Rutland Place - Anne Perry [73]
“What did cause her death, sir?” Pitt kept his voice low, aware of the pain he must be inflicting; consciousness of it was stronger than the gulf of feeling and belief between the two men.
“An illness,” Lovell replied. “Quite sudden. But it was not poison. If that has occurred to you as a connection, then you are quite mistaken. You would do better to employ your time investigating Mrs. Spencer-Brown rather than going over other people’s family losses. And I refuse to permit you to trouble my wife with these idiotic questions. She has suffered enough. You can have no idea what you are doing!”
“I have a daughter, sir.” Pitt was reminding himself as much as this stiff little man in front of him. What if Jemima had died suddenly, without warning to the emotions—full of life one day, and nothing but a vivid, beautiful, and agonizing memory the next? Would he now find it intolerable to discuss it as Lovell did?
He could not guess. It was tragedy beyond the ability of the mind to conjure.
And yet Mina had been someone’s daughter too.
“Where did she die, sir?”
Lovell stared at him. “At our house in Hertfordshire. What possible concern is it of yours?”
“And where is she buried, sir?”
Lovell’s face flushed scarlet. “I refuse to answer any more questions! This is monstrous impertinence, and grossly offensive! You are paid to discover the cause of Mina Spencer-Brown’s death, not to exercise your infernal curiosity about my family and its bereavements. If you have anything to ask me about the matter, then do so! I shall do my best to answer you, according to my duty. Otherwise I request that you leave my house immediately, and do not return unless you have legitimate business here! Do you understand me, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Charrington,” Pitt said very softly. “I understand you perfectly. Was your daughter friendly with Mrs. Spencer-Brown?”
“Not particularly. I think they were no more than civil to one another. There was a considerable difference in their ages.”
A completely random thought occurred to Pitt.
“Was your daughter well acquainted with Mr. Lagarde?”
“They had known each other for some time,” Lovell replied stiffly. “But there was no”—he hesitated while he chose his word—“no fondness between them. Most unfortunate. It would have been an excellent match. My wife and I tried to encourage her, but Ottilie had no—” He stopped, his face hardening again. “That is hardly pertinent to your inquiry, Inspector. Indeed, it is not pertinent to anything at all now. Forgive me, but I think you are wasting both your time and mine. There is nothing I can tell you. I bid you good day.”
Pitt considered whether to argue, to insist, but he did not believe that Lovell would tell him anything more.
He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I hope it will not be necessary to trouble you again. Good day, sir.”
“I hope not indeed.” Lovell rose. “The footman will show you out.”
Rutland Place was pale with watery sun. In one or two gardens green daffodil leaves stood like bayonets, yellow banners of bloom held above them. He wished people would not plant them in ranks, like an army.
Whether Mina Spencer-Brown had been right about the ugliness of its nature or not, there was certainly a mystery about Ottilie Charrington’s death. She had neither died nor been buried where her family claimed.
Why should they lie? What really had killed her, and where?
The answer could only be that there was something so painful, or so appalling, that they dared not tell the truth.
Chapter Eight
FOR THREE DAYS there was no progress at all. Pitt followed up every material clue he could find, and Sergeant Harris questioned servants, both kitchen and outdoor. No one told them anything that seemed to be of importance. It became more and more apparent that Mina had been, as Charlotte guessed, an obsessive watcher. Little scraps of information, impressions gathered here and there gradually confirmed it. But what had she seen? Surely something more damning than merely the identity