Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [12]
“Burn?” she said with a frown.
“Quite a small burn,” he described its shape as the police surgeon had described it to him. “But fairly deep, and recent.”
To his amazement, every vestige of color fled from her face.
“Burn?” her voice was faint. “No, I cannot imagine. I’m sure I know nothing of it. Perhaps—perhaps she had—” she coughed “—had taken some interest in the kitchen? You must ask my sister-in-law. I—I really have no idea.”
He was puzzled. She was plainly horrified. Was it simply that she knew the site of the injury and was agonized with embarrassment by it because he was a man, and an infinitely inferior person in her social hierarchy? He did not understand her well enough to know.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it is of no importance.” And with further polite murmurings he was shown out by the footman into the light and sun again.
He stood for several minutes before deciding whom to call upon next. Forbes was somewhere in the Walk, talking to the servants, relishing his new importance in investigating a murder, and indulging a long cherished curiosity about the precise workings of the households of a social order beyond all his previous experience. He would be a mine of information tonight, most of it useless, but in all the welter of trivial habit, there might be some observation that led to another—and another. He smiled broadly as he thought of it, and a passing gardener’s boy stared at him with amazement, and a little awe for one who was obviously not a gentleman and yet could stand idle in the street and grin at himself.
In the end he tried the central house, belonging to one Paul Alaric, and was told very civilly that Monsieur Alaric was not expected home until dark, but if the Inspector would care to call then, no doubt Monsieur would receive him.
He had not yet composed in his mind what he meant to say to George, so he shelved it and tried the house further on, belonging to a Mr. Hallam Cayley.
Cayley was still at a very late breakfast but invited him in, offering him a cup of strong coffee, which Pitt declined. He preferred tea anyway, and this looked as thick as the oiled water in the London docks.
Cayley smiled sourly and poured himself another cupful. He was a good-looking man in his early thirties, although excellent, somewhat aquiline features were spoiled by a deeply pocked skin, and already there was a shade of temper, a slackness, marking itself around his mouth. This morning his eyes were puffed and a little bloodshot. Pitt guessed at a heavy engagement with the bottle the evening before, perhaps several bottles.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Cayley began before Pitt asked. “I don’t know anything. I was at the Dilbridges’ party most of the night. Anyone’ll tell you that.”
Pitt’s heart sank. Was everyone going to be able to account for themselves? No, that was foolish. It did not matter, it was almost certainly some servant who had had too much to drink, got above himself, and then when the girl had screamed, he had knifed her in fear, to keep her quiet, perhaps not even meaning to kill. Forbes would probably find the answers. He himself was merely asking the masters because someone had to, as a matter of form, so they would know the police were doing their jobs—and better he than Forbes, with his awkward tongue and his glaring curiosity.
“Do you happen to recall who you were with about ten o’clock, sir?” he recalled himself to his questions.
“Actually, I had a row with Barham Stephens,” Cayley helped himself to yet more coffee and shook the pot irritably when it did no more than half-fill his cup. He slammed it down, rattling the lid. “Fool said he didn’t lose at cards. Can’t stomach a bad loser. No one can.” He glared at his crumb strewn plate.
“You had this disagreement at ten o’clock?” Pitt