Dorchester Terrace (23 page)

“What do you mean, you ‘hope so’?”

“She was a woman of great distinction. She deserves the best attention we can give her. If there is something untoward in her death, or in the property and papers she leaves, I wish to keep it private. Indeed, I intend to. Allow me to do it gently.”

The lawyer grunted. “I suppose you have the power to force me if I refuse. And from the look on your face, and your taste for authority, you will do so.”

Pitt forbore from speaking.

“She left a nice bequest for her maid, Tucker,” the lawyer said reluctantly, “for whom she had considerable affection. It will take care of her for the rest of her life. Apart from that, the house in Dorchester Terrace and the balance of her estate go to her niece, Nerissa Freemarsh. It is several thousand pounds. If she is careful it will provide an income sufficient for her to live quite comfortably.”

“Thank you. Are there any papers other than the ordinary household and financial ones you would expect? Any diaries?”

The lawyer looked at Pitt with gleaming satisfaction. “No, there are not!”

Pitt had expected that answer, but it would have been remiss not to ask.

“Thank you, Mr. Morton. I am obliged to you. Good day.”

Morton did not reply.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY THURGOOD
sent a message to Pitt telling him that he had completed his examination and was prepared to offer his
report. He was ready to give, at least, the exact cause of death, but the circumstances he would leave to Pitt to discern.

Pitt had been to morgues before. It had been a grim part of his duty for most of his adult life, although rather less often since joining Special Branch. The moment he stepped from the bright, windy street into the building with its uncanny silence, he could smell the odors of death and chemical preservation and feel a dampness in the air. It was as if the constant washing away of blood prevented the building from ever being fully dry, or warm. To him the smells of carbolic, vinegar, and formaldehyde were worse than any other scent.

“Well?” he asked when he was alone with Thurgood in the doctor’s office and the door was closed.

“Simply, it was laudanum,” Thurgood replied unhappily. “She took it regularly. She found that sleep eluded her, and often she would be awake all night, hearing every creak in the timbers of the house, imagining footsteps.”

“Are you saying she finally took too much?” Pitt asked with disbelief. “Could that be accidental? Wasn’t she given it by someone who knew what they were doing? Miss Freemarsh? Or the lady’s maid? Tucker had been with Mrs. Montserrat most of her life. She would never have made such a mistake.” It occurred to him then that Tucker could have done it on purpose, as an act of mercy to a woman living in such terrible fear. She would only have been hastening something that was inevitable. Then he remembered how, when he had interviewed Tucker briefly, before leaving for Mr. Morton’s office the previous afternoon, he had seen only grief in her face. The idea melted away.

“No. This was too large a dose to have been an accident,” Thurgood replied, his face betraying his unhappiness. “It was at least five times as much as she would have taken for sleep. Laudanum is not easy to overdose on because the solution is weak. One would have to take a second, or, in time, even a third dose within a short time to have it be fatal. I deliberately prepared it that way, precisely to avoid such accidents. And I made sure that both Tucker and Miss Freemarsh kept the supply out of the main bedroom or bathroom, in a cupboard with a lock.”

Pitt was growing even colder. “And the key?”

“On a ring in a cupboard, whose handle was higher than Mrs. Montserrat could have reached.” Thurgood looked as if he was chilled too. He stood stiffly, his hands clenched together, the bloodless skin stretched over his knuckles. “If Mrs. Montserrat had taken the same dose she was normally given at night before settling down to sleep, even if she was awake, she would have been too drowsy to have gotten up, gone from her room across the landing to the chambermaid’s room, and climbed on a chair to open the key cupboard, and then a second chair to reach the medicine cabinet. No, the laudanum was administered to her by someone else. What I cannot say is whether it was an accident, but I find it hard to believe anyone could give so much accidentally.” He met Pitt’s eyes. “I’m relieved to say that it is not my responsibility to find out.”

“I see. Thank you.” Pitt was bitterly disappointed, although in all honesty he had to admit that he had not wanted to think Serafina was so far departed from reality as to have taken her own life in a haze of fear and confusion—or even deliberately, as an alternative to the mental disintegration that had already begun. It would’ve been a humiliating end for a brave woman.

