Southampton Row - Anne Perry [150]
It was several moments before Mary Ann came. She looked at Narraway, then at Pitt, and her face lit with remembrance.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Pitt! It’s nice o’ yer to ’ave come, ‘specially after the rotten, stupid things some folk are saying. Sometimes I give up! Yer know ’bout poor Mr. Wray, o’ course.” She blinked, and the tears welled up in her eyes. “Did yer know as ’e left yer the jam? ’E didn’t actually write it down, like, but ’e said it to me. ‘Mary Ann, I must give Mr. Pitt some more o’ the jam, ’e was so kind to me.’ I meant to, an’ then Mrs. Cavendish came an’ the chance rather slipped away. Yer know the way ’e used to talk.” She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief, blowing her nose hard. “I’m sorry, but I miss ’im summink terrible!”
Pitt was so touched by the gesture, so overwhelmingly relieved that even if Wray had taken his own life, it was not with ill thought towards him, that he felt his throat tighten and a sting in his eyes. He would not betray it by speaking.
“That’s very kind of you,” Narraway spoke for him, whether he sensed the need or simply was accustomed to taking control. “But I think that there may be other claimants to his possessions, even those of the kitchen, and we would not wish you to be in any difficulty.”
“Oh no!” she said with certainty. “There in’t no one else. Mr. Wray left everything to me, an’ the cats, o’ course. The lawyers came and told me.” She gulped and swallowed. “This whole house! Everything! Can you imagine that? So the jam’s mine, except ’e said as Mr. Pitt should ’ave it.”
Narraway was startled, but Pitt saw with surprise a softness in his face, as if he also were moved by some deep emotion.
“In that case, I am sure Mr. Pitt would be very grateful. We apologize for intruding, Miss Smith, but in light of knowledge we now have, it is necessary we ask you certain questions. May we come in?”
She frowned, looking at Pitt, then back at Narraway.
“They are not difficult questions,” Pitt assured her. “And in nothing are you to blame, but we do need to be sure.”
She pulled the door and stepped backwards. “Well, I s’pose yer’d better. Would yer like a cup o’ tea?”
“Yes, please,” Pitt accepted, not bothering to see whether Narraway did or not.
She would have had them wait in the study, where Pitt had met with Wray, but partly from haste, mostly out of revulsion at the idea of sitting where he had talked so deeply with a man now dead, they followed her into the kitchen.
“The questions,” Narraway began, as she put more water in the kettle and opened the damper in the stove to set the flames burning inside again. “When Mr. Pitt was here for tea, the day Mr. Wray died, what did you serve them?”
“Oh!” She was startled and disconcerted. “Sandwiches, and scones and jam, I think. We ’adn’t any cake.”
“What kind of jam?”
“Greengage.”
“Are you sure, absolutely certain?”
“Yes. It was Mrs. Wray’s own jam, ’er favorite.”
“No raspberry?”
“We didn’t ’ave any raspberry. Mr. Wray’d eaten it all. That was ’is favorite.”
“Could you swear to that, before a judge in court, if you had to?” Narraway pressed.
“Yes. ’Course I could. I know raspberry from greengage. But why? What’s ’appened?”
Narraway ignored the question. “Mrs. Cavendish came to visit Mr. Wray just as Mr. Pitt was leaving?”
“Yes.” She glanced at Pitt, then back at Narraway. “She brung him some tarts with raspberry jam in them, an’ a custard pie an’ a book.”
“How many tarts?”
“Two. Why? What’s wrong?”
“And did he eat them both, do you know?”
“What’s wrong?” She was very pale now.
“You didn’t eat one?” Narraway insisted.
“’Course I didn’t!” she said hotly. “She brung them for ’im! What d’yer think I am, to go eating the master’s tarts what a friend come with?”
“I think you are an honest woman,” Narraway answered with sudden gentleness. “And I think that honesty saved your life to inherit a house a generous man wished you to have in appreciation for your kindness to him.” She blushed at the compliment.
“Did you see the book Mrs. Cavendish