Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [67]
“If God will blame him, I don’t know,” Pitt answered honestly. “But the law will. A man does not need to get drunk.”
Her face did not change. She was continuing with some train of thought that had already begun.
“Sometimes, to cover pain, one drinks too much.” Her words were very careful, weighted. “Perhaps pain or illness or pain of the mind, perhaps a loss.”
He thought immediately of Hallam Cayley’s wife. Was that what she meant him to think? He looked at her, but her face was as smooth now as white satin. He decided to be bold.
“Do you speak of someone in particular, Mrs. Nash?”
Her eyes moved away from his for a moment, and the brilliant blue clouded.
“I would prefer not to speak plainly, Mr. Pitt. I simply do not know. Please do not press me to accuse.” She looked back at him, clear and blazingly frank again. “I promise you, if I should come to learn anything, I shall tell you.”
He stood up. He knew there would be no more.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nash. You have been most helpful. Indeed, you have given me much to consider.” He did not make any trite remarks about having an answer soon. It would be an insult to her.
She smiled very slightly.
“Thank you, Mr. Pitt. Good day.”
“Good day, ma’am,” and he permitted the footman to show him out to the Walk.
He crossed over to the grass on the other side. He knew he was not supposed to stand on it—there was a very small notice to that effect—but he loved the live feel of it under the soles of his boots. Paving stones were insensate, unlovely things, necessary if a thousand people were to walk over them, but hiding the earth.
What had happened in this graceful, orderly Walk that night? What sudden chaos had erupted, and then subsided into so many totally misshapen pieces?
The emotions eluded his grasp. Everything he clutched at fragmented and disappeared.
He must go back to the practical things, the mechanics of murder. Gentlemen such as these in Paragon Walk did not normally carry knives with them. Why had the rapist so opportunely had one with him on this occasion? Was it conceivable that it had not been a blaze of passion at all, but something premeditated? Could it even be that murder had always been the intent, and the rape was incidental, an impulse, or a blind?
But why should anyone murder Fanny Nash? He had never found anybody more innocuous. She was heir to no fortune and was no one’s mistress, nor, as far as he could discover, had anyone shown the slightest romantic interest in her, apart from Algernon Burnon—and even that seemed a very staid affair.
Could it be that Fanny had innocently stumbled on some other secret in the Walk, and died for that? Perhaps without even realizing what it was?
And what had happened to the knife? Did the murderer still have it? Was it hidden somewhere, possibly by now miles away, at the bottom of the river?
And the other practical question—she had been stabbed to death; he could still see in his mind’s eye the thick gore of blood down her body. Why had there been no blood on the road, no trail leading back from the withdrawing room to where she had been attacked? There had been no rain since then. The murderer would have disposed of his clothes, they were easily explained, although Forbes had not been able to find—even with the most diligent questioning—any valet whose master’s wardrobe was depleted or any signs that charred remains had been found in any boiler or fireplace.
But why no blood on the road?
Could it have happened here on this grass or in a flower bed, where it could have been dug in? Or in the bushes where it would not be seen? But neither he nor Forbes had found any sign of struggle, no trampled beds, no broken branches beyond the usual that were explained by a dog, someone stumbling in the dark, a clumsy gardener’s boy, or even a maid and a footman indulging in a little horseplay.
If there had ever been anything, they had not found it or recognized it, and by now it was long covered either by the murderer, or by others.
He was back