“I am sorry, sir,” he said gravely. “But I cannot allow the matter to be closed. I am from the police, in command of the Bow Street station, and the assistant commissioner has directed me to investigate a case of murder.” He saw the man wince and his pale blue eyes open wide. He was surprised, but not incredulous.
The coldness sharpened inside Pitt. He could see Charlotte’s face in his mind when he had to tell her. It would be the last dream from girlhood gone, a certain innocence of belief would go with it, and he would have given a lot not to do this. He even hesitated before he began again.
A few spots of rain fell.
“I know something happened while Mr. Corde was living here,” he said after a moment. “I need to know what it was.”
The man stared at him. He was obviously weighing in his mind what he should say, how much he could deny and be believed, or if he was not believed, at least get away with.
Pitt did not move his gaze.
The man’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose you had better come inside,” he said at last, turning away. “Although I’m not sure what I can tell you.”
Pitt followed him, closing the door behind himself. The last protest had been merely a gesture, and he knew it. He allowed the man the pretense that it had a meaning.
The room he led them into was untidy in a homely way. Books and papers littered the surfaces of the tables and chairs and spilled over onto the floor. There were several rather good pictures on the wall, most of them at least an inch crooked. There was a piece of wood on a side table, a frog emerging from it, polished to a rich, almost wet-looking brown. Even unfinished, it was a beautiful piece of work. Looking at it, Pitt was not sure if it would not be of greater power left as it was. Completing every detail might reduce it to something far more mundane, a thing anyone might have conceived.
“Are you going to do anything more to it?” he asked.
“You want it finished?” the man asked, almost challengingly.
“No!” Pitt replied quickly, making up his mind in that instant. “No, I don’t. It is right as it is.”
The man smiled at last. “I apologize, sir. You are not quite the philistine I presumed. Clear yourself a space and sit down.” He waved towards one of the crowded chairs. There was a very old white cat on it. “Never mind him,” the man said casually. “Lewis! Get off!”
The cat opened one eye and remained where it was.
“Lewis!” the man repeated, clapping his hands loudly.
The cat went back to sleep again.
Pitt picked him up, sat down, and replaced him in the same position on his lap. “Dominic Corde,” he said unwaveringly.
The man took a very deep breath and began his story.
Pitt arrived home shortly before midnight. The house was quiet, and there was only the hall light on downstairs. He crept up, wincing at each step that creaked. He dreaded what he was going to have to say, but there was no alternative and no escape. At least it would be able to wait until morning, not that he would sleep … knowing what lay ahead and how Charlotte would feel. He felt wretched himself, and for her it would be far worse.
But when he reached the landing he saw the crack of light beneath the door. She was still awake. There was no putting it off. Perhaps that was almost a relief. He would not have to lie awake in the dark room, feeling her beside him and waiting, silent and miserable, to tell her when she awoke.
He opened the door.
She was sitting up against the pillows with her eyes closed, her hair spread around her. He closed the door without letting the latch go and tiptoed across the room.
She opened her eyes. “Thomas! Where have you been? What did you find?” She saw his face and froze, her eyes wide and dark in the lamplight.
“I’m sorry …” he whispered.
“What?” She spoke jerkily, swallowing on nothing. Her voice lowered. “What is it?”
He sat on the edge of the bed. He was tired and cold, and he wanted to undress and feel the fleecy warmth of his nightshirt next to his skin, and wriggle down under the blankets beside her. But that was not the way to say what he