Anne Perry - Southampton Row

“Why?” It made no sense. “I’ve already got a case.”

“’E said this is part of it, sir.” Grenville glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve got a cab waiting. If you’d just like to lock the door, sir, we’ll be on our way.” The manner in which he said it, his whole bearing, made it apparent he was not a sergeant suggesting something to a senior officer; he was a man who was very sure of his position passing on the order of a superior whose word could not be disobeyed. It was as if Narraway himself had spoken.

Slightly irked and unwilling to intrude on Tellman’s first murder case as commander, Pitt did as he was bidden and followed Grenville to the hansom. They rode the short distance along Keppel Street, around Russell Square and a couple of hundred yards down Southampton Row.

“Who is the victim?” he asked as soon as they were moving.

“Maude Lamont,” Grenville replied. “She’s supposed to be a spirit medium, sir. One of them what says she gets in touch with the dead.” His tone and the expressionless look on his face conveyed his opinion of such things, and the fact that he felt it inappropriate to put it into words.

“And why does Mr. Narraway think it has anything to do with my case?” Pitt asked.

Grenville stared straight ahead.

“Don’t know that, sir. Mr. Narraway never tells nobody things as they don’t need to know.”

“Right, Sergeant Grenville, what can you tell me, other than that I am late, I am going to walk in on my erstwhile sergeant and take away his first case, and I have no idea what it’s about?”

“I don’t know either, sir,” Grenville said, glancing sideways at Pitt and then forward again. “Except that Miss Lamont was a spiritualist, like I said, and ’er maid found ’er dead this morning, choked, it seems. Except the doctor says it wasn’t an accident, so it looks like one of ’er clients from last night must ’ave done it. I suppose ’e needs you to find out which one, and maybe why.”

“And you have no idea what that has to do with my present case?”

“I don’t even know what your case is, sir.”

Pitt said nothing, and a moment later they pulled up just beyond Cosmo Place. Pitt climbed out, closely followed by Grenville, who led the way to the front door of a very pleasant house which was obviously that of someone in most comfortable circumstances. A short flight of steps led to a carved front door, and there was deep white gravel along the frontage to either side.

A constable answered the bell and was about to turn them away until he looked beyond Grenville to Pitt. “You’re back at Bow Street, sir?” he said with surprise, and what seemed to be pleasure.

Before Pitt could reply, Grenville stepped in. “Not for the moment, but Mr. Pitt is taking over this case. Orders from the ’ome Office,” he said in a tone which cut off further discussion of the subject. “Where’s Inspector Tellman?”

The constable looked puzzled and interested, but he knew how to read a hint. “In the parlor, sir, with the body. If you’ll come wi’ me.” And without waiting for an answer he led them inside across a very comfortable hallway decorated in mock Chinese style, with lacquer side tables and a bamboo-and-silk screen, and into the parlor. This too was of Oriental style, with a red lacquer cabinet by the wall, a dark wooden table with carved abstract designs on it, a series of lines and rectangles. In the center of the room was a larger table, oval, and around it were seven chairs. Double French doors with elaborate curtains looked out into a walled garden filled with flowering shrubbery. A path curved away around the corner, presumably to the front of the house or to a side gate or a door to Cosmo Place.

Pitt’s attention was drawn inevitably to the motionless body of a woman half reclined in one of the two upholstered chairs on either side of the fireplace. She seemed in her middle to late thirties, tall and with a fine, delicately curved figure. Her face had probably been handsome in life, with good bones, and framed by thick, dark hair. But at the moment it was disfigured by a terrible, gasping contortion. Her eyes were wide and staring, her complexion mottled and a strange white substance had bubbled out of her mouth and down over her chin.

Tellman, dour as always, his hair slicked back from his brow, was standing in the middle of the room. To his left was another man, older, thicker-set, with a strong, intelligent face. From the leather bag at his feet Pitt took him to be the police surgeon.

“Sorry, sir.” Grenville produced his card and held it out to Tellman. “This is a Special Branch case. Mr. Pitt will be taking over. But to keep it discreet, like, it would be better if you were to remain ’ere to work with ’im.” It was said as a statement, not a question.

Tellman stared at Pitt. He tried hard to mask his feelings, and the fact that he was taken by surprise, but his chagrin was clear in the rigidity of his body, his hands held tightly at his sides, the hesitation before he was able to master himself sufficiently to think what to say. There was no enmity in his eyes-at least Pitt thought not-but there was anger and disappointment. He had worked hard for his promotion, several years of that work in Pitt’s shadow. And now, faced with the very first murder of which he was in charge, with no explanation, Pitt was brought back and given command of it.

Pitt turned to Grenville. “If there’s nothing else, Sergeant, you can leave us to get on with it. Inspector Tellman will have all the facts we know so far.” Except why Narraway considered this anything whatever to do with Voisey. Pitt could not imagine anything less likely to interest Charles Voisey than spiritual seances. Surely his sister, Mrs. Cavendish, could not have been so credulous as to have attended such a gathering at so sensitive a time? And if she had, and had been compromised by her presence here, was that a good thing or bad?

He felt cold at the thought that Narraway expected him to use it to their advantage. The idea of becoming part of the crime, of using it to coerce, was repellent.

He introduced himself to the doctor, whose name was Snow, then turned to Tellman.

“What do you know so far?” he asked politely and as noncommittally as he could. He must not allow his own anger to reflect in his attitude now. None of this was Tellman’s fault, and to antagonize him further would make it more difficult to succeed in the end.

“The maid, Lena Forrest, found her this morning. She’s the only servant living in,” Tellman replied, glancing around the room to indicate his surprise that in a house of this obvious material comfort there was no resident cook or manservant. “Made her mistress’s morning tea and took it up to her room,” he continued. “When she found no one there, and the bed not slept in, she was alarmed. She came down here to the last place she had seen her-”

“When was that?” Pitt interrupted.

“Before the start of last night’s. . doings.” Tellman avoided the word seance , and his opinion of it all was evident in his very slightly curled lip. Otherwise his lantern-jawed face was carefully devoid of expression.

Pitt was surprised. “She didn’t see her afterwards?”

“She says not. I pressed her about that. No last cup of tea, no going up, drawing a bath for her or helping her undress? But she says not.” His voice allowed no argument. “It seems Miss Lamont liked to stay up as long as she wanted with certain. . clients. . and they all preferred the privacy of no servants around, no one to bump into accidentally or interrupt when. .” He tailed off, his lips pursed.

“So she came in here, and found her?” Pitt inclined his head towards the figure in the chair.

“That’s right. About ten minutes after seven,” Tellman responded.