Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [159]
“Superintendent Pitt, from Bow Street. Is Mr. Standish at home?”
“Yes sir, but he has a gentleman with him. If you care to wait, I will ask if he is able to see you.” He stood aside to allow Pitt in, and then showed him to the study. Apparently Standish and his visitor were in the withdrawing room.
The study was a small room by the standards of houses in Belgravia, but graciously proportioned and furnished in walnut wood with a red Turkey carpet and red curtains, giving it an air of warmth. It was obviously a room in which work was carried out. The desk was functional as well as handsome; and there were inkwells, pens, knives, blotting powder and seals neatly placed ready for use. And there was paper splayed out, as if only recently left. Perhaps Standish had been interrupted by the arrival of his present visitor. A large red jasper ashtray sat on one corner of the desk, a heavy coil of ash lying in the center, and one cigar stub, burned right down to within half an inch of the end.
Gingerly Pitt picked it up and put it to his nose. It was quite unlike the one from Little Bridge Stairs, both in aroma and texture of tobacco. Even the end was different—cut with a knife—and the faint teeth marks were very even.
He reached for the bell rope and pulled it.
The footman came, looking a little startled at being summoned by a guest whom he knew to be a mere policeman. “Yes sir?”
“Does Mr. Standish have any cigars other than these?” Pitt asked, holding up the butt for the man to see.
The footman hid his distaste for such a display of peculiar manners as well as he was able, but some shadow of it was visible in his eyes.
“Yes sir, I believe he does keep some others for guests. If you care to have one, sir, I shall see if I can find them.”
“Yes please.”
With raised eyebrows the footman went to a drawer in the desk, opened it and produced a box of cigars which he offered to Pitt.
Pitt took one, although he knew before smelling it that it was not like the butt in his pocket. It was narrower, darker in color and of a bland, unremarkable odor.
“Thank you.” He replaced it in its box. “Does Mr. Standish ever drive his own carriage, say a four-in-hand?”
The footman’s eyebrows were so high they furrowed his brow. “No sir. He has a touch of rheumatism in his hands, which makes it most uncomfortable, indeed extremely dangerous, when trying to control horses.”
“I see. What are the symptoms of the rheumatism?”
“I think he is better placed to tell you such things, sir, than I. And I am sure that he will not be above an hour or so with his present business.”
“What are the symptoms?” Pitt persisted, and with such urgency in his voice that the footman looked taken aback. “If you can tell me, I may not need to bother Mr. Standish.”
“I’m sure, sir, it would be much better if you were to consult a physician….”
“I don’t want a general answer,” Pitt snapped. “I want to know precisely how it affects Mr. Standish. Can you tell me or not?”
“Yes sir.” The footman backed away a step. He regarded Pitt with considerable apprehension. “It shows itself with a sudden, sharp pain in the thumbs, and loss of strength.”
“Enough to lose grip upon whatever he is holding, for example, the reins of the carriage?”
“Precisely. That is why Mr. Standish does not drive. I thought I had explained that, sir.”
“You have, indeed you have.” Pitt looked towards the door. “I shall not now have to bother Mr. Standish. If you feel it necessary to say I called, tell him you were able to answer my questions. There is no cause for alarm.”
“Alarm?”
“That’s right. None at all,” Pitt replied, and walked past him to the hallway and the front door.
It was not Standish. He did not believe it was Kreisler—he had no cause for the passion in it—but he had to make certain. He found the cabdriver waiting for him, surprised to see him back so soon. He offered no explanation, but gave him Kreisler’s address and asked him to hurry.
“Mr. Kreisler is out,” the manservant informed him.
“Does he have any cigars?” Pitt asked.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Does he have