Bethlehem Road (11 page)

“I don’t think he ... ever had any desire to marry again. I’m sure I should have known of it.”

“Would any of these ladies have had reason for entertaining hopes?”

“No.”

Pitt looked at James, but James avoided his eyes.

“Perhaps you would give me the name of his solicitors in the morning?” Pitt asked. “And any business partners or associates he may have had?”

“Yes, if you think it necessary.” She was very pale. Her hands were clenched and her body still hunched forward on the edge of the seat.

“His affairs were in excellent order,” James put in, suddenly looking at Pitt and frowning. “Surely they have no bearing on this? I think you intrude on our privacy without justification. Mr. Etheridge’s wealth was inherited through lands in Lincolnshire and the West Riding, and shares in several companies in the City. I suppose there may be some malcontents or would-be revolutionaries who resent that, but only the same ones who would resent anyone with property.” His eyes were bright, his jaw a little forward. He was half challenging Pitt, as if he suspected Pitt might have some secret sympathy with those James considered to be his own class.

“We are looking into that, of course.” Pitt smiled briefly back at him and held his gaze. It was James who looked away. “I will also inquire into his political career as well,” he continued. “Perhaps you can give me an outline from which to begin?”

Helen cleared her throat. “He has been a Liberal Member of Parliament for twenty-one years, from the general election in December 1868. His constituency is in Lincolnshire. He served as a junior minister in the Treasury in 1880 when Mr. Gladstone was Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the India Office when Lord Randolph Churchill was Secretary for India, I think that was 1885. And he was Parliamentary Private Secretary to Sir William Harcourt when he was Home Secretary, but only for about a year—I think it was 1883. At present he has—he had,” she said, hesitating for only a moment, “no particular office, so far as I know, but a great deal of influence.”

“Thank you. Do you happen to know if he held strong views on the Irish question? Home Rule, for example.”

She shivered and glanced again at James, but he was apparently unaware of it, his mind absorbed with something else.

“He was against Home Rule,” she answered very quietly. Then her eyes widened and there was a flash, a quickening of something within. Anger and hope? Or merely intelligence? “Do you think it could have been Fenians? An Irish conspiracy?”

“Possibly.” Pitt doubted it; he remembered Hamilton had been strongly in favor of Home Rule. But then perhaps Hamilton had been killed by mistake. At night with the distortion of the lamplight ... the two men were of a height, roughly of an age, and not dissimilar in coloring and features. “Yes—possibly.”

“Then you had better begin inquiring,” James said. He seemed a little more relaxed. “We will retire. My wife has had a profound shock. I am sure you can learn anything else you need from my father-in-law’s political colleagues.” He turned to leave. His concern for Helen did not extend to offering her his arm.

The merest flicker of hurt crossed Helen’s face before it was mastered and concealed again. Pitt debated for an instant whether to offer his hand. He wished to, as he would have to Charlotte, but he remembered his position: he was a policeman, not a guest or an equal. She would regard it as an impertinence, and more powerful in his mind, it would highlight the fact that her husband had not done so. James was standing by the door, holding it open.

“Have you been at home all evening, sir?” Pitt said with an edge to his voice he had not intended, but his anger at the man was too strong.

James looked surprised. Then a wave of color spread up his cheeks, dim in the light of the two lamps that had been turned up but unmistakable to someone staring at him as Pitt was.

He hesitated. Was he debating whether to lie?

“Never mind.” Pitt smiled sourly. “I can ask the footman. I need not detain you. Thank you, Mrs. Carfax. I am deeply sorry to have had to bring you such news.”

“We don’t need your apologies—just get off about your business!” James said waspishly. Then realizing at last how he betrayed himself by unnecessary rudeness, he turned and walked out of the door, leaving it wide and unattended for Helen to follow.

She stood still, her eyes on Pitt’s face, struggling with herself whether to speak or not.

Pitt waited. He was afraid she would retreat if he prompted her.

