Authors: Anne Perry
Callander Square (34 page)
Mariah was watching him. Her face was quite still, eyes clear. She looked like a woman facing execution; but a woman not afraid of death.
“Yes,” he replied to her question that seemed hours ago.
“I see,” she stood up and gathered her skirts. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Pitt. I have something to do upstairs. Will you excuse me? My husband will be with you shortly.” And without waiting for his reply she walked slowly out of the room, back very straight, head high.
It was another ten minutes before Garson Campbell came in. Pitt had supposed him to be only in another room of the house, but he stamped his feet when he walked, as if he had been out in the cold. Yet he did not rub his hands.
“Well, what is it, Pitt?” he asked, looking him up and down with distaste. “I don’t know anything more about Freddie Bolsover that I did before.” He stood in front of the fire, feet spread wide apart, rocking a little backward and forward.
Something stirred at the back of Pitt’s mind, a man he had seen a long time ago and in some different place, a man who walked stamping his feet, even in the summer, a sick man. The picture of the little bodies in the gardens came back, the swollen head of the deeper one. He remembered Helena’s child.
In a shattering instant the answer was there in his brain, as clear and simple as a child’s picture.
“Dr. Bolsover knew you had syphilis, didn’t he?” he said simply. “When Reggie Southeron told you Freddie had blackmailed him, you realized it was only a matter of time before Freddie also realized the value of what he knew, and tried to blackmail you. You killed him before he could do that. Just as you killed Helena, before her child could be born deformed, like the ones in the square. Or else she discovered your disease, and you could not trust her to keep silent. Not that it matters which it was now.”
For an instant indecision wavered in Campbell’s eyes, then he saw the certainty of knowledge in Pitt, and his face distorted with rage.
“You bloody smiling hypocrite,” he said in a quiet, bitter voice. “I’ve been tainted, crippled in mind with this disease since I was thirty years old. Fifteen years I’ve been carrying the beginning of death in me. And there’s no quick end, I shall rot from the inside, slowly. The pains will get worse and worse till I’m paralyzed, a filthy vegetable being wheeled round in a chair, for people to whisper and snigger at! And you stand there moralizing, as if you would be any different!
“Yes, you’re right! Are you satisfied? Even my own wife looks at me as if I were a leper. She hasn’t touched me in over a year. Helena was a whore. When she found out about the disease she became hysterical, and I killed her.
“Freddie was a sniveling little blackmailer. Of course I killed him; it was only a matter of time till he came to me.” His hand was behind him, and before Pitt realized what he was doing, he swung round with the paper knife from the desk where Mariah had been writing, the blade swinging in an arc and missing Pitt’s chest only when he himself lunged forward, slipped on the edge of the carpet, and fell heavily, hitting Campbell and sending them both crashing into the fireplace.
Pitt scrambled to his feet, ready to strike again—but Campbell lay motionless. At first Pitt suspected a trick, until he saw Campbell’s head against the fender, and the small patch of blood.
He went to the door and shouted for the footman, his voice sounding loud and stupidly hysterical.
“Go out and get a police constable,” he said as soon as the man appeared. “And a doctor, quickly!”
The man gaped at him without moving.
“Get on with it!” Pitt yelled at him.
The man shot out of the door without even bothering with a coat.
Pitt went back into the morning room and yanked the bell cord out of its socket. He knew there would be a fearful jangling downstairs, but he did not care. With the length of cord he bound Campbell’s wrists as tightly as he could, then left him lying on his back, still apparently unconscious, but breathing heavily.
He considered finding Mariah, but decided it would be kinder to have Campbell removed first, especially should he choose to make a scene. It would be distressing enough for her without her being obliged to witness his actual arrest.
He sat down, out of reach of Campbell’s legs, in case he recovered and decided to fight again, and waited.
It was some ten minutes before the constable arrived, panting, wet from the fine rain, red in the face. He stared at Pitt, then at Campbell, still on the floor, but regaining consciousness now.
“Doctor’s coming, sir,” he said with some bewilderment. “What’s ’appened?”
“Mr. Campbell is under arrest,” Pitt replied. He looked across at the footman who was still standing beyond the constable, in the open doorway. “Call a hansom, and tell the valet to pack some things for Mr. Campbell. When the doctor comes, show him in here.” He turned back to the constable. “Mr. Campbell is charged with murder, and he’s dangerous. If you have handcuffs, put them on him before you remove my cords! When the doctor has seen him, put him in the cab and take him to the station.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his identification, showing it to him. “I’ll be along as soon as I’ve seen Mrs. Campbell. Do you understand?”
The constable jerked to attention.
“Yes, sir! Is ’e the one ’wot done the ’orrible murders o’ them babies, sir?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but he killed Dr. Bolsover, and Miss Doran. Be careful of him.”
“Yes, sir, I will that.” He glanced down at Campbell with a mixture of awe and disgust.
Pitt went to the door and was across the hall and halfway up the stairs when the doctor arrived. He waited on the landing for five minutes more till he saw the party go out, Campbell still dizzy, stumbling between the constable and the cabbie. Then he continued on upward to find Mariah.
The second floor was tidy and silent. He could not even see a maid. They must all be in the kitchen, or at some outside task.
“Mrs. Campbell?” he said clearly.
There was no answer.
He raised his voice and called again.
Still no reply.
He knocked on the first door and tried it. The room was empty. He continued until he came to what was apparently a woman’s dressing room. Mariah Campbell was sitting in an easy chair, facing away from him. At first he thought she had fallen asleep, until he walked round and saw her face. It was bleached of all color, and there was a grayness to the eyelids and lips.
On the dressing table there was a small bottle labeled for laudanum, empty, and another clear glass vial that also held nothing now. Beside them was a piece of paper. He picked it up. It was addressed to him.
Inspector Pitt,
I imagine you know the truth by now. The sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, but they were my children too, and I could not let them live, rotted by disease, filthy as he was. Better to die while they were still innocent, and knew nothing of it, neither pain.
Please ask Adelina Southeron to look after my children that yet live. She is a good woman, and will have pity on them.
May God find mercy for me, and peace.
Mariah Livingstone Campbell
Pitt looked down at her and felt overwhelming pity, and gratitude that she had spared him from having to face her, to be the instrument to begin the long course of public justice against her.
Because he loved Charlotte so deeply, he felt some gentleness toward all women; and was unutterably glad that his own life was not scorched and marred by such tragedy. He thought of Charlotte’s face, full of hope for her new child, and prayed that it would be whole, perhaps even that it would be a girl, another stubborn, compassionate, willful creature like Charlotte herself.
He smiled at the thought, and yet in front of this dead woman he also felt like weeping. More than anything else, he desperately wanted to go home.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1980 by Anne Perry
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-1907-2
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
