Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [7]
“It was one person?” Pitt said quietly.
The surgeon drew in his breath between his teeth.
“You are right,” he conceded. “I was making assumptions. I simply cannot imagine this sort of . . . lunacy . . . being a mutual affair. There is something essentially solitary about obsession, and obsessive—dear God—this is, if anything in the world is. I suppose some alternative is conceivable, but you’ll have to prove it to me before I’ll believe it. In my opinion one solitary man did this because of a perverse passion, a love or a hatred so strong that it broke all the bands of sense, even of self-preservation, and not only did he strike that man and kill him, he then was compelled to dress him like a woman and set him adrift on the river.” He swiveled to look at Pitt sharply. “I can’t think of any sane reason for doing that. Can you?”
“It obscures his identity . . .” Pitt said thoughtfully.
“Rubbish!” the surgeon snapped. “Could have taken his clothes off and wrapped him in a blanket to do that. Certainly didn’t have to set him out like the Lady of Shalott—or Ophelia, or whoever it is.”
“Didn’t Ophelia drown herself ?” Pitt asked.
“All right—Lady of Shalott, then,” the surgeon snapped. “She was stricken by a curse. Does that suit you better?”
Pitt smiled wryly. “I’m looking for something human. I don’t suppose you can tell if he was French, can you?”
The surgeon’s eyes opened very wide. “No—I cannot! What do you expect—‘made in France’ on the soles of his feet?”
Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets. He felt self-conscious now for having asked. “Signs of travel, illnesses, past surgery . . . I don’t know.”
The surgeon shook his head. “Nothing helpful. Teeth are excellent, one small scratch on the finger, just an ordinary dead man wearing a green dress and chains. Sorry.”
Pitt gave him a long, level stare, then thanked him and left.
Early afternoon found Pitt at the French Embassy—after he had eaten a sandwich in a public house, with a pint of cider. He did not wish to see Meissonier again. He would only repeat what he had said at Horseferry Stairs, but Pitt was not convinced that the man in the boat was not the diplomat Bonnard. So far it was the only suggestion he had, and Meissonier had been acutely uncomfortable. There had been relief in his face when he had seen the body more closely, but his anxiety had not vanished altogether. Had it been only because there was nothing that could be traced to him and he was free to deny it was Bonnard?
How could Pitt now question him again? He would appear to be calling Meissonier a liar, which, considering he was a foreign diplomat— a guest in England, as he had pointed out—would be sufficient to cause an unpleasant incident for which Pitt would rightly get the blame.
The answer was that he must find some other excuse to call. But what could that be? Meissonier had denied all connection with the corpse. There were no questions to ask him.
Pitt was already at the door. He must either knock or continue along the street. He knocked.
The door was opened by a footman in full livery.
“Yes sir?”
“Good afternoon,” Pitt said hastily. He produced a card and handed it to the footman, speaking at the same time. “One of your diplomats was reported missing, I now believe in error, according to Monsieur Meissonier. However, before I alter the police record I should like to speak to the person who made the original report. It would look better if he were the person to withdraw it. Tidier . . .”
“Indeed? Who would that be, sir?” The footman’s expression did not change in the slightest.
“I don’t know.” He had only just thought of the excuse. He should have asked the constable at Horseferry Stairs, but it had not mattered then. “The gentleman reported missing is Monsieur Bonnard. I imagine it would be whoever he works with, or is his friend.”