Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [88]
They were unhappy with the idea, especially of accusing Hallam, but they conceded that it seemed unavoidable that it was someone in the house—most likely the valet or the footman.
Pitt did not argue with them or give them all the reasons why he thought it was Hallam. After all, most of it was deduction and the misery in the man’s face, the horror within him that was greater than anything outside. They could so easily have said it was simply the terrors of a man who drinks too much and cannot stop himself. And he could not have reasoned otherwise.
He arrived at the Walk in the late morning and went straight to the house. He rang at the front door and waited. Incredibly, there was no answer. He tried again, and again there was nothing. Had some domestic crisis occupied the footman to the neglect of his usual duties?
He decided to go around to the kitchen door. There surely would be servants there; there were always maids in a kitchen, at any time of the day.
He was still yards short of the door when he saw the scullery maid. She looked up and gave a yelp, grabbing at her apron front and staring at him.
“Good morning,” he said, trying to force a smile.
She stood frozen to the spot, speechless.
“Good morning,” he repeated. “I can’t make anyone hear at the front. May I come in through the kitchen?”
“The servants has got the day off,” she said breathlessly. “There’s just me and cook, and Polly. And Mr. Cayley in’t up yet!”
Pitt swore under his breath. Had that fool of a constable allowed them all to leave the Walk—including the murderer?
“Where have they gone?” he demanded.
“Well, ’oskins, that’s the valet, ’e’s in ’is own room, I reckon. I ain’t seen ’im today, but Polly took ’im a tray o’ toast and a pot o’ tea. And Albert, that’s the footman, I reckon as ’e’s probably gorn round to Lord Dilbridge’s, ’cos ’e’s got a fancy for their upstairs maid. Is anything wrong, sir?”
Pitt felt a wave of relief. This time the smile was real.
“No, I shouldn’t think so. But I’d like to come in all the same. I dare say someone could wake Mr. Cayley for me. I need to see him to ask him about one or two things.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t, sir. Mr. Cayley, well, ’e’s—’e won’t like it. ’E in’t very well in the mornings!” She looked anxious, as if she feared she would be blamed for Pitt’s arrival.
“I dare say not,” he agreed. “But this is police business, and it can’t wait. Just let me in, and I’ll wake him myself, if you prefer?”
She looked very dubious, but she knew authority when she heard it and led him obediently through the kitchens and stopped at the baize door to the rest of the house. Pitt understood.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell him you had no choice.” He pushed the door open and went into the hall. He had only got as far as the bottom stair when the barest movement caught his eye, just an inch or two, as of something unfixed among the straight wooden pillars of the stairway.
He looked up.
It was Hallam Cayley, swinging by his neck very, very slightly from his dressing gown cord, attached to the bannister where it ran along the landing.
Only for the first second was Pitt surprised. Then it all seemed dreadfully, tragically inevitable.
He started to climb up slowly until he reached the landing. Closer to, it was obvious Hallam was dead. His face was mottled but had not the purplish look of suffocation. He must have broken his neck as soon as he jumped. He was lucky. A man of his weight might easily have snapped the cord and ended up two stories below, broken-backed but still alive.
Pitt could not haul him up alone. He would have to send one of the servants for Forbes, and a police surgeon, the whole team. He turned around and went down slowly. What a sad, predictable end to a wretched story. There was no satisfaction in it, no