact that you have had a passing affair with your parlormaid. I wouldn’t have thought that was worth paying for, sir, since I knew about it, the servants knew, I would be surprised if the neighbors had not guessed; and I imagine your wife also knows, even if she prefers to pretend that she does not.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Reggie tried to look affronted.
“No more than I say, sir: that I find it hard to believe that you would submit to blackmail over something which is a subject of general knowledge, even though it is not mentioned; and which is a little sordid, but not by any means an infrequent offense; and hardly a crime.”
“I—I told you—of course it is not a crime! But right now it could be misunderstood! People could think—”
“You mean the police could think—?” Pitt raised his eyebrows sardonically.
A tide of color