But this looked like murder.

Was it a simple domestic tragedy fueled by greed and impatience? Nerissa unwilling to play companion and dreamer-in-waiting another year or two, or even three? Perhaps her lover was losing the will to wait for her, or she was afraid he might soon? Perhaps it was just another wretched story of family misery turning into hatred, for an imprisonment in loveless tedium. How old would Nerissa be? Mid-thirties, perhaps. How many more childbearing years did she have? Desperation was a strong force, all but overwhelming.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with Serafina’s past, or Special Branch. But he must be sure.

“Thank you,” he said.

Thurgood smiled without pleasure. “I’ll send you a written report: amounts, and so on. But there is no doubt as to what it is, and I can’t tell you anything more.”

“No marks on the body?” Pitt asked. “Scratches, bruises? Anything
to indicate her being held? Wrists? A cut inside the mouth? Anything at all?”

“Several,” Thurgood said thinly. “She was an old woman and she bruised easily. But if she had been forced to take it against her will I would have expected to find bruises all around her wrists. It takes some strength to hold a person fighting for her life, even an old woman.”

“Would you know if you were drinking laudanum?” Pitt persisted. “What does it taste like?”

“You’d know,” Thurgood assured him. “If she took that much, believe me, either she took it intentionally, or under some kind of duress. The only other alternative, and I’ve been thinking about this, is that she took the normal dose. Then, when she was in a half-asleep state, the rest was given to her. If there were some spilled, it could be mopped up, perhaps with a little water, and there’d be no discernible trace.” He shrugged with an air of hopelessness. “Even if there was, it would prove nothing. She might often spill things. She was old and shaky, sitting up in bed.”

“I see. Thank you.”

P
ITT ARRIVED BACK AT
Dorchester Terrace later that afternoon. Already the light was fading from the sky. The footman admitted him and had him wait in the cold morning room until Nerissa sent for him to come to the withdrawing room. The curtains were drawn closed, as they had been the previous day, but she was rather more composed this time, even if just as tense.

“What is it now, Mr. Pitt? Have you not caused us sufficient distress?” she said coldly. “The doctor tells me that you have obliged him to perform an autopsy on my aunt. I don’t know what purpose you believe that will possibly serve. It is a horrible thing to do, a desecration of her body that I cannot protest against strongly enough—for all the good it will do now.”

“It was necessary to know how she died, Miss Freemarsh,” he replied, watching her face, her anger, the clenched hands by her side. “And I regret to say that it was from an overdose of laudanum.” He
stopped, afraid she was going to faint. She swayed and grasped the back of the settee to steady herself.

“An … overdose?” she repeated hoarsely. “I thought … I thought laudanum was safe. How could that happen? It was not even kept in the same room with her. We were so careful. It was in an upstairs cupboard and Tucker has the key. Even if my aunt felt that she was not sleeping well enough, she could not have gotten up to dose herself. That makes no sense!”

“What
would
make sense, Miss Freemarsh?” Pitt asked more gently.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do you think happened?”

“I … I don’t know. How could I? She must have …” She sat still, unable to finish.

“What?” He did not allow her to wait. “You have just told me that she could not have gotten up to find the laudanum herself.”

“Then … then someone must have …” Her hand went to her throat. “Someone must have … broken in … or …”

“Is that possible?”

“I would not have thought so.” She was beginning to regain a little of her composure. “But I do not know the facts. If you are quite certain that she died of too much laudanum, then I don’t see what other explanation there can be. I did not give it to her, and I cannot believe that Tucker did. She has been loyal to Aunt Serafina for years.” She was staring at Pitt defiantly now. She lowered her voice just a little. “Aunt Serafina used to speak rather a lot about her past. I always believed she was making up most of it, but perhaps she wasn’t. She was afraid someone would try to hurt her, to keep her from revealing secrets. If the doctor is right—and I have no idea if he is—then that may be the answer.”

Pitt waited, still watching her.

