Rutland Place - Anne Perry [27]
Alston Spencer-Brown faced them, bristling with shock and anger.
“Who the devil are you, sir?” He glared at Pitt. “And what are you doing in my house?”
Pitt accepted the anger for what it was, but there was still no way of dealing with it that took away the hurt or the embarrassment afterward.
“Inspector Pitt,” he said without pretense. “Dr. Mulgrew called me, as was his duty.”
“Duty?” Alston demanded, swinging round to face Mulgrew. “I have the duty in this house, sir. It is my wife who is dead!” He swallowed. “God rest her soul. It is no concern of yours! There is nothing you can do for her now. She must have had a heart attack, poor creature. My butler tells me she had passed away before you even arrived. I cannot think why you are still here. Except perhaps as a courtesy to inform me yourself, for which I thank you. You may feel yourself released from all obligation now, both as physician and as friend. I am obliged to you.”
No one moved.
“It was not her heart,” Mulgrew said slowly, then sneezed and fished for a handkerchief. “At least it was, but not of itself.” He blew his nose. “I’m afraid it was caused by poison.”
All the color drained from Alston’s face, and for a moment he swayed on his feet. Pitt believed no man could act such a total and paralyzing shock.
“Poison?” Alston spoke with difficulty. “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”
“I’m sorry.” Mulgrew raised his head slowly to stare at him. “I’m sorry. But she ate or drank something that poisoned her. I think either belladonna or something very like it, but I can’t be sure yet. I had to call the police. I had no choice.”
“That’s preposterous! Mina would never have—” He was lost for words; all reason seemed to have betrayed itself and he abandoned the attempt to understand.
“Come.” Mulgrew went toward him and eased him to the big, padded chair.
Pitt went to the door and called the footman for brandy. It came; Pitt poured it and gave it to Alston, who drank without taste or pleasure.
“I don’t understand,” he repeated. “It’s ridiculous. It cannot be true!”
Pitt hated the necessity that drove him to speak.
“I presume you know of no tragedy or fear that could have driven your wife to such a state of distress,” he began.
Alston stared at him.
“What are you suggesting, sir? That my wife committed suicide? How—how dare you!” His chin quivered with outrage.
Pitt lowered his voice. He could not look the man in the eyes.
“Can you imagine any circumstance in which your wife would take poison by accident, sir?” he asked.
Alston opened his mouth, then closed it again. The full implication of the question reached him. He let several moments tick by as he fought to see another answer.
“No,” he said at length. “I cannot. But then neither can I conceive of any reason whatsoever why she should take it knowingly. She was a perfectly happy woman, she had everything she desired. She was an excellent wife to me, and I was happy to give her everything she wanted—comfort, a place in Society, travel when she desired it, clothes, jewels, whatever she wished. And I am a most moderate man. I have neither ill temper nor any excesses of nature. Wilhelmina was well liked and respected, as indeed she deserved to be.”
“Then the answer must be in something we do not yet know.” Pitt put the reasoning as gently as he could. “I hope you will understand, sir, that we must persist until we discover what that is.”
“No—no, I don’t understand! Why can’t you let the poor woman rest in peace?” Alston sat more upright and set the brandy glass down on the table. “Nothing any of us can do can help her now. We can at least let her memory rest with dignity. In fact, I demand it!”
Pitt hated this part. He had expected it; it was natural. It was what most people would feel and do, but that did not make it any easier. It was familiar to him: he had said his part more times than he could count, but it was always the first time for the hearer.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer-Brown, but your wife died in circumstances that have not yet been explained. It may have been an accident, although,