Southampton Row - Anne Perry [32]
Why would someone be so secretive that even Maude Lamont herself did this odd drawing rather than write his or her name? There was nothing illegal in consulting a spirit medium. It was not even scandalous, or for that matter a subject of ridicule, except for those who had portrayed themselves as otherwise and were thus branded as hypocrites. People of every walk of life had indulged in it, some as serious investigations, others purely as entertainment. And there were always the lonely, the insecure, the grieving who needed the assurance that those they had loved still existed somewhere and cared about them even beyond the grave. Perhaps Christianity, at least as the church preached it now, no longer did that for them.
He riffled through the pages to see if there were any more cartouches, but he saw none, only the same one half a dozen times previously over the months of May and June. The person appeared to have come every ten days or so, irregularly.
Looking again, Pitt saw also that Roland Kingsley had been seven times before, and Rose Serracold ten times. Only three times had they all come to the same session. He looked at the other names and saw many of them repeated over the months, others were there once or twice, or perhaps for three or four weeks in a row, and then not again. Were they satisfied or disillusioned? Tellman would have to find them and ask, learn what it was that Maude Lamont gave them, what it had to do with the strange substance found in her mouth and throat.
Why had a sophisticated woman like Rose Serracold come here to seek for voices, apparitions—answers to what? Surely there was some connection between her presence and that of Roland Kingsley?
He felt rather than saw Tellman just beyond the doorway. He turned towards him.
The question was in Tellman’s face.
Pitt passed him the book and saw him look down at it, then up again. “What does it mean?” Tellman asked, pointing to the cartouche.
“I’ve no idea,” Pitt admitted. “Someone so desperate to remain unidentified that Maude Lamont would not write their name even in her own diary.”
“Perhaps she didn’t know it?” Tellman said. He took a deep breath. “Maybe that’s why she was killed? She found out.”
“And tried to blackmail him? Over what?”
“Whatever made him keep coming here a secret,” Tellman replied. “Maybe he wasn’t a client? Perhaps he was a lover? That could be worth killing over.” His mouth twisted. “Maybe that’s your Special Branch interest. He’s some politician who can’t afford to be found in an affair at election time.” His eyes were challenging, angry to be included in the case against his will and yet told nothing, used but not informed.
Pitt had been waiting for the hurt to show. He felt the stab of it, yet it was almost a relief to have it open between them at last.
“Possibly, but I doubt it,” he said bluntly. “At least not that I know. I haven’t any idea why Special Branch is involved, but as far as I am aware, Mrs. Serracold is my only interest. And if she turns out to have killed Maude Lamont then I shall have to pursue her as I would anyone else.”
Tellman relaxed a trifle, but he did his best to hide the fact from Pitt. He straightened his shoulders a little. “What are we trying to protect Mrs. Serracold from?” If he was aware of having used the plural to include himself he gave no sign of it.
“Political betrayal,” Pitt replied. “Her husband is standing for Parliament. His opponent may use corrupt or illegal means to discredit him.”
“You mean through his wife?” Tellman looked startled. “Is that what this is . . . a political ambush?”
“Probably not. I expect it has nothing to do with her, except chance.”
Tellman did not believe him, and it showed in his face. Actually, Pitt did not really believe it himself. He had tasted Voisey’s power too fully to credit any stroke in his favor to luck.
“What is she like, this Mrs. Serracold?” Tellman asked, a slight furrow between his brows.
“I’ve no idea,” Pitt admitted.