“I was at home,” she said, then instantly seemed to regret it. “I mean, I went to sleep early. I—I am not sure about my husband, but—but my father did receive a ... a letter that troubled him. I think he may have been threatened in some way.”

“Do you know who sent this letter, Mrs. Carfax?”

“No. It was political, I think. Maybe regarding the Irish?”

“Thank you. Tomorrow perhaps you would be kind enough to see if you can remember any more. We will inquire at his office, and among his colleagues. Do you know if he kept the letter?”

She looked almost at the point of collapse. “No. I have no idea.”

“Please don’t destroy anything, Mrs. Carfax. It would be better if you were to lock your father’s study.”

“Of course. Now if you will excuse me, I must be alone.”

Pitt stood to attention. It was an odd gesture, but he felt a profound sympathy for her, not only because she had lost her father in violent and peculiarly public circumstances, but because of some other pain he sensed in her, a loneliness that had something to do with her husband. He thought perhaps she loved him far more than he did her, and she knew it, and yet there was also something beyond that, another wound he could only guess at.

The footman showed him out, and he went down the steps into the quiet lamplit street with a deep feeling that there were other tragedies to be revealed.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
constables set about finding any witnesses who might have seen anything from which a fact could be deduced: a more exact time, whether the attacker had come from the north side of the bridge or the south, which way he had gone afterwards, whether by cab or on foot. There was little they could do until the evening, because those who frequented the streets close to midnight were in their own homes, shops, or lodgings through the day, which could be almost anywhere, and even the members of Parliament were at home or in offices and ministries.

By midweek they had found four of the cabbies who had crossed the bridge between half past ten and eleven o’clock. None of them had seen anything that was of any help, nothing out of the ordinary, no loitering figures except the usual prostitutes, and they, like Hetty Milner, were merely pursuing their trade. One had seen a man selling hot plum duff, but he was a regular, and when the police met the man in the early evening he could tell them nothing further.

Other members of Parliament had spoken with Etheridge shortly before they all left the House and went their several ways. None had seen him approached by anyone or could remember his actually walking towards the bridge. They had been busy in conversation themselves, the night was dark, it was late, and they were tired and thinking of home.

All that the day’s labor, walking, questioning, and deduction produced by midnight was the confirmation of a very ordinary evening. No unusual person had been noticed, nothing had disturbed Etheridge or caused him to behave other than after any late night sitting of the House. There had been no quarrels, no sudden messages, no haste or anxiety, no friends or acquaintances with him except other members.

Etheridge had been found dead by Harry Rawlins within ten minutes of his last words to his colleagues outside the entrance of the House of Commons.

Pitt turned his attention to the personal life of Etheridge, beginning with his financial affairs. It took him only a couple of hours to confirm that he had been an extremely wealthy man, and there was no heir apart from his only child, Helen Carfax. The estate was in no way entailed, and the house in Paris Road and the extremely fine properties in Lincolnshire and the West Riding were freehold and without mortgage.

Pitt left the solicitors’ offices with no satisfaction. Even in the spring sunshine he felt cold. The lawyer, a small, punctilious man with spectacles on the bridge of his narrow nose, had said nothing of James Carfax, but his silences were eloquent. He pursed his mouth and gazed at Pitt with steady sadness in his pale blue eyes, but his discretion had been immaculate; he told Pitt only what was in due course going to become public knowledge when the will was probated, not that Pitt had expected anything else. Families of Etheridge’s standing did not employ lawyers who betrayed their clients’ trust.

Pitt took a quick lunch of bread, cold mutton, and cider at the Goat and Compasses and then hired a hansom through Westminster and across the bridge back to Paris Road. It was an acceptable hour to call, and even if Helen Carfax were not well enough to receive him herself, it would not matter; his primary purpose was to search Etheridge’s papers to see if he could find the letter she had spoken of, or any other correspondence which would indicate an enemy, a woman who felt ill-used, a business or professional rival, anything at all.

