Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [141]
The words were out before he had time to reconsider.
“That’s a nice piece. Have you sold any of those lately?” He picked it up and felt the solidity of it. It was a perfect weapon, round, hard, heavy, and easily handled.
“That’s the last one I got, till more come in,” the ironmonger replied. “You’re right, sir, it’s a good one. That’ll be ninepence to you, sir.”
Pitt was quite sure it would be ninepence to anybody, but he did not say so. He might have bought a new rolling pin for Charlotte, but not this one.
“Did you sell one about two weeks ago?” he persisted.
“Probably. We sell a lot of those. They’re very good quality.” The man was determined to do business.
“I daresay,” Pitt replied with a sudden wave of anger and unhappiness. “But I’m a police officer investigating the murder of Mr. Cathcart, about a mile away from here, and I need an answer to my question. Did you sell one of those exactly two weeks ago to a tall, young man, probably with fair hair?”
The ironmonger paled visibly. “I—I didn’t know there was anything wrong! He seemed . . . very quiet, very nicely spoken. But, no, not fair hair, as I recall, rather more . . . sort of . . .”
“His hair doesn’t matter!” Pitt said impatiently. “Was he tall, slender, young . . . about twenty-five?” Although Orlando could have disguised that too, if he had thought of it.
“I . . . I can’t remember. I sold one that day, though. I know that because I keep very close watch on my stock. Never run out of any household ironmongery if I can help it. If it can be bought, it can be bought here at Foster and Sons.”
“Thank you. You may be required to testify to that, so please keep your records safe.”
“I will! I will!”
Outside on the footpath Tellman stopped and stared at Pitt, his face somber.
“There isn’t much more to do, is there.” It was a statement, almost a surrender. “He could have spent the time till dark in any one of the pubs around here. If you want I’ll go to all of them and ask, but I reckon we don’t need to know, now that we’ve got the rolling pin.”
“No . . . not really,” Pitt agreed. He smiled and straightened his shoulders a little. “We’d better go and see if we can find it, although it’s probably in the river. It would be proof. We’ll go through the crime, see what must have happened.”
Tellman pulled his coat collar up and they set out back to the house on the river, walking silently. They must do it before dark, and there were only a couple of hours left.
Mrs. Geddes had been sent for and was at the house waiting, her face full of mistrust as she watched them enter the hallway and solemnly begin the reenactment of the murder, Pitt taking the part of Orlando, Tellman of Cathcart.
Of course they had no idea of what conversation there might have been between the two men, or what reason Orlando had given for his visit. They began from a point which was incontestable.
“He must have stood here,” Tellman said, thin-lipped, placing himself near the pedestal where the vase had been smashed and the alternative set in its stead.
“I wonder why?” Pitt said thoughtfully. “He had his back to Orlando when he was struck, which makes me wonder how Orlando disguised the pin. No one goes to visit carrying a rolling pin, even wrapped in brown paper.”
“Say he’d just bought it . . . on his way?” Tellman suggested, frowning with dislike of the thought even as he said it.
“A young actor?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Don’t see him as a pastry cook, do you?”
“A gift?”
“For whom? A young lady? His mother? Do you see Cecily Antrim rolling pastry?”
Tellman gave him a sour look. “Then he must have had it disguised somehow. Maybe rolled in papers, like a sheaf of pictures or something?”
“That sounds more probable. So if Cathcart were standing where you are, and Orlando here”—Pitt gestured—“then Cathcart unquestionably had his attention on something else, or he would have noticed Orlando unwrap his pictures and take out a rolling pin, and he would have been alarmed . . . it’s an act without reasonable explanation.