any absurdity. As before, they were in her studio, cluttered with canvases, but this time the light was flat, draining the color, and rain beat against the windows. She had been painting before he came in, but there were only greens and yellows on her palette, which now sat on a stool a yard away.
“I have never heard of Unity Bellwood,” she denied. “And we have had no tragedy here, except Jenny’s death, and you already know all about that.” Her face darkened. “You did not need to have sent your man behind my back to ask the boy. That was devious.”
Pitt smiled at her naive indignation; it was the only sensible reaction.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she demanded, but he could see in her eyes that she half understood. “I don’t discuss other people’s affairs, least of all with police,” she went on. “It is not wrong to protect people from inquisitive strangers, it is wrong not to. It is part of the nature of friendship not to betray, especially whatever you think or fear might be a weakness.” Her light blue eyes were clear. Whatever she knew or suspected, at least this sentiment was honest.
“Do you place the interests of your friends before those of others?” he asked, leaning his weight against the mantel.
“Of course,” she replied, staring at him.
“Always?”
She did not answer.
“Does it matter how little your friend loses, or how much the other person does? Is your friend always right, no matter the issue or the price?”
“Well … no …”
“Dominic’s embarrassment against Ramsay Parmenter’s life? What about your own morality? Do you have a faith to yourself as well?”
Her neck stiffened. “Of course I do. Is it Ramsay Parmenter’s life?”
“No. It is just a question, to see where your judgment is.”
“Why do you pick Ramsay Parmenter?” She did not believe him, and it was clear in her face.
“His life is not in the balance. He is already dead.”
That jolted her. The color faded from her skin, leaving her looking tired. “If he’s dead, why do you need to know?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Are you trying to say Dominic killed him?” She was very white now. “I don’t believe that!” But the raw edge to her voice showed that she could not dismiss it from her mind so completely.
“Where was he living before he was here?” he pressed. “You must know. He didn’t appear from nowhere. He had clothes, belongings, letters, at least acquaintances. He always dressed well. What about his tailor? Where did his money come from? Or did you keep him?”
She flushed. “No, I did not keep him! I don’t know all those things. I didn’t ask. We don’t ask questions of one another. It is part of friendship, and trust.”
“Did he leave anything behind when he went to Icehouse Wood?”
“I don’t know. But if he did, it is long since cleared away. Anyway, it wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“What about clothes? Did he buy any new clothes while he was here?”
She thought about it for a moment. “A coat, a brown overcoat.”
“Didn’t he have one before?”
She smiled. “Yes, of course he did. Can’t a man have two coats? Anyway, he didn’t keep the old one. He gave it to Peter Wesley, next door. He hadn’t one.”
“Is Peter Wesley still there, next door?”
“No. He moved.”
“Where to?”
“What does it matter?” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He pressed her further and learned nothing except that Dominic seemed to have been very secretive about his immediate past, and she had gained the impression, never substantiated, that there was someone he would prefer did not find him there.
“Did he receive any letters?” Pitt asked her.
“No, never that I remember.” She thought for a moment. “No, I am sure he never did. And what he purchased he would have paid for at the time, because there were no bills, either, not even from his tailor, bootmaker, or shirtmaker.”
It completed a picture of a man who feared pursuit and was anxious to conceal all signs of where he was. Why? Who wished to find him, and for what reason?
He thanked her and went to search for the brown overcoat, which might at least offer him a tailor’s name.
But no one at the next house knew where Peter Wesley had gone to. Pitt was left on the doorstep looking out at a now-busy street which offered nothing further to tell where Dominic Corde had been before this place, or what had driven him from it.
An open carriage passed, ladies braving the sharp air to display