the streets hunting for him—or them. It’s either a madman, or some anarchist plot. Either way, you won’t find any guidance to it in this house!”
Pitt was used to shock and knew the first wave of grief often showed itself as anger. Many people fought against pain by driving it out with some other intense emotion. The desire to blame someone seemed to come most readily.
“Nevertheless, I must ask,” Pitt insisted. “It is possible the attack may have been personally inspired, made by someone who had some political animosity—”
“Against both Sir Lockwood and my father-in-law?” James’s dark eyebrows shot upward in sarcastic disbelief.
“I need to investigate, sir.” Pitt held his gaze steadily. “I must not decide in advance what the solution is going to be. Sometimes one man may commit murder in imitation of another, hoping the first will be blamed for both crimes.”
James lost his fragile temper. “More likely it’s anarchists, and you’re simply incompetent to catch them!”
Pitt overlooked the jibe. He turned to Helen, who had taken his advice and seated herself uncomfortably on the edge of the wide, forest green sofa. She was hunched forward, arms folded across herself as if she were cold, although the room still retained the warmth of the smoldering fire.
“Are there any other members of the family we should inform?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “No, I am the only child. My brother died several years ago, when he was twelve. My mother died shortly after. I have an uncle in the Indian Army, but I shall write to him myself, in a day or two.”
So she would inherit. Pitt would make sure, of course, but it would be extraordinary if Etheridge had left his fortune outside the family. “So your father had been a widower for some time,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Had he ever considered marrying again?” It was a reasonably tactful way of inquiring whether Etheridge had any romantic alliances. He hoped she understood what he meant.
A wan smile lit her face for an instant, and vanished. “Not so far as I know. That is not to say there were not several ladies who considered it.”
“I imagine so,” Pitt agreed. “He was of fine family, had a successful career, an impeccable reputation, was charming and personable, and was of very substantial means, and still young enough to have another family.”
James’s head came up sharply and his mouth fell slack with some emotion of alarm or loss that Pitt could see for an instant, before it was masked, but he could not be sure of its nature.
Helen’s eyes flashed upward to her husband’s face; she grew even more pale, then the color rushed up in her cheeks. She turned to Pitt and spoke so quietly he had to lean forward to catch her words.
“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
Pitt was used to shock and knew the first wave of grief often showed itself as anger. Many people fought against pain by driving it out with some other intense emotion. The desire to blame someone seemed to come most readily.
“Nevertheless, I must ask,” Pitt insisted. “It is possible the attack may have been personally inspired, made by someone who had some political animosity—”
“Against both Sir Lockwood and my father-in-law?” James’s dark eyebrows shot upward in sarcastic disbelief.
“I need to investigate, sir.” Pitt held his gaze steadily. “I must not decide in advance what the solution is going to be. Sometimes one man may commit murder in imitation of another, hoping the first will be blamed for both crimes.”
James lost his fragile temper. “More likely it’s anarchists, and you’re simply incompetent to catch them!”
Pitt overlooked the jibe. He turned to Helen, who had taken his advice and seated herself uncomfortably on the edge of the wide, forest green sofa. She was hunched forward, arms folded across herself as if she were cold, although the room still retained the warmth of the smoldering fire.
“Are there any other members of the family we should inform?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “No, I am the only child. My brother died several years ago, when he was twelve. My mother died shortly after. I have an uncle in the Indian Army, but I shall write to him myself, in a day or two.”
So she would inherit. Pitt would make sure, of course, but it would be extraordinary if Etheridge had left his fortune outside the family. “So your father had been a widower for some time,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Had he ever considered marrying again?” It was a reasonably tactful way of inquiring whether Etheridge had any romantic alliances. He hoped she understood what he meant.
A wan smile lit her face for an instant, and vanished. “Not so far as I know. That is not to say there were not several ladies who considered it.”
“I imagine so,” Pitt agreed. “He was of fine family, had a successful career, an impeccable reputation, was charming and personable, and was of very substantial means, and still young enough to have another family.”
James’s head came up sharply and his mouth fell slack with some emotion of alarm or loss that Pitt could see for an instant, before it was masked, but he could not be sure of its nature.
Helen’s eyes flashed upward to her husband’s face; she grew even more pale, then the color rushed up in her cheeks. She turned to Pitt and spoke so quietly he had to lean forward to catch her words.
“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
Similar Books
