Southampton Row - Anne Perry [143]
“What is it?” Narraway said crossly. “He’s hardly going to come down from the sky!”
“Can you see any notches up there, notches rubbed bare of moss or scraping on the bark?” Pitt said softly.
Narraway’s face was tense, interest flaring in his eyes. “Like a rope burn? Why?”
“An idea. It may be . . .”
“Of course it’s an idea!” Narraway snapped. “What?”
“To do with the night Maude Lamont was killed, and tricks, illusion that there might have been.”
“We’ll discuss it when we’re watching the woman. I don’t care how brilliant your theory is, it’ll do us no good if we miss Cartouche arriving . . . assuming he comes.”
Obediently, Pitt started to creep along the wall, as much as possible keeping concealed behind the various bushes and shrubs until they were fifteen yards away from the door in the wall, and only four yards from the scullery windows and the back door. They could see the shadowy figure of Lena Forrest moving about in the kitchen. Presumably she was getting herself breakfast and perhaps beginning whatever chores she had for the day. It must be a long, drawn-out, boring time for her with no mistress in the house to care for. They could not expect her to remain here much longer.
“Why were you looking for rope marks?” Narraway said insistently.
“Did you see any?” Pitt countered.
“Yes, very slight, a mark more like twine than rope. What was on it? Something to do with Cartouche?”
“No.”
They heard the sound at the same instant, the scraping of a key in the lock of the garden door. As one they shrank back behind the heavy leaves, and Pitt found himself holding his breath.
There was no sound until the key scraped again and then the slight clunk of the bar being dropped back. There were no footfalls across the grass.
They waited. Seconds ticked by. Was the visitor waiting also, or had he passed by soundlessly and might already be inside?
Narraway moved very carefully until he could see the side of the house. “He’s gone in through the French windows,” he said softly. “I can see him in the parlor.” He straightened up. “There’s no cover outside here. We’d better go around the back. If we run into the woman we’ll have to tell her.” And without waiting for Pitt to argue, he sprinted across the open space towards the scullery door and stopped just outside.
Pitt wondered for an instant if perhaps they should have left a constable at the front door, just in case Cartouche tried to escape that way. But then if he had seen anyone in the street he might not have risked coming in at all, and the whole exercise would have been useless.
Another alternative was for one of them to wait in the garden now, but then if Cartouche said anything, or Lena did, there needed to be more than one witness to it. He ran across the open lawn and joined Narraway at the scullery door.
Narraway looked cautiously in through the window. “There’s no one there,” he said, pushing the door. Inside was a small, tidy room with vegetable racks, rubbish bins, a sack of potatoes and several pots and pans, as well as the usual sink and low tub for laundry.
They went up the step into the kitchen, and still there was no one in sight. Lena must have heard the intruder and gone through to the parlor. On tiptoe, Pitt and Narraway crept along the passage and stopped just short of the doorway. It was ajar. They could hear the voices inside. The first was male, rich and melodious, only slightly sharpened by emotion. His diction was still perfect.
“I know that there are other papers, Miss Forrest. Don’t try to mislead me.”
Then Lena’s voice in reply, surprised and a trifle edgy. “The police already took everything that has to do with her appointments. There’s nothing here now but household bills and accounts outstanding, and that’s just the ones that have come in through the last week. The lawyers have all the old ones. It’s part of her estate.”
Now there was fear in his