Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [73]
On the chiffonier at the side there was a vase of artificial silk flowers, delicate things with gay, gossamer petals. It was a surprising touch of beauty in an unimaginative house.
Adela Pomeroy was at least fifteen years younger than her husband. She stood in the doorway in a lavender robe, trimmed with froths of lace at throat and wrists, and stared at Pitt. Her hair tumbled down her back; she had not bothered to dress it. Her face was fine-boned, her neck too slender. For another few years she would be lovely, before nervous tensions ate the lines deeper and marred the roundness of the flesh.
“Birdie said you are from the police.” She came in and closed the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy. I am sorry, but I have bad news for you.” He wished she would sit down, but she did not. “A man was found this morning whom we believe to be your husband. He had letters identifying him, but we will have someone make certain, of course.”
She still stood without movement or change of expression. Perhaps it was too soon. Shock was like that.
“I am sorry,” he repeated.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes wandered around the room, looking at familiar things. “He wasn’t ill. Was it an accident?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I am afraid it was murder.” She would have to know; there was no kindness in pretending.
“Oh.” There seemed to be no emotion in her. Slowly she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Automatically she pulled across her knees the silk of the robe, and Pitt thought momentarily how beautiful it was. Pomeroy must have been a wealthy man, and more generous than his face suggested. Perhaps it was not a meanness he had seen, but merely the emptiness of death. Maybe he had loved this woman very much, and saved hard to give her these luxuries—the flowers and the robe, Pitt felt what could be a quite unjust dislike well up inside him that he could see no agony or grief in her.
“How did it happen?” she asked.
“He was attacked in the street,” he replied. “He was stabbed. It was probably over very quickly. I dare say there was only a moment of pain.”
Still there was nothing in her face, then a faint surprise. “In the street? You mean he—he was robbed?”
What had she expected? Robbery was not such an uncommon crime, although it was not usually accompanied by such dreadful violence. Maybe he carried little of value. But then robbers were not to know that, until too late.
“He had no money on him,” he answered her. “But his watch was still in his pocket, and a very good leather case for cards and letters.”
“He never carried much money.” She was still staring ahead of her, as if Pitt were a disembodied voice. “A guinea or two.”
“When did you last see him, Mrs. Pomeroy?” He would have to tell her the rest; where he was found, the mutilation. Better she hear it from him ...
“Yesterday evening.” Her answer cut into his thoughts. “He was going to deliver a book to one of his pupils. He was a teacher. But you probably know that—mathematics.”
“No, I didn’t know. Did he tell you the name of the pupil, and where he lived?”
“Morrison. I’m afraid I don’t know where—not far away. I think he intended to walk. He would have a note of it in his books. He was very meticulous.” Still there was no emotion in her voice except the faint surprise, as if she could not comprehend that such a violent thing should have happened to so ordinary a man. She stood up and went to the window. She was very slight and fragile, like a bird. Even in this apparent state of numbness she had a grace that was individual, a way of holding her head high. Pitt found it hard to imagine her in the arms of the man whose face