Read Online The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) by Anne Perry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Perry
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the Spanish Embassy to make sure his enquiries did not ruffle diplomatic feathers, and tomorrow he would go to see Barton Hall and find out what he knew of Sofia Delacruz and her real purpose in coming to England.
Chapter Three
EARLY THE next morning the hansom drew up to the kerb in Eaton Square and Pitt stepped down on to the pavement and paid the driver. He walked past the wrought-iron railings and up the steps to the panelled oak door of Barton Hall’s home. Apart from the lion-headed door knocker, the house was as elegantly Georgian as all the others facing the square. It was formal and perfectly proportioned. There were no flippant fancies to mar its classic exterior.
Pitt raised the door knocker and let it fall. It was only moments before it was opened by a man of immense dignity, grey-haired before his time. His face had an expression of imperturbable calm.
‘Good morning, sir. How may I help you?’ He was holding a small silver salver, the sort used to take a gentleman’s card.
Pitt dropped his card on it, adding as he did so, ‘Commander Pitt of Special Branch. I would like to speak with Mr Barton Hall. It is a matter of the greatest urgency.’
‘Yes, sir. If you would like to come in I will see if Mr Hall is available.’ The butler stepped back into the wide, marble-flagged hall.
‘Perhaps you would like to wait in the morning room, sir?’ It was not an enquiry so much as a direction. He indicated the way with a very slight movement of his hand.
Pitt was happy to accept. Morning rooms were often revealing not only of a man’s character but also of his means, his interests, and the comfort and discipline of his household.
This one was no exception. As the butler closed the door and his footsteps retreated over the marble, Pitt stared around at the dark curtains, the polished wood floor with its very traditional red and blue Turkey carpet and the one wall entirely lined with books, comprising sets uniformly bound in leather. As he had expected, they were arranged according to size and colour, rather than by subject matter or by author. They looked expensive, well cared for, infrequently moved from their places.
He walked over and pulled one out. The shelf was sufficiently well dusted that there was no mark. He smiled and pushed the book back into line. It was a history of Schliemann’s excavations in the ruins now believed to be Troy.
He turned and looked more closely at the two paintings on the further walls. They were rather staid pastoral scenes, undisturbed by any signs of real country life. Everything was artistically proportioned from the haywain to the slant of the thatched roof.
There was one photograph that caught his eye. It was in a frame on one of the smaller tables. It showed the head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was pulled back in a fashion of at least ten years ago. At first glance she was ordinary, her features strong but a little heavy for handsomeness. But the longer Pitt looked at her, the more he saw in her, not only a frankness but a humour. She seemed the sort of woman that, when you knew her well, you would miss very much when she were absent. Barton Hall was a widower. Was she his wife?
His thoughts were broken by the opening of the door as Barton Hall came in and closed it silently behind him. He was a tall man with slightly receding hair, which was greying at the sides. He was very formally dressed, bony wrists showing beneath his white shirt cuffs.
‘Good morning, Commander Pitt,’ he said quietly. ‘How may I be of assistance to you?’ Hall’s voice was more than pleasing, there was a depth to it, almost a music.
‘Good morning, Mr Hall,’ Pitt replied, inclining his head. ‘I believe you are related to Sofia Delacruz?’
Hall winced very slightly. ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘She is a cousin on my late mother’s side of the family.’ He remained standing. ‘But please do not hold me accountable for her eccentric views.
Chapter Three
EARLY THE next morning the hansom drew up to the kerb in Eaton Square and Pitt stepped down on to the pavement and paid the driver. He walked past the wrought-iron railings and up the steps to the panelled oak door of Barton Hall’s home. Apart from the lion-headed door knocker, the house was as elegantly Georgian as all the others facing the square. It was formal and perfectly proportioned. There were no flippant fancies to mar its classic exterior.
Pitt raised the door knocker and let it fall. It was only moments before it was opened by a man of immense dignity, grey-haired before his time. His face had an expression of imperturbable calm.
‘Good morning, sir. How may I help you?’ He was holding a small silver salver, the sort used to take a gentleman’s card.
Pitt dropped his card on it, adding as he did so, ‘Commander Pitt of Special Branch. I would like to speak with Mr Barton Hall. It is a matter of the greatest urgency.’
‘Yes, sir. If you would like to come in I will see if Mr Hall is available.’ The butler stepped back into the wide, marble-flagged hall.
‘Perhaps you would like to wait in the morning room, sir?’ It was not an enquiry so much as a direction. He indicated the way with a very slight movement of his hand.
Pitt was happy to accept. Morning rooms were often revealing not only of a man’s character but also of his means, his interests, and the comfort and discipline of his household.
This one was no exception. As the butler closed the door and his footsteps retreated over the marble, Pitt stared around at the dark curtains, the polished wood floor with its very traditional red and blue Turkey carpet and the one wall entirely lined with books, comprising sets uniformly bound in leather. As he had expected, they were arranged according to size and colour, rather than by subject matter or by author. They looked expensive, well cared for, infrequently moved from their places.
He walked over and pulled one out. The shelf was sufficiently well dusted that there was no mark. He smiled and pushed the book back into line. It was a history of Schliemann’s excavations in the ruins now believed to be Troy.
He turned and looked more closely at the two paintings on the further walls. They were rather staid pastoral scenes, undisturbed by any signs of real country life. Everything was artistically proportioned from the haywain to the slant of the thatched roof.
There was one photograph that caught his eye. It was in a frame on one of the smaller tables. It showed the head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was pulled back in a fashion of at least ten years ago. At first glance she was ordinary, her features strong but a little heavy for handsomeness. But the longer Pitt looked at her, the more he saw in her, not only a frankness but a humour. She seemed the sort of woman that, when you knew her well, you would miss very much when she were absent. Barton Hall was a widower. Was she his wife?
His thoughts were broken by the opening of the door as Barton Hall came in and closed it silently behind him. He was a tall man with slightly receding hair, which was greying at the sides. He was very formally dressed, bony wrists showing beneath his white shirt cuffs.
‘Good morning, Commander Pitt,’ he said quietly. ‘How may I be of assistance to you?’ Hall’s voice was more than pleasing, there was a depth to it, almost a music.
‘Good morning, Mr Hall,’ Pitt replied, inclining his head. ‘I believe you are related to Sofia Delacruz?’
Hall winced very slightly. ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘She is a cousin on my late mother’s side of the family.’ He remained standing. ‘But please do not hold me accountable for her eccentric views.
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