Rutland Place - Anne Perry [24]
“Yes, sir,” the footman said formally. “You’ll be wanting to speak to Dr. Mulgrew, no doubt. A carriage had been sent for Mr. Spencer-Brown, but he is not home yet.”
“Do you know where he is?” Pitt asked merely as a matter of course.
“Yes, sir. He went to the city as usual. He has several interests, I believe. He is on the board of directors of a number of important business houses, and a newspaper. If you will come this way, sir, I will show you to the morning room where Dr. Mulgrew is waiting.”
Pitt and Harris followed him along the hall toward the back of the house. Pitt eyed the furnishings and noted that a great deal of money had been invested in them, whether purely for appearance’s sake or not. If the Spencer-Browns had any financial worries, a few of the pictures on the staircase and hall would have given them an income the like of which Pitt could have lived on for several years. He had come to be a fair judge of the price of a painting in the course of his professional connections with the art world.
The morning-room fire was banked high, and Mulgrew stood so close to it Pitt fancied he could smell his trousers singeing in the heat. He was a stocky man with white, heavy hair and a fine white mustache. At present his eyes were watery and his nose distinctly red. He sneezed loudly as they came in, and withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket.
“Cold,” he said in completely unnecessary explanation. “Filthy thing. No cure for it. Never has been. Name’s Mulgrew. I suppose you are the police?”
“Yes, sir. Inspector Pitt and Constable Harris.”
“How do you do. Hate a spring cold—nothing worse, except a summer one.”
“I understand the parlormaid found Mrs. Spencer-Brown dead when she came to inquire about the afternoon’s arrangements?” Pitt asked. “Did the maid call you?”
“Not precisely.” Mulgrew put his handkerchief away. “She told the butler, which is natural, I suppose. Butler came to look for himself, then sent the footman round for me. Only live round the corner. I came straightaway. Wasn’t a thing I could do. Poor creature was stone dead. I used the telephone to call a friend of mine, William Wardley. He sent a message to you.” He sneezed again and whipped out his handkerchief.
“You ought to take something for that,” Pitt said, moving a step back. “Hot drink and a mustard poultice.”
“No cure for it.” Mulgrew shook his head and waved his hands. “No cure at all. Poison, but I can’t say what yet—not for certain.”
“You are quite sure?” Pitt did not want to insult him by questioning his competence too obviously. “Couldn’t be any form of illness?”
Mulgrew narrowed his eyes and looked at Pitt closely.
“Couldn’t take my oath on it, but don’t want to wait until I can before I tell you! Too late for you to see the scene if I do! Not a fool, you know?”
Pitt found himself wanting to smile and had to force his mouth into a more appropriate expression.
“Thank you!” It seemed the most civil thing to say. “I take it you are Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s regular physician?”
“Yes, naturally. That’s why they called me. Perfectly healthy woman. Usual small ailments from time to time, but then haven’t we all?”
“Had she any medicine that you know of which she might have taken in excess, by accident?”
“Nothing I’ve given her. Only ever had the occasional cold or fit of the vapors. No cure for them, you know? Just part of life—best to put up with it gracefully. A little sympathy, if you can get it, and a good sleep.”
Pitt again controlled his desire to smile at the man.
“What about anyone else in the house?” he asked.
“What? Oh. Doubt she’d be stupid enough to take anyone else’s medicine. Not a silly woman, as women go! But then I suppose she could have, at that. Not a lot of sense when it comes to medicine, most people.” He sneezed again, fiercely. “Gave Mr. Spencer-Brown some stuff for pain in the stomach. Though I think he brings