Seven Dials - Anne Perry [6]
What on earth had Edwin Lovat been doing here? It seemed unlikely he had arrived through the mews and was intending to enter this way, unless by prior arrangement, and she had been waiting for him inside the French doors. If she had not wished to see him, it would have been simple enough not to have answered. Servants could have dismissed him, and thrown him out if necessary.
If he were indeed arriving, it looked unpleasantly as if she had lured him here deliberately, with the intent of killing him, since she was in the garden with a loaded gun.
Or else he had been leaving, they had quarreled, and she had followed him out, again with the gun.
When had Ryerson really arrived? Before the shooting or after? Had she lifted the dead man into the wheelbarrow by herself? It would be interesting to find out his size and weight, and hers. If she had lifted him, then there would be blood, and perhaps earth, on her white dress. These were questions he needed to ask Talbot, or perhaps the constable who had actually been first on the scene.
He turned and walked back through the gate to the mews and found the constable standing fidgeting from one foot to the other in boredom. He turned as he heard the gate catch.
“Were you on duty here last night?” Pitt asked. The man looked tired enough to have been up many hours.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see the arrest of Miss Zakhari?”
“Yes, sir.” His voice lifted a little with the beginning of interest.
“Can you describe her for me?”
He looked startled for a moment, then his face puckered in concentration. “She was quite tall, sir, but very slender, like. And foreign, o’ course, very foreign, like. She was . . . well, she moved very graceful, more than most ladies—not that they aren’t—”
“It’s all right, Constable,” Pitt answered him. “I need honesty, not tact. What about the dead man? How large was he?”
“Oh, bit bigger than most, sir, broad in the chest, like. Difficult ter say ’ow tall ’cos I never saw ’im standin’ up, but I reckon a bit taller ’n me, but not as tall as you.”
“Did the mortuary wagon take him away?”
“Yessir.”
“How many men to carry him?”
“Two, sir.” His face filled with understanding. “You thinkin’ as she couldn’t ’ave put ’im in that barrer by ’erself?”
“Yes, I was.” Pitt tightened his lips. “But it might be wiser not to express that opinion to others, at least for the time being. She was wearing white, so I’m told. Is that correct?”
“Yessir. Very sort o’ close-fittin’ dress it were, not exactly like most ladies wear, least wot I’ve seen. Very beautiful . . .” He colored faintly, considering the propriety of saying that a murderess was beautiful, and a foreign one at that. But he refused to be cowed. “Sort o’ more natural, like,” he went on. “No . . .” He put one hand on his other shoulder. “No puffs up ’ere. More wot a woman’s really shaped like.”
Pitt hid a smile. “I see. And was it stained with mud, or blood, this white dress?”
“Bit o’ mud, or more like leaf dirt,” the constable agreed.
“Where?”
“Around the knees, sir. Like she knelt on the ground.”
“But no blood?”
“No, sir. Not that I saw.” His eyes widened. “You’re sayin’ as she didn’t put ’im in that barrer ’erself!”
“No, Constable, I think you are. But I’d be very obliged if you did not repeat that, unless you are asked to do so in a situation where not doing so would require you to lie. Don’t lie to anyone.”
“No, sir! I’ll ’ope as I’m not asked.”
“Yes, that would definitely be the best,” Pitt agreed fervently. “Thank you, Constable. What is your name?”
“Cotter, sir.”
“Is the manservant still in the house?”
“Yessir. No one’s come out since they took ’er away.”
“Then I shall go and speak to him. Do you know his name?”
“No, sir. Foreign-looking person.”
Pitt thanked him again