Southampton Row - Anne Perry [109]
“I’ll go,” he said curtly. “You’d better do more to find out how she got her blackmail material. Was it all watching and listening, or did she do some active research? It may help to know.”
Tellman appeared undecided, one emotion conflicting with another in his face. It looked like anger and guilt, perhaps regret for having said aloud what was in his mind. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he muttered, and turned to leave.
Sitting in the train to Teddington, Pitt turned over in his mind all the possible lines of enquiry about Francis Wray. Always at the forefront was the leaflet he had seen on the table advertising Maude Lamont, and the fury in Wray’s face at mention of spirit mediums. He denied to himself that the old man was so emotionally disturbed by the death of his wife he had lost mental balance, and perhaps he had, in the first depth of his grief, abandoned a lifetime’s faith and gone to a medium. He certainly would not be unique in that, not even unusual. And with the vehemence of his conviction that it was sin, he would then have equated the medium with the offense, and have tried to rid himself of his self-loathing by destroying her! And the more that thought intruded into Pitt’s mind, the more fiercely he tried to deny it.
When he reached Teddington he got off the train, but this time he avoided Udney Road and went to High Street. He loathed asking the villagers about Francis Wray, but there was no choice left to him. If he did not, then Wetron would send others who would be even clumsier, and cause more pain.
He had to use an invention. He could hardly say outright, “Do you think Mr. Wray has lost the hold of his sanity?” He framed instead questions as to things having been lost, lapses of memory, other people’s concern that Wray was unwell. It was not as difficult as he had expected simply to find the words, but forcing himself to pry into the way the old man’s grief had affected him was one of the most offensive things he had ever done, not to the people he spoke to, but to himself.
The answers all carried the same elements. Francis Wray was deeply liked and admired, perhaps loved would not have been too strong a word. But those who answered Pitt were also anxious for Wray, aware that his loss had left him more vulnerable than they were sure he could deal with. Friends had been uncertain whether to call in to see him or not. Was it intrusive, disturbing a private emotion, or was it a much-needed respite from the utter loneliness of the house with no one to speak to but young Mary Ann, who was devoted to his welfare but hardly a companion to him.
Pitt did manage to draw something from one of these friends, another man roughly Wray’s age, and also a widower. Pitt found him in his garden tying up the most magnificent pink hollyhocks, well above the height of his own head.
“It’s only a matter of concern,” Pitt explained himself. “There is no complaint.”
“No, of course,” Mr. Duncan answered, pulling off a length of string from the ball and cutting it awkwardly with his secateurs. “I am afraid when we get old and lonely we tend to make nuisances of ourselves without realizing it.” He smiled a little ruefully. “I daresay I did so myself the first year or two after my wife died. Sometimes we can’t bear to speak to people, and others we can’t leave them alone. I’m glad you see no need to do more than ascertain that there was no offense intended.” He cut off another length of string, and looked apologetically at Pitt. “Young ladies can misunderstand the desire for their company, no doubt with cause, now and again.”
Reluctantly, Pitt introduced the subject of séances.
“Oh dear, how unfortunate!” Mr. Duncan’s face filled with alarm. “I am afraid he feels very strongly against that