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By Root 735 0

kind of thing. He was here when we had a local tragedy, quite a number of years ago now.” He chewed his lip, ignoring the hollyhocks. “A young woman had a child—out of wedlock, you know. Penelope, her name was. The child died almost immediately, poor little thing. Penelope was distraught with grief and went to a spirit medium who promised to put her in touch with her dead child.” He sighed. “Of course, the woman was a complete fraud, and when she discovered it, poor Penelope went quite wild with grief. It seems she thought she had spoken with the child, and that it had gone on to a far better place. She was comforted.” The muscles in his face tightened. “And then the deception drove her right out of her senses. I am afraid she took her own life. It was very dreadful, and poor Francis saw it all and was helpless to prevent any of it.

“He argued to have the child buried properly, but of course he lost, since it was illegitimate and unbaptized. He was very put out with the local minister over that. The feeling lasted for quite a while. Francis would have baptized the child regardless, and taken the consequences. But of course he didn’t have the power.”

Pitt tried to think of something to say that expressed the emotions boiling up inside him, and found nothing that touched the anger or the futility he felt.

“And of course he comforted her the best he could,” Duncan continued. “He knew the wretched medium was a fraud, but Penelope wouldn’t listen. She was desperate to have any belief at all that her child still existed somewhere, poor creature. She wasn’t very old herself. Of course, Francis has had something of a passion against all kinds of spiritualist activity ever since then. From time to time he has launched something of a crusade.”

“Yes,” Pitt said, pity twisting inside him with a hard, empty pain. “I can understand his feelings. There can be little more bitterly cruel, even if possibly it is not meant so.”

“Yes.” Duncan nodded. “Yes, indeed. One cannot blame his anger. I think I felt much the same myself at the time.”

Pitt thanked him and excused himself. There was nothing more to learn from other people. It was time he faced Wray again and pressed him further to account more precisely for his whereabouts on the evenings Cartouche was recorded in Maude Lamont’s diary as having been at Southampton Row.

At Udney Road, Mary Ann welcomed him in without question, and Wray himself met him in the study doorway with a smile. He did not even ask Pitt if he would stay for tea, but sent Mary Ann straightaway to prepare it, with sandwiches and fruit scones with greengage jam. “It was an excellent crop last year,” he said enthusiastically, leading the way back into the study and offering Pitt a chair. He blinked and his voice dropped and became suddenly very gentle. “My wife was extremely good at making jam. Greengage was one of her favorites.”

Pitt felt wretched. He was sure guilt must be written in his face at the thought of probing the grief of this man who so obviously liked and trusted him, and had not the remotest suspicion that Pitt was here not in friendship but in pursuit of his job.

“Perhaps I should not take it?” he said unhappily. “Would you not rather keep it for . . .” He was not sure what he wanted to say.

“No, no,” Wray assured him. “Not at all. I am afraid the raspberry is all gone. I rather indulged myself. I should be delighted to share this with you. She really was very good.” Sudden concern filled his eyes. “Unless, of course, you do not care for it?”

“Oh, I do! I like it very much!”

“Good. Then we shall have it.” Wray smiled. “Now, tell me why you are here, and how you are, Mr. Pitt. Have you found this unfortunate man who was consulting the medium who died?”

Pitt was not ready to pursue it yet. He had thought his plan was clear, and now it was not. “No . . . no, I haven’t,” he replied. “And it is important that I do. He may have knowledge which would make it much plainer why she was killed, and by whom.”

“Oh dear.” Wray shook his head. “How very sad. Evil always comes of such things, you know.