could not help smiling. Pitt had never in the decade she had known him looked as if his clothes were the right size, let alone ever tailored for him.
He read the thought in her eyes, and laughed.
“I’m sorry.” Caroline blushed. “I really did not mean to hurt your feelings….”
“You didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. One day perhaps I shall have a coat made to fit me, but there are other things a hundred times more important. Dominic’s tailor?”
“I can’t remember his name, but he bought his shirts at Gieves, off Piccadilly. Is that any help?”
“It may be. Thank you. Thank you very much.” He made as if to rise.
“Thomas!”
“Yes?”
“Please tell me when you know. If—if Dominic is guilty, Charlotte is going to be so hurt. Whatever his faults, he was part of our family … for many years. I was very fond of him. I did not realize how much until after he had gone. He was very grieved by Sarah’s death, more than he realized to begin with. I think he felt in some way he should have done something to prevent it.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I know that is foolish, and it is extremely self-important to imagine we could have prevented fate … but when a thing is hard to bear we look for ways in which it need not have happened. We think that perhaps we can prevent anything like it again … and if we can, then it follows we could have the first time.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I will tell you what happens, and of course I shall make it as easy for Charlotte as I can.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She rose also, seemed to want to add something, then realized they had already said all there was.
He told her a few pleasant details about the children, and they parted at the door. He walked to the corner, found another cab, and went back to the center of the city. In Piccadilly, he found the shirtmakers, and after showing the proof of who he was and explaining the gravity of the case, he enquired if indeed they had served Dominic Corde in the past. It took some five minutes to acquire the address where Dominic had been staying when he had last ordered from them, approximately six years before. Possibly since then his income had decreased and he had reduced his taste in fine shirts.
The address was on Prince of Wales Road in Haverstock Hill, a considerable journey to the north and west. It was late afternoon by the time he found the right house. It was large and a trifle shabby, the sort of place which was originally built to accommodate an abundant family and had since been broken up into a series of apartments or rooms for a dozen or so individuals without dependents or companions.
He knocked at the door, noticing the paint peeling on the edges of the panels and a few spots of corrosion on the knocker itself.
His knock was answered by a middle-aged man with a ragged beard and clothes faded to an agreeable nondescript color by the bleaching effect of the sun and too-frequent laundering. He looked at Pitt with surprise.
“Yes? Forgive me, but do I know you, sir?”
“No. My name is Thomas Pitt. I am enquiring after a Mr. Dominic Corde, who used to live here several years ago.” He left no doubt in his voice, no room for argument.
The man’s face shadowed slightly, so very little that, had he not been facing the light, Pitt might not have seen it at all.
“I’m sorry. He left here a long time ago. I cannot tell you where he is now; I have no idea. And he left no forwarding address.” That too was a statement which permitted no space for further speech on the subject.
“I know,” Pitt said firmly. “I am quite aware of where he is now. It is the past which concerns me.”
The first few spots of rain spattered on the footpath.
The man’s face was bland but firm, his expression closed. “I am sorry, I can be of no assistance, sir. I bid you good day.” He made as if to close the door. Everything in his body, the faint droop of his shoulders, the heavy solidity of his stance, spoke of exhaustion and a weight of sadness rather than anger. Watching him, Pitt felt cold, in spite of the softness of the evening light and the fact that the air was still mild.