Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [15]
“It is not irrelevant, ma’am,” Pitt replied with an effort at patience. She could not help herself: Social values and dignity were her only defense against such enormous fears. “There were crumbs of Stilton cheese on his clothes.”
“Oh.” She apologized stiffly. “I beg your pardon. I suppose you know your trade. Yes, my husband was very fond of the table. He always ate well.”
“Did I understand you earlier to say that he did a certain amount of charity work?”
“He did a great deal of unprofitable work!” she replied with a sudden welling-up of resentment. “He wasted most of his time on people who were—yes—unworthy of him. If you are looking for rivals in his profession, Mr. Pitt, you are wasting your time. My husband had great abilities, but he did not ever realize them as he should have.” Her voice held years of disappointment, of opportunities glimpsed and lost.
“Nevertheless he was well respected, I believe.” Pitt was torn between his instinctive dislike of her and a sense of pity for her frustration. She had been tied to a man who had failed her and there had been no escape for her. Her dreams had been within his reach, and he had refused to pluck them.
She sighed. “Oh, yes, in a certain fashion. He was very entertaining, you know. People liked him.” Her voice lifted a trifle in surprise; it was a fact that she did not understand, and perhaps did not consciously share. Her own disappointment was too deep to find his peccadilloes amusing. “And occasionally he would make a brilliant diagnosis. That was his specialty, you know—diagnosis.”
Pitt reverted to the obvious. “Can you think of anything at all, ma’am, that might help us—anyone who might have borne a grudge? An old patient, perhaps—someone who could not accept the death of a relative and blamed the doctor? Was there anything unusual in Dr. Pinchin’s behavior lately, or any new acquaintance who was out of the ordinary?”
“My husband did not bring his less reputable friends to this house, Mr. Pitt.” Her mouth tightened. “There were certain persons he entertained elsewhere, as I am sure you will understand. And I noticed nothing odd in his behavior—it was just as usual.” A look of unhappiness crossed her face, a mixture of disapproval of the dead man’s habits and a sudden loneliness that he was gone. With all his failings and irritating ways, she had still grown used to him; he had been there for thirty years of her life. Now there was nothing,
For a moment Pitt felt unclouded pity for her, but he knew the gulf between them was too wide to bridge. His understanding would not ease her pain at all; on the contrary, to her it would be presumptuous.
He stood up. “Thank you, ma’am, for your help. I hope I shall not have to disturb you again. I am sure Mr. Mullen can see to everything else I need to know.”
“Good day, Mr. Pitt.” She regarded him bleakly until he had reached the door. She then lifted the pot and poured herself another cup of tea, dabbing her napkin first to her mouth, then up to catch the tears running down her cheeks.
Pitt went out and closed the door with a faint click.
Mullen was waiting for him in the hallway. “Is there anything else, sir?”
Pitt sighed. “Yes, please. I would like you to show me the household accounts, and your cellar. I presume you have approved all the staff before they were hired, and checked their references?”
Mullen stiffened and his expression became chilly. “Most certainly I have. May I ask what you expect to find, Mr. Pitt? They are entirely in order, I assure you. And the staff are all above question in honesty and morals or they would not remain here! And as for any one of them being out at night, that is impossible.”
Pitt was sorry to have offended him. Actually, he had no suspicions of any of the servants. What he was looking for was evidence of Pinchin’s standard