Rutland Place - Anne Perry [45]
“Now I think you have learned enough from us. I’m taking Eloise away from here, away from Rutland Place, until the worst of the shock is over, and she can rest in the country and put this from her mind. I don’t know what Mrs. Spencer-Brown indicated to her about her private agonies, but I will not permit you to press her any further. It is obviously a—an intimate and extremely painful subject. I trust you are gentleman sufficient to understand that?”
“Tormod—” Eloise began.
“No, my dear, the Inspector can discover whatever else he needs to know in some other fashion. Poor Mina seems unquestionably to have taken her own life. There was nothing you could have done about it, and I will not have you blame yourself in any way at all! We may never know what it was that she could no longer bear, and perhaps it is better that we should not. A person’s most terrible griefs should be buried decently with them. There are things that lie so close to the heart of a person, every decency of man or God demands they remain private!” He lifted his head and glared at Pitt, defying him to contend.
Pitt looked at them sitting side by side on the sofa. He would get nothing more from Eloise, and in truth he was inclined to agree that Mina’s suffering, whatever it was, deserved to be buried with her, not turned over, weighed, and measured by other hands, even the impersonal ones of the police.
He stood up. “Quite,” he said succinctly. “Once I am sure that it was simply a tragedy and there has been no crime, even of negligence, then it would be far better if we all left the matter to be forgotten in kinder memories.”
Tormod relaxed, his shoulders easing, the fabric of his coat falling back to its natural lines. He stood up also and extended his hand, holding Pitt’s in a hard grip.
“I’m glad you see it so. Good day to you, Inspector.”
“Good day, Mr. Lagarde.” Pitt turned a little. “Miss Lagarde. I hope your stay in the country is pleasant.”
She smiled at him with uncertainty, something that struck her with doubt, even a presage of fear.
“Thank you,” she said in little more than a whisper.
Outside in the street Pitt walked slowly along, trying to compose his thoughts. Everything so far indicated some private grief, nursed to herself, that had finally overwhelmed Mina Spencer-Brown and driven her to take, quite deliberately, an overdose of something she already possessed. Probably it would prove to be her husband’s medicine containing the belladonna, which Dr. Mulgrew had spoken of.
But before he allowed it to rest, he must ask the other women who had known her. If anyone was aware of her secret, it would be one of them, either from some imparted confidence or merely from observation. He had learned how much a relatively idle woman could perceive in others simply because she had no business and few duties to occupy her. People were her whole concern: relationships, secrets, those to be told and those to be kept.
He called on Ambrosine Charrington first, because she was the farthest away and he wanted to walk. In spite of the thickening rain he was not yet ready to face anyone else. Once, he even stopped altogether as a ginger cat stalked across the footpath in front of him, shook himself in disgust at the wet, and slipped into the shelter of the shrubbery. Perhaps, Pitt thought, he should not disturb the slow settling of grief. Maybe it was no subject for police, and he should go now, turn and walk away, catch the omnibus back to the police station, and deal with some theft or forgery until Mulgrew and the police surgeon put in their reports.
Still thinking about it, without having consciously made any decision, he began to walk again. The rain was gathering in vehemence and ran in cold streaks inside his collar and down his flesh, making