Rutland Place - Anne Perry [50]
He knew what she said was true, and his reason applauded her. Perhaps he had been unfair in his judgment. Prejudice was not confined to the privileged. He knew it in himself: the bitter aftertaste of opinions forced back and found unjust, formed in envy or fear, and the need to rationalize hate.
“Of course.” He stood up. He wanted no more of the interview. She had already given him more than enough to consider. And he had mentioned blackmail rather to shock her than because he really thought it a possibility. Now he was obliged to recognize it. “As yet I know of no truth, pleasant or unpleasant, so the less that is said the less pain that will be caused. It may well have been no more than a tragic accident.”
Her face was quite calm, almost serene, with its pink and white coloring and girlish lines.
“I do hope so. Anything else will increase the distress for everyone. Good day to you, Inspector.”
“Good day, Mrs. Denbigh.”
He had put the matter out of his mind and was working on a number of fires, two of which were in his area and were probably arson, when at half past four in the afternoon a constable with black hair plastered neatly to his head with water knocked on his door and announced that there was a visitor, a gentleman of quality.
“Who is it?” Pitt was expecting no one, and his immediate thought was that the man had been misdirected from the Chief Superintendent’s office and they would be able to be rid of him with a few words of assistance.
“A Mr. Charrington, sir,” the constable answered. “A Mr. Lovell Charrington, of Rutland Place.”
Pitt put the paper he was reading aside, facedown, on the desk.
“Ask him to come in,” he said with a feeling of misgiving. He could imagine no reason at all why Lovell Charrington should come to the police station, unless it was to impart something both secret and urgent. Regarding any ordinary event, he could either have sent for Pitt to attend upon him or simply waited until he returned in the ordinary course of the investigation.
Lovell Charrington came in with his hat still on, beaded with rain, and his umbrella folded but untied, hanging from his hand. His face was pale, and there was a drop of water on the end of his nose.
Pitt stood up. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”
“You are Inspector Pitt, I believe?” Lovell said stiffly. Pitt had the impression that he did not mean to be rude, simply that he was awkward, torn between desire to say something difficult for him and a natural revulsion at the place. Almost certainly he had never been inside a police station before, and horrifying ideas of sin and squalor were burning in his imagination.
“Yes, sir.” Pitt tried to help him. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated the hard-backed wooden chair to one side of the desk. “Is it something to do with the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
Lovell sat reluctantly. “Yes. Yes, I have been—considering—weighing in my mind whether it was correct that I should speak to you or not.” It was remarkable how he managed to look alarmed and faintly pompous at the same time—like a rooster that has caught itself crowing loudly at high noon: acutely self-conscious. “One desires to do one’s duty, however painful!” He fixed Pitt with a solemn stare.
Pitt was embarrassed for him. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something harmless to say that did not stick in his mouth with hypocrisy.
“Of course,” he answered. “Not always easy.”
“Quite.” Lovell coughed. “Quite so.”
“What is it you wish to say, Mr. Charrington?”
Lovell coughed again and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“You have quite the wrong word. I do not wish to say it, Inspector; I feel an obligation, which is quite different!”
“Indeed.” Pitt breathed out patiently. “Of course it is. Excuse my clumsiness. What is it you feel that we should know?”
“Mrs. Spencer-Brown . . . ” Lovell