something someone else wished for desperately.” Now he could not look directly at either of them, and he was aware they did not look at each other.
“Lots of reasons.” He backed a little to allow Dominic away from the heat. “Any one of them possible, until we find otherwise.”
Alicia gulped. “Are—are you going to investigate all of them?”
“It may not be necessary,” he answered, feeling cruel as he said it and hating his job because already the suspicion was taking form in his mind and shaping like a picture in the fog. “We may discover the truth long before that.”
It was no comfort to her, as indeed he had not intended it to be. She came forward a little, standing between Pitt and Dominic. It was a gesture he had seen a hundred times in all manner and walk of women: a mother defending an unruly child, a wife lying about her husband, a daughter excusing her drunken father.
“I hope you will be discreet, Inspector,” she said quietly. “You may cause a great deal of unnecessary distress if you are not and wrong my husband’s memory, not to mention those you imply may have had such motives.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Facts may have to be inquired into, but no implications will be made.”
She did not look as if she were able to believe him, but she said no more.
Pitt excused himself, and the footman made sure that he left this time.
Outside, the cold caught at him, seizing his body even through his layers of coat and jacket, chilling the skin and tying knots in the muscles of his stomach. The fog had blown away, and there was sleet on the wind. It sighed through the laurel and magnolia, and the rain blackened everything. There was no alternative now but to press for a postmortem of Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond. The possibility of murder could not be ignored, discreetly tucked away because it could hurt too many people.
He had previously discovered where to find Dr. McDuff, and he took himself straight there. The less time he had to think about it the better. He would face telling Charlotte when he had to.
Dr. McDuff’s house was spacious and solid and conventional, like the man; it had nothing to wake the imagination, nothing to risk offending the complacent. Pitt was shown into yet another cold morning room and told to wait. After a quarter of an hour he was conducted to the study lined with leatherbound books, a little scuffed, where he stood before a vast desk to answer as a schoolboy might to a master. At least here there was a fire.
“Good morning,” Dr. McDuff said dourly. He may have been comely enough in his youth, but now his face was wrinkled with time and impatience, and self-satisfaction had set unbecoming lines round his nose and mouth. “What can I do for you?”
Pitt pulled up the only other chair and sat down. He refused to be treated like a servant by this man. After all, he was only another professional like himself, trained and paid to deal with the less pleasant problems of humanity.
“You were the physician in attendance to the late Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond up to the time of his death—” he began.
“Indeed,” Dr. McDuff replied. “That is hardly a matter for the police. The man died of a heart attack. I signed the certificate. I know nothing about this appalling desecration that has taken place since. That is your affair, and the sooner you do something about it the better.”
Pitt could feel the antagonism in the air. To McDuff he represented a sordid world beyond the grace and comfort of his own circle, a tide that must be forever held back with sandbags of discrimination and social distinction. If he were to get anything from him at all, it would not be by a headlong charge, but with deviousness and appeal to his vanity.
“Yes, it is an appalling business,” he agreed. “I have not had to deal with anything like it before. I would value your professional opinion as to what manner of person might be affected with such an insane
“Lots of reasons.” He backed a little to allow Dominic away from the heat. “Any one of them possible, until we find otherwise.”
Alicia gulped. “Are—are you going to investigate all of them?”
“It may not be necessary,” he answered, feeling cruel as he said it and hating his job because already the suspicion was taking form in his mind and shaping like a picture in the fog. “We may discover the truth long before that.”
It was no comfort to her, as indeed he had not intended it to be. She came forward a little, standing between Pitt and Dominic. It was a gesture he had seen a hundred times in all manner and walk of women: a mother defending an unruly child, a wife lying about her husband, a daughter excusing her drunken father.
“I hope you will be discreet, Inspector,” she said quietly. “You may cause a great deal of unnecessary distress if you are not and wrong my husband’s memory, not to mention those you imply may have had such motives.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Facts may have to be inquired into, but no implications will be made.”
She did not look as if she were able to believe him, but she said no more.
Pitt excused himself, and the footman made sure that he left this time.
Outside, the cold caught at him, seizing his body even through his layers of coat and jacket, chilling the skin and tying knots in the muscles of his stomach. The fog had blown away, and there was sleet on the wind. It sighed through the laurel and magnolia, and the rain blackened everything. There was no alternative now but to press for a postmortem of Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond. The possibility of murder could not be ignored, discreetly tucked away because it could hurt too many people.
He had previously discovered where to find Dr. McDuff, and he took himself straight there. The less time he had to think about it the better. He would face telling Charlotte when he had to.
Dr. McDuff’s house was spacious and solid and conventional, like the man; it had nothing to wake the imagination, nothing to risk offending the complacent. Pitt was shown into yet another cold morning room and told to wait. After a quarter of an hour he was conducted to the study lined with leatherbound books, a little scuffed, where he stood before a vast desk to answer as a schoolboy might to a master. At least here there was a fire.
“Good morning,” Dr. McDuff said dourly. He may have been comely enough in his youth, but now his face was wrinkled with time and impatience, and self-satisfaction had set unbecoming lines round his nose and mouth. “What can I do for you?”
Pitt pulled up the only other chair and sat down. He refused to be treated like a servant by this man. After all, he was only another professional like himself, trained and paid to deal with the less pleasant problems of humanity.
“You were the physician in attendance to the late Lord Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond up to the time of his death—” he began.
“Indeed,” Dr. McDuff replied. “That is hardly a matter for the police. The man died of a heart attack. I signed the certificate. I know nothing about this appalling desecration that has taken place since. That is your affair, and the sooner you do something about it the better.”
Pitt could feel the antagonism in the air. To McDuff he represented a sordid world beyond the grace and comfort of his own circle, a tide that must be forever held back with sandbags of discrimination and social distinction. If he were to get anything from him at all, it would not be by a headlong charge, but with deviousness and appeal to his vanity.
“Yes, it is an appalling business,” he agreed. “I have not had to deal with anything like it before. I would value your professional opinion as to what manner of person might be affected with such an insane
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