Anne Perry: Southampton Row

“Fortunately, your imagination, or lack of it, does not matter,” Narraway replied frostily. “We are concerned only with your forensic skill. What was the cause of Mr. Wray’s death, in your opinion?”

“It is not an opinion, it is a fact,” the doctor snapped back at him. “He died of digitalis poisoning. A slight dose would have slowed the heart; this was sufficient to stop it altogether.”

“Taken in what form?” Pitt asked. He could feel his own heart racing as he waited for the answer. He was not certain if he wanted it.

“Powder,” the doctor said without hesitation. “Crushed up tablets, probably, in raspberry jam, almost certainly in a pastry tart. It was eaten very shortly before he died.”

Pitt was startled. “What?”

The doctor looked at him with mounting annoyance. “Am I going to have to say everything again for you?”

“If it matters enough, yes you are!” Narraway told him. He turned to Pitt. “What’s wrong with raspberry jam?”

“He didn’t have any,” Pitt replied. “He apologized for it. Said it was his favorite and he had eaten it all.”

“I know raspberry jam when I see it!” the doctor said furiously. “It was barely digested at all. The poor man died within a very short time of eating it. And it was unquestionably in pastry. You would have to produce some very remarkable evidence, and I cannot imagine what it would be, to make me believe other than that he went to bed with jam tarts and a glass of milk. The digitalis was in the jam, not the milk.” He looked at Pitt with withering disgust. “Although from Special Branch’s point of view, I can’t see why it matters either way. In fact, I can’t see why any of it is even remotely your business.”

“I want the report in writing,” Narraway told him. He glanced at Pitt, and Pitt nodded. “Time and cause of death, specifically that the digitalis which killed him was in the raspberry jam, in pastry. I’ll wait.”

Muttering to himself, the doctor went out of the door, leaving Pitt and Narraway alone.

“Well?” Narraway asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“He had no raspberry jam,” Pitt insisted. “But Octavia Cavendish came with a basket of food for him just as I was leaving. There must have been raspberry jam tarts in it!” He tried to crush the leap of hope inside himself. It was too soon, too fragile. The weight of defeat was still closed down hard. “Ask Mary Ann. She’ll remember whatever she unwrapped and put out for him. And she’ll tell you there were no jam tarts in the house before that.”

“Oh, I will!” Narraway said vehemently. “I will. And when we have the autopsy report in writing, he can’t go back on it.”

The doctor returned a few moments later, handing over a sealed envelope. Narraway took it from him, tore it open and read every word on the paper inside while the doctor glared at him, offended that he had not been trusted. Narraway looked at him with contempt. He trusted no one. His job depended upon being right to the last detail. A mistake, one thing taken for granted, a single word, could cost lives.

“Thank you,” he said, satisfied, and put the paper in his pocket. He led the way out, Pitt following closely behind.

It was necessary to go to the station to catch the next train back towards London. The first stop would be Teddington, and from there it was only a short distance to Wray’s house.

From the outside it looked just the same, the flowers brilliant in the sun, tended with love but not discipline. The roses still tumbled around the doors and windows and ran riot over the arch above the gate. Pinks spilled over the pathways, filling the air with perfume. For a moment it was hard to remember that Wray was gone from here forever.

And yet there was a blind look to the windows, a sense of emptiness. Or perhaps that was only in his mind.

Narraway glanced at him. He seemed about to say something, then kept silent. They walked one behind the other up the flagstoned path and Pitt knocked on the door.

It was several moments before Mary Ann came. She looked at Narraway, then at Pitt, and her face lit with remembrance.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Pitt! It’s nice o’ yer to ’ave come, ‘specially after the rotten, stupid things some folk are saying. Sometimes I give up! Yer know ’bout poor Mr. Wray, o’ course.” She blinked, and the tears welled up in her eyes. “Did yer know as ’e left yer the jam? ’E didn’t actually write it down, like, but ’e said it to me. ‘Mary Ann, I must give Mr. Pitt some more o’ the jam, ’e was so kind to me.’ I meant to, an’ then Mrs. Cavendish came an’ the chance rather slipped away. Yer know the way ’e used to talk.” She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief, blowing her nose hard. “I’m sorry, but I miss ’im summink terrible!”

Pitt was so touched by the gesture, so overwhelmingly relieved that even if Wray had taken his own life, it was not with ill thought towards him, that he felt his throat tighten and a sting in his eyes. He would not betray it by speaking.

“That’s very kind of you,” Narraway spoke for him, whether he sensed the need or simply was accustomed to taking control. “But I think that there may be other claimants to his possessions, even those of the kitchen, and we would not wish you to be in any difficulty.”

“Oh no!” she said with certainty. “There in’t no one else. Mr. Wray left everything to me, an’ the cats, o’ course. The lawyers came and told me.” She gulped and swallowed. “This whole house! Everything! Can you imagine that? So the jam’s mine, except ’e said as Mr. Pitt should ’ave it.”

Narraway was startled, but Pitt saw with surprise a softness in his face, as if he also were moved by some deep emotion.

“In that case, I am sure Mr. Pitt would be very grateful. We apologize for intruding, Miss Smith, but in light of knowledge we now have, it is necessary we ask you certain questions. May we come in?”

She frowned, looking at Pitt, then back at Narraway.

“They are not difficult questions,” Pitt assured her. “And in nothing are you to blame, but we do need to be sure.”

She pulled the door and stepped backwards. “Well, I s’pose yer’d better. Would yer like a cup o’ tea?”

“Yes, please,” Pitt accepted, not bothering to see whether Narraway did or not.

She would have had them wait in the study, where Pitt had met with Wray, but partly from haste, mostly out of revulsion at the idea of sitting where he had talked so deeply with a man now dead, they followed her into the kitchen.

“The questions,” Narraway began, as she put more water in the kettle and opened the damper in the stove to set the flames burning inside again. “When Mr. Pitt was here for tea, the day Mr. Wray died, what did you serve them?”

“Oh!” She was startled and disconcerted. “Sandwiches, and scones and jam, I think. We ’adn’t any cake.”

“What kind of jam?”

“Greengage.”

“Are you sure, absolutely certain?”

“Yes. It was Mrs. Wray’s own jam, ’er favorite.”

“No raspberry?”

“We didn’t ’ave any raspberry. Mr. Wray’d eaten it all. That was ’is favorite.”

“Could you swear to that, before a judge in court, if you had to?” Narraway pressed.

“Yes. ’Course I could. I know raspberry from greengage. But why? What’s ’appened?”

Narraway ignored the question. “Mrs. Cavendish came to visit Mr. Wray just as Mr. Pitt was leaving?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Pitt, then back at Narraway. “She brung him some tarts with raspberry jam in them, an’ a custard pie an’ a book.”

“How many tarts?”

“Two. Why? What’s wrong?”

“And did he eat them both, do you know?”