Rutland Place - Anne Perry [69]
Mulgrew shot to his feet. “But that can’t be all! If Mina, wretched woman, was a Peeping Tom, she must have seen other things—God knows what! Affaires, at least! There’s more than one butler around here should lose his job, that I know of—and more than one parlormaid, if her mistress knew of it!”
Pitt pulled a face. “I daresay. I’ll have to look at them all. By the way, did you know there is a sneak thief in Rutland Place?”
“Oh God, that too! No, I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me. It happens every now and then.”
“Not a servant. One of the residents.”
“Oh, my God!” Mulgrew’s face fell. “Are you sure?”
“Beyond reasonable doubt.”
“What a wretched business. I suppose it couldn’t have been Mina herself?”
“Yes, it could. Or it could have been her murderer.”
“I thought my job was foul at times. I’d a damned sight rather have it than yours.”
“I think I would too, at the moment,” Pitt said. “Unfortunately we can’t chop and change. I couldn’t do yours, even if you were willing to trade. Thanks for your help.”
“Come back if I can do anything.” Mulgrew put out his hand, and Pitt clasped it hard. A few minutes later he was outside again in the rain.
It took him two and a half hours to find Inigo Charrington, by which time it was past noon and Inigo was at the dining table in his club. Pitt was obliged to wait in the smoking room, under the disapproving eye of a dyspeptic steward who kept clearing his throat with irritating persistence, till Pitt found he was counting the seconds each time, waiting for him to do it again.
Finally, Inigo came in and was informed in hushed tones of Pitt’s presence. He came over to him, his face a mixture of amusement at the steward’s dilemma—and his own as other eyes were raised to stare at him—and apprehension about what Pitt might want.
“Inspector Pitt?” He dropped rather sharply into the chair opposite. “From the police?”
“Yes, sir.” Pitt regarded him with interest. He was slender, not more than thirty at the most, with an odd, quick-silver face and auburn hair.
“Something else happened?” Inigo said anxiously.
“No, sir.” Pitt regretted having alarmed him. Somehow he could not picture him having murdered his sister, or Mina either, to keep a scandal quiet. There was too much sheer humor in his face. “No, nothing at all, that I am aware of. But we have still not found any satisfactory answer as to how Mrs. Spencer-Brown met her death. There seems no explanation, so far, that makes either accident or suicide possible.”
“Oh.” Indigo sat back a little. “I suppose that means it could only have been murder. Poor soul.”
“Indeed. And I daresay a great deal more pain will be caused before the business is finished.”
Inigo looked at him gravely. “I imagine so. What do you want me for? I don’t think I know anything. I certainly didn’t know Mina very well.” His mouth turned down in a sour smile. “I didn’t have any reason to kill her. Although I suppose you can hardly take my word for that! I wouldn’t be likely to tell you so if I had!”
Pitt found himself smiling back. “Hardly. What I was hoping for was information.” He could not afford to be direct. Inigo was far too quick; he would anticipate suspicion and cover any trace of real worth.
“About Mina? You’d do much better asking some of the women—even my mother. She’s rather absentminded at times, and she gets her gossip a little twisted, but underneath it all she’s a pretty shrewd judge of character. She may get her facts wrong, but her feelings are invariably right.”
“I shall ask her,” Pitt said. “But she might speak considerably more freely to me if I had approached you first. Normally ladies such as Mrs. Charrington do not confide their opinions of their neighbors to the police.”
Inigo’s face softened into mercurial laughter, gone in an instant.
“Very tactfully put, Inspector. I imagine they don’t. Although Mama has a taste for the bizarre. I’ll mention it to her this evening. She might surprise you and tell you all sorts of things. Although quite honestly,