Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [42]
Finally, on being handed Pitt’s note regarding the digitalis, he asked Lettie to take him upstairs and show him Mrs. March’s room and her medicine cabinet, and any other medicine cabinet in the house.
She put her hands up to tuck her hair in more tidily, then smoothed her apron over her slim hips. To Stripe, blushing a little at the thought and terrified lest it should show in his face, she was the prettiest, most pleasing woman he had ever seen. He found himself hoping this investigation would take a long time—several weeks at the least.
He followed her obediently up the back stairs, watching the tilt of her head and the swish of her skirt and finding he was daydreaming when they came to the pantry. She had spoken to him twice before he pulled his attention to the subject at hand and looked round at the tables where the trays were laid.
“Where was Lord Ashworth’s tray with the coffee?” he asked, clearing his throat painfully.
“Aren’t you listening to me?” she said, shaking her head. “I just told you, it was there.” She pointed to the end of the table nearest the door.
“Was that usual? I mean ...” Her eyes were the color of the sky above the river on a summer day. He coughed hard and began again. “I mean, did you put them in the same places each morning, miss?”
“That one, yes,” she replied, apparently unaware of his gaze. “Because it was coffee, and the others were tea.”
“Tell me again what happens every morning.” He knew what she had already said, but he wanted to listen to her again and he could think of no more relevant questions.
Dutifully she repeated the story, and he noted it down again.
“Thank you, miss,” he said politely, closing his notebook and putting it in his pocket. “Now, would you show me Mrs. March’s medicine cupboard, if you please.”
She looked a little pale, forgetting her general umbrage at having the police in the house at this sudden reminder of death.
“Yes, of course I will.” She led the way through the upstairs baize door onto the main landing and along to old Mrs. March’s room. She knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, opened it and went in.
The room was like no other Stripe had ever imagined, let alone seen. It was as pink and white as an apple blossom. Everywhere he looked there were frills: laces, doilies, ribbons, photographs with satin bindings, a suffocating sea of pillows, pink velvet curtains drawn and swagged to reveal white net ruching beneath.
Stripe was robbed of words; the air seemed motionless and hot, and it clogged his lungs. Awkwardly, in case he left a large footprint in it, he tiptoed across the pink carpet behind Lettie to the ornate cupboard painted pink and white, where she opened a little drawer and looked into it, her face grave.
Stripe stood behind her, smelling a slight flower perfume from her hair, and peeked down at the little space packed with bottles, twists of paper, and cardboard pillboxes.
“Is the digitalis there?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“No, Mr. Stripe,” she said very quietly, her hand trembling above the drawer. “I know what all these are, and the digitalis is gone.”
She was frightened, and he wanted to reassure her, promise he would look after her himself, personally see that no one ever hurt her. But that would offend her so much the very idea was painful to him. She would be outraged by his temerity. Doubtless she already had admirers—that thought, too, was extraordinarily unpleasant. He pulled his wits together.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a businesslike manner. “Could it be in another drawer, or on the bedside table?” He looked round the cloying room. There could be an entire apothecary’s shop hidden in all these billowing frills and folds.
“No,” Lettie said decidedly, her voice high. “I have tidied this room this morning. The digitalis is gone, Mr. Stripe. I—” She shivered.
“Yes?” he said hopefully.
“Nothing.”
“Thank you, miss.” He