Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [10]
An embroidered sampler hung above the mantel, a single, baleful unblinking eye, and underneath it in cross stitch, “God sees all.”
He shivered and sat down with his back to it.
Afton Nash came in and closed the door behind him. He was a tall man, becoming portly, with strong, straight features. But for a certain heaviness and a tightening in the mouth, it should have been a handsome face. Curiously, it was not even pleasing.
“I don’t know what we can do for you, Mr. Pitt,” he said coldly. “The poor child lived with my brother Diggory and his wife. Her moral welfare was their concern. Perhaps on hindsight it would have been better if we had taken her, but it appeared a perfectly adequate arrangement at the time. Jessamyn cares for Society more than we do, and therefore was more suitable to introduce Fanny.”
Pitt should have been used to it, the defensive drawing together, the protestations of innocence, even of noninvolvement. They came in some form or other every time. And yet this was peculiarly repellent to him. He remembered the girl’s face, so unmarked by life; she had hardly begun, and she was destroyed so quickly. Here in the comfortless room her brother was talking about “moral welfare” and looking to exonerate himself from whatever blame there turned out to be.
“One cannot ‘make arrangements’ against murder,” Pitt could hear the edge in his own voice.
“One can surely make arrangements against rape,” Afton answered tartly. “Young women of virtuous habits do not court such an end.”
“Have you some reason to suppose your sister was not of virtuous habits?” Pitt had to ask, although everything in him already knew the answer.
Afton turned round and regarded him with a curl of distaste.
“She was raped before she was murdered, Inspector. You must know that as well as I. Please do not be coy. It is disgusting. You would be better employed speaking to my brother Diggory. He has some curious tastes. Though I would have expected even he would not infect his sister with them, but I could be mistaken. Perhaps one of his less salubrious friends was in the Walk that night? I assume you will do your best to ascertain precisely who was here?”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed with equal coolness. “We shall be determining the whereabouts of everyone we can.”
Afton’s eyebrows rose a little.
“The residents of the Walk can hardly interest you—the servants perhaps, although I doubt it. I, for one, am most particular about the type of manservant I employ, and I do not allow my women servants to have followers.”
Pitt felt a twinge of pity for the servants, and the bleak, joyless lives they must lead.
“A person might be in no way involved,” he pointed out, “and yet possibly have seen something of significance. The smallest observation may help.”
Afton grunted in irritation that he had not seen the point for himself. He flicked a nonexistent crumb from his sleeve.
“Well, I was at home that night. I remained in the billiard room most of the evening, with my brother Fulbert. I neither saw nor heard anything.”
Pitt could not afford to give up so easily. He must not let his dislike of the man show. He had to struggle.
“Perhaps you noticed something earlier, in the last few weeks—” he began again.
“If I had noticed such a thing, Inspector, do you not imagine I should have done something about it?” Afton’s heavy nose twitched minutely. “Apart from the unpleasantness for all of us of such a thing happening here, Fanny was my sister!”
“Of course, sir—but with the perception of hindsight?” Pitt finished the question.
Afton considered again.
“Not that I can recollect,” he said carefully. “But if something does occur, I shall inform you. Was there anything else?”
“Yes, please I would like to speak to the rest of your family.”
“I think if they had observed anything they would have spoken to me of it,” Afton said with impatience.
“Nevertheless, I would like to see them,” Pitt persisted.
Afton stared at him. He was a tall man, and they looked eye to eye. Pitt refused to waver.
“I suppose it