When he alighted from the cab he found the house as he had expected, all the curtains drawn and a dark wreath on the door. The parlormaid who answered his knock wore black crepe in her hair instead of the crisp white cap she would normally have had, and no white apron. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, but some mixture of uncertainty, fear, and the aftermath of shock made her choose the simpler measure and ask him in.

“I don’t know whether Mrs. Carfax will see you,” she said warningly.

“How about Mr. Carfax?” Pitt asked as he followed her into the morning room.

“He’s gone out to attend some business. I expect he’ll be back after luncheon.”

“Would you ask Mrs. Carfax if I may have permission to look through Mr. Etheridge’s study to see if I can find the letter she mentioned to me last night?”

“Yes sir, I’ll ask,” she said doubtfully, and left him to wait alone. He looked round the room more closely than he had the previous night. Guests who might call unexpectedly would be received here, and residents of the house might spend a quiet morning attending to correspondence. The mistress would come here to order the affairs of the day, give the cook and the housekeeper their instructions, and discuss some domestic or cellar matter with the butler.

There was a Queen Anne writing desk in one corner, and a table with a number of framed photographs on it. He studied them carefully; the largest was obviously Etheridge himself as a young man, with a gentle-faced woman beside him. They looked stiff as they faced the photographer, but even in the formal pose there was a confidence that shone through, a composure that had more to do with happiness than discipline. To judge from the fashions it had been taken about twenty years ago. There was also a picture of a boy of about thirteen, thin, with the large, intense eyes of an invalid. The picture was mounted in black.

The elderly woman who reminded Pitt of a benign, rather lugubrious horse was presumably Etheridge’s mother. The family resemblance was there; she had the good brow and tender mouth, recalling her granddaughter as she might have been in another age.

To the left side of the table was a large picture of Helen herself with James Carfax. She looked startlingly innocent, her face very young, eyes full of hope and the kind of radiance that belongs to those in love. James also smiled, but only with his mouth and his beautiful teeth; his eyes held satisfaction, almost relief. He seemed more aware of the camera than she.

The date was in the corner, 1883. Possibly it was shortly after their marriage.

Pitt went to the bookcase. A man’s choice of books said much of his character, if the books were actually read; if, on the other hand, they were meant to impress, they revealed something of the people whose opinion mattered to him. If they were merely to decorate the wall they revealed nothing, except the certain shallowness of a person who used books for such a purpose. These were well-used volumes of history, philosophy, and a few classic works of literature.

It was Helen herself who appeared nearly ten minutes later, ashen-faced and dressed entirely in black, which made her look younger, but also wearier, as if she were recovering from a long and confining illness. But her composure was admirable.

“Good morning, Inspector Pitt,” she said levelly. “I believe you wish to search for the letter I mentioned last night? I doubt you will find it—I don’t imagine my father will have preserved it. But of course you may look.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carfax.” He wanted to apologize for disturbing her, but he could think of nothing that would not sound trivial in the circumstances and so found himself following her silently across the gaslit hallway. An upstairs maid with a pile of laundry and a tweeny of about fourteen with a mop in her hand were both leaning over the landing rail watching. If the housekeeper caught them, they would be disciplined sharply and told precisely what happened to girls who could not attend to their work but interested themselves in the affairs of their betters.

The library was another spacious room, with two oak-paneled walls, one with large windows, the curtains drawn as suited a house in mourning; the other two walls were lined with glass-fronted bookcases. The fire was unlit, but the ashes had been cleared and the grate freshly blacked.

“There is my father’s desk,” Helen said, indicating a large oak desk inlaid with tooled leather in dark maroon and containing nine drawers, four on either side and one central one. She held out her thin hand, offering him a little carefully wrought key.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He took it, and feeling even more intrusive than usual, he opened the first drawer and began to look through the papers.

“I presume these are all Mr. Etheridge’s?” he asked. “Mr. Carfax never uses this room?”

“No, my husband has offices in the City. He never brings work home. He has many friends, but little personal correspondence.”