and resent its authority, but respect for it was part of the dignity of man.
“I don’t know,” Pitt replied, staring out of the window as a cloud of steam drifted past and the train launched forward.
It took them until early afternoon to find the right house in Hall Road. It was still occupied by a group of artists and writers. It was difficult to tell how many, and there seemed to be several children, as well. They were all dressed in a Bohemian way, bits of costume of different styles, even some oriental clothing, startling in this quiet and very English suburb.
A tall woman who introduced herself simply as Morgan assumed the leadership and answered Pitt’s questions.
“Yes, Dominic Corde did live here for a short while, but it was several years ago. I am afraid I have no idea where he is now. We have not heard from him since he left.” Her face with its wide eyes and fine lips showed a shadow of sadness. She had a mane of fair hair which she wore loose, except for a woven ribbon band around her brow, like a green crown.
“It is the past I am interested in, not the present,” Pitt explained. He saw Tellman disappear along the corridor and assumed he was, as had been previously agreed, going to speak to some of the other inhabitants.
“Why?” She looked at him very directly. She had been working on a painting, which stood on a large easel behind her, when he had interrupted. It appeared to be a self-portrait, the face peering through leaves, the body half hidden by them. It was enigmatic and in its way very beautiful.
“Because present events make it necessary I know what happened to several people in order that an innocent man may not be blamed for a crime,” he answered. It was oblique, and something less than the truth.
“And you want to blame Dominic for it?” she assumed. “Well, I shan’t help you. We don’t talk about each other, especially to outsiders. Our way of life and our tragedies are private, and no concern of yours, Superintendent. No crime was committed here. Mistakes, perhaps, but they are ours to mend, or not.”
“And if it is Dominic I am trying to absolve?” he asked.
She looked at him steadily. She was beautiful, in a wild way, although she was well past forty and there was something in her which still held all the unfinished rebellion of youth. There was no peace in her face. He wondered what her relationship with Dominic had been. They seemed as different from each other as possible, and yet he had changed almost completely in the last few years. Perhaps during his time there they had complemented each other in some way. He had been restless then, incomplete, and she might have fed his needs.
“From what crime?” she asked, her brilliant eyes steady and almost unblinking.
He had to remind himself that he was the interrogator, not she. He pushed his hands into his pockets and relaxed a little. With his shaggy hair and crooked tie, pockets full of odds and ends, he did not look nearly as out of place in this house as Tellman did.
“But he did live here for some time?” he repeated calmly.
“Yes. We have no reason to deny that. But there is nothing here to concern the police.” Her jaw tightened. “We live very ordinary lives. The only thing about us which is unusual is that we share a large house, seven of us and the children, and we are all artists of one sort or another. We weave, paint, sculpt and write.”
“Did Dominic practice any of these things?” he asked with surprise. He had never imagined him to possess any sort of talent.
“No,” she said reluctantly, as if it were an admission. “You still have not told me what crime you are investigating or why I should answer any of your questions.”
Footsteps passed along the corridor, hesitated, then continued.
“No, I haven’t,” he agreed. “Something happened here which distressed him very much—so much, in fact, that he was close to despair. What was it?”
She hesitated. The indecision was mirrored in her eyes.
He waited.
“One of our number died,” she said at length. “We were all distressed. She was young, and we were very fond of her.”
“Was Dominic in love with her?”
Again she waited before she answered. He knew she was weighing what to tell him, how much of the truth she could conceal without leading him to other things,