Rutland Place - Anne Perry [72]
“Don’t you believe in the Resurrection?” Pitt said curiously.
The sexton’s face puckered with disgust at any man who would be so crass as to introduce abstract matters of doctrine in the practicalities of life and death.
“Now what kind of a question is that?” he demanded. “You know when that’s going to be, do you? Grave’s a long time, a very long time. Should be done proper. You’ll be a lot longer in it than any grand house here!”
That was a point beyond argument. Pitt thanked him and set out to find the local doctor.
The doctor knew the Charringtons, but he had not attended Ottilie in her last illness, nor had he written any death certificate.
The following midday, by which time Pitt had seen servants, neighbors, and the postmistress, he caught the train back to London convinced that Ottilie Charrington had been in Abbots Langley on the week of her death but that she had not died there. The booking clerk at the station recalled seeing her on one or two occasions, but he could not swear when; and although she had bought a ticket to London, he did not know if she had returned.
It seemed an inescapable conclusion that she had died not in Abbots Langley but somewhere unknown, and of some cause unknown.
Now Pitt could not avoid seeing Ambrosine and Lovell Charrington any longer. Even Superintendent Athelstan, much as it pained him, could think of no argument to avoid it, and an appointment was duly made—politely, as if it were a courtesy. However, it was not as Pitt had intended: He would rather have been casual, and preferably have seen Lovell and then Ambrosine separately. But when he had reported on his visit to Abbots Langley, Athelstan had taken the matter into his own hands.
Lovell received Pitt in the withdrawing room. Ambrosine was not present.
“Yes, Inspector?” he said coolly. “I cannot think what else I can tell you about the unfortunate business. I have already done my duty and informed you fully of everything I knew. Poor Mrs. Spencer-Brown was most unstable, sad as it makes me to have to say so. I do not interest myself in other people’s private lives. Therefore I have no idea what particular crisis may have precipitated the tragedy.”
“No, sir,” Pitt said. They were both still standing, Lovell stiff and unprepared to offer any sop to comfort. “No, sir, but it now seems beyond doubt that Mrs. Spencer-Brown did not take her own life. She was murdered.”
“Indeed?” Lovell’s face was white, and he suddenly reached for the chair behind him. “I suppose you are quite sure? You have not been too hasty, leaped to conclusions? Why should anyone murder her? That is ridiculous! She was a respectable woman!”
Pitt sat down too. “I have no reason to doubt that, sir.” He decided to lie, at least by implication; there was no other way he could think of to approach the subject. “Sometimes even the most innocent people are killed.”
“Someone insane?” Lovell grasped at the easiest explanation. Insanity was like disease—indiscriminate. Had not Prince Albert himself died of typhus? “Of course. That must be the answer. I am afraid I have seen no strangers about the area, and all our servants are chosen most carefully. We always follow up references.”
“Very wise,” Pitt heard himself agree, hypocrisy dry in his mouth. “I believe you very tragically lost your own daughter, sir?”
Lovell’s face closed over in tight defense, almost hostility.
“Indeed. It is a subject I prefer not to discuss, and it has no relation whatever to the death of Mrs. Spencer-Brown.”
“Then you know more of Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s death than I do, sir,” Pitt replied levelly. “Because as yet I have no knowledge as to what caused it, or who, let alone why.”
Lovell’s skin was white, drawn in painful lines around his mouth and jaw. Cords of muscle stood out in his neck, making his high collar sit oddly.
“My daughter was not murdered, sir, if that is what you imagine. There is no question of it. Therefore it can have no connection. Do not let your professional