The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [76]
The police were still questioning people. The fear was still there, although the first urgency had gone. Verity Lessing had been buried, and mourners picked up their lives again. Suspicions were presumably still festering under the surface, but the hysteria was decently controlled.
It was October, and rapidly chilling, when Dominic ran into Inspector Pitt quite by chance in a coffeehouse. Dominic was alone. Pitt stopped by his table. Really he was an inelegant creature. No one could possibly have mistaken him for a man of society. There was no concession to fashion in him, and only a passing accommodation to convention.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Corde,” Pitt said cheerfully. “Alone?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Yes, my companion has left.”
“Then may I join you?” Pitt put his hand out onto the back of the chair opposite.
Dominic was taken by surprise. He was not used to entertaining policemen socially, still less in public. The man seemed to have no sense of his position.
“If you wish,” he replied with reluctance.
Pitt smiled broadly and pulled out the chair. He sat comfortably.
“Thank you. Is this coffee fresh?”
“Yes. Please, help yourself. Did you wish to speak to me about something?” Surely the man was not foisting himself on him for purely social reasons? He could not be so insensitive.
“Thank you.” Pitt poured from the pot and drank with delicately flared nostrils. “How are you, and your family?”
Presumably he meant Charlotte. Emily was probably exaggerating, but there was no doubt Pitt did admire Charlotte.
“Well enough, I think, thank you. Naturally the tragedies in Cater Street have not left us untouched. I suppose you are no nearer a solution?”
Pitt pulled a face. He had remarkably mobile, expressive features. “Only insofar as we have eliminated more possibilities. I suppose that is some kind of progress?”
“Not much.” Dominic was not in a mood to spare his feelings. “Have you given up? I observe you haven’t been to bother us any more.”
“I haven’t thought of anything else to ask you,” Pitt said reasonably.
“I had not noticed that’s preventing you in the past.” Damn the man. If he could not solve the crime he should call in assistance from his superiors. “Why don’t you hand over the case to someone higher up, or get help?”
Pitt met his eyes. Dominic was made a little uncomfortable, a little self-conscious by the sheer intelligence in them.
“I have, Mr. Corde. Everyone at Scotland Yard is bending their minds to it, I assure you. But there are other crimes, you know? Robberies, forgeries, embezzlement, corruption, burglaries, and even other murders.”
Dominic was stung. Could the man possibly be patronizing him?
“Of course there are! I hadn’t imagined ours was the only crime in London. But surely you consider ours to be the most serious?”
Pitt’s smile vanished. “Of course. Mass murder is the most dreadful crime of all—the more so since it will almost certainly be repeated. What do you suggest we do?”
Dominic was taken aback by the sheer brazenness of it.
“How on earth would I know? I am not a policeman! But I would have thought if there were more of you, more experienced perhaps—”
“To do what?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Ask more questions? We have dug up an incredible number of trivial eccentricities, immoralities, small dishonesties and cruelties, but no clue to murder—at least none that can be recognized as such.” His face became very grave. “We are dealing with insanity, Mr. Corde. It’s no use looking for reasons or patterns that you or I would recognize.”
Dominic stared at him, afraid. This wretched man was speaking about something horrible, something hellish and incomprehensible, and it frightened him.
“What manner of man are we looking for?” Pitt went on. “Does he choose his particular victims for any specific reason? Or is his choice arbitrary? Do they just happen to be at the