Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry

St. Giles, a stone’s throw from Bloomsbury, or the petty bourgeoisie, clerks and shopkeepers, artisans grasping after respectability but boasting only one street entrance all the same.
    Pitt pulled the bell, and a moment later the butler stood in the doorway, grave and calm. Of course. Vespasia would have told him that Pitt never went to the back. He regarded Pitt’s height, his unruly hair, the bulging pockets, and reached his conclusion immediately.
    “Inspector Pitt? Please come in, and if you will wait in the morning room, Mr. March will see you, sir.”
    “Thank you. But I will have Constable Stripe go to the servants’ hall and begin inquiries there, if you don’t mind.”
    The butler hesitated for a moment, but realized the inevitability of it. “I will accompany him,” he said carefully, making sure they both realized that the servants were his responsibility and he intended to discharge it to the full.
    “Of course,” Pitt agreed with a nod.
    “Then if you will come this way.” He turned and led Pitt across the fine, rather ornate hallway and into a heavily furnished room; masculine, hide-covered armchairs by a rosewood desk, Japanese lacquer tables in startling reds and blacks, and an array of Indian weapons, relics of some ancestor’s service to queen and Empire, displayed haphazardly on the walls opposite a Chinese silk screen.
    Here, rather awkwardly, the butler hesitated, confused as to how he should deal with a policeman in the front of the house, and eventually left him without saying anything further. He must retrieve Stripe from the entrance and conduct him to the servants’ hall, making sure he did not frighten any of the younger girls, who were no more than thirteen or fourteen, and that the staff acquitted themselves honorably and in no way spoke out of turn.
    Pitt remained standing. The room was like many he had seen before, typical of its station and period, except that it contained an unusual clash of styles, as if there were at least three distinct personalities whose wills had met in the decisions of taste: at a guess, a robust, opinionated man, a woman of some cultural daring, and a lover of tradition and family heritage.
    The door opened again and Eustace March came in. He was a vigorous, florid man in his mid fifties, at this moment torn by profoundly conflicting emotions and forced into a role he was unused to.
    “Good afternoon, er—”
    “Pitt.”
    “Good afternoon, Pitt. Tragedy in the house. Doctor’s a fool. Shouldn’t have sent for you. Entirely domestic matter. Nephew of mine, sort of cousin by marriage to be precise, great-nephew of my mother-in-law—” He caught Pitt’s eye and his face colored. “But I suppose you know that. Anyway, poor man is dead.” He drew in his breath and continued rapidly. “I regret to say it, but he had got himself into a hopeless situation in his marriage—seems he sank into a fit of depression and took his own life. Very dreadful. Family’s a bit eccentric. But you wouldn’t know the rest of them—”
    “I knew George,” Pitt said coolly. “I always found him eminently sensible. And Lady Cumming-Gould is the sanest woman I ever met.”
    The blood mounted even higher in Eustace’s mottled cheeks. “Possibly!” he snapped. “But then, you and I move in very different circles, Mr. Pitt. What is sane in yours may not be regarded so favorably in mine.”
    Pitt could feel an unprofessional anger rising inside him, which he had sworn not to allow. He was used to rudeness; it ought not to matter. And yet his feelings were raw, because it was George who was dead. All the more important that he behave irreproachably, that he not give Eustace March an excuse to have him removed from the case—or worse, permit his own emotions to so cloud his judgment that he fail to discover the truth and disclose it with as much gentleness as possible. Investigation, any investigation, uncovered so much more than the principle crime; there was a