“I don’t know what else you expect me to say.” She shook her head very slightly. “Lady Vespasia came to see her several times. Perhaps she may know who would wish my aunt harm. Aunt Serafina trusted her. She may have confided in her. I really cannot help, and I will not have you distressing the servants. None of us knows anything.
I will ask them if they heard noises of any sort in the night. And of course you may ask them if anything was found, but I will not have you frightening them with the idea that we have had a murderer in the house. Do you understand me?” She shook herself a little and glared at him. “I will hold you responsible if you have them walk out in terror and leave me alone here.”

It was not graceful, but it was a reasonable statement. If it was even remotely possible that someone had indeed broken in, then she had a right to be afraid.

“I will check the windows and doors myself, Miss Freemarsh,” he promised. “There is no need for any of your servants to be aware that Mrs. Montserrat’s death was anything but natural, unless you choose to tell them.”

“Thank you.” She gulped. “How am I supposed to explain your presence here?”

“Mrs. Montserrat was a woman of great distinction, to whom the country owes a debt,” he replied. “We are taking care of the arrangements for her funeral, and you will not argue with us over this. It will explain my continued presence perfectly.”

She let out her breath with a sigh. “Yes. Yes, that will do. I am obliged. Now what is it you wish to look at? Will it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it will not. I’m sure your housekeeping staff is excellent. They may unintentionally remove all trace of anyone having broken in, if indeed such a thing happened.”

“I … see. Then I suppose you had better look. Although it is more than possible that they have removed such a thing already.”

Pitt gave a very tiny smile. “Of course.” But if he waited until the following day, it would allow her time to
create
such evidence, and he had no intention of permitting that. “Now, if you would be good enough to show me all the windows and doors, I will examine them myself.”

She obeyed without speaking again. They went to every door and window one by one, any place where anyone could possibly have gained entry. As he had expected, he found nothing that proved, or
disproved, that someone might have broken in. He examined the key to the cupboard where the laudanum was kept, then the cupboard itself. It was all exactly as he had been told.

He thanked Nerissa and left.

Outside in the lamplit street, wind-whipped and cold, he hailed the first hansom he could find, and gave the driver Narraway’s address. He climbed in and sat sunk in thought as they bowled along, almost oblivious of where he was.

In spite of Vespasia’s fears, he had not expected the doctor’s findings. Suddenly the world that Serafina had apparently hinted at had become real, and he was not prepared for it. When Vespasia had told him everything, it had sounded very much like the ramblings of an old woman who was losing her grip on life and longed to be thought important and interesting for just a little longer. He had to admit he had assumed that Vespasia was seeing in Serafina a ghost of what might happen to herself one day, and was exercising kindness rather than critical judgment.

Now he needed Narraway’s opinion, something to balance the thoughts that teemed in his own mind. Narraway, of all people, would not be swayed by fancy.

It did not occur to him until he was almost at Narraway’s door that at this time in the early evening he might very well not be at home. He felt a sense of desperation rise inside himself and leaned forward, as if traveling faster would somehow solve the problem. He realized the stupidity of it and leaned back again with a sigh.

The hansom pulled up and he asked the driver to wait. There was no purpose in staying here if Narraway was out. He could be gone all evening. He was free to do as he wished—even take a vacation, if he cared to.

But the manservant told him Narraway was at home. As soon as he had paid the hansom, Pitt went in and was shown to the sparse, elegant sitting room with its book-lined walls. The fire sent warmth into every corner, and the heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night.

Pitt did not bother with niceties. They knew each other too well,
and had long ago dispensed with trivia. Now the balance was more even between them. Though Narraway was the elder, the command was Pitt’s.

“Serafina Montserrat is dead,” Pitt said quietly. “She died some time during the night before last.”

“I know,” Narraway replied gravely. “Vespasia told me. What is there about it that concerns you? Is it not better that she went before her mind lost all its grasp, and fear and confusion had taken over? She was once a great woman. The cruelties of old age are … very harsh.” He waited, dark eyes steady on Pitt’s, knowing that there had to be something else. Pitt would not have come simply to share grief. “Did she say anything dangerous before she died?”