multitude of other, smaller sins, painful secrets, silly and shameful things the knowledge of which maimed what used to be love and crippled trust that might otherwise have endured all sorts of wounds.
Eustace was staring at him, waiting for a reaction, his face flushed with impatience.
Pitt sighed. “Can you tell me, sir, what is likely to have caused Lord Ashworth such distress or despair that on waking up this particular morning he immediately took his own life? By the way, how did he do it?”
“Good God, didn’t that idiot Treves tell you?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, sir.”
“Ah, no, of course not. Digitalis—that’s a heart medicine my mother has. And he said some rubbish about foxgloves in the garden. I don’t even know if they’re in flower now. And I don’t suppose he does either. The man’s incompetent!”
“Digitalis comes from the leaves,” Pitt pointed out. “It is frequently prescribed for congestive heart failure and irregularity of heartbeat.”
“Oh—ah!” Eustace sank suddenly into one of the hide-covered chairs. “For heaven’s sake, man, sit down!” he said irritably. “Dreadful business. Most distressing. I hope for the sake of the ladies you will be as discreet as you can. My mother and Lady Cumming-Gould are both considerably advanced in years, and consequently delicate. And of course, Lady Ashworth is distraught. We were all extremely fond of George.”
Pitt stared at him, not knowing how to break through the barricade of pretense. He had had to do it many times before—most people were reluctant to admit the presence of murder—but it was different now when the people were so close to him. Somewhere upstairs in this house Emily was sitting numb with grief.
“What tormented Lord Ashworth so irreparably he took his own life?” he repeated, watching Eustace’s face.
Eustace sat motionless for a long time, light and shadow passing over his features, a monumental struggle waging itself within his mind.
Pitt waited. Truth or lie, it might be more revealing if he allowed it to mature, even if it laid bare only some fear in Eustace himself.
“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Eustace began at last, “but I’m afraid it was Emily’s behavior, and ... and the fact that George had fallen very deeply—and I may say, hopelessly—in love with another woman.” He shook his head to signify his deprecation of such folly. “Emily’s behavior has been ... unfortunate, to say the least of it. But do not let us speak ill of her in her bereavement,” he added, suddenly realizing his charity ought to extend to her also.
Pitt could not imagine George killing himself over any love affair. It was simply not in his nature to be so intense about an emotional involvement. Pitt remembered his courtship of Emily; it had been full of romance and delight. No anguish, no quarrels, no giving way to obsessive or fancied jealousies.
“What happened last night that precipitated such despair?” he pursued, trying to keep the contempt and the disbelief out of his voice.
Eustace had prepared for this. He gave a rather shaky nod and pursed his lips. “I was afraid you would press me about that. I prefer to say nothing. Let it suffice that she showed her favors most flagrantly, where all the household might be aware of her, to a young gentleman guest staying here on my youngest daughter’s account.”
Pitt’s eyebrows rose. “If Emily did it in front of everyone else in the house, it can hardly have been very serious.”
Eustace’s lips tightened and his nostrils flared as he breathed. He kept his patience with difficulty. “It was my mother, and poor George himself, who were witness to it, I grieve to say. You will have to accept my word, Mr.—er, Pitt, that in Society married women do not disappear into the conservatory with gentlemen of doubtful reputation and return some considerable time later with their gowns in disarray and a smirk on their faces.”
For only an instant
Eustace was staring at him, waiting for a reaction, his face flushed with impatience.
Pitt sighed. “Can you tell me, sir, what is likely to have caused Lord Ashworth such distress or despair that on waking up this particular morning he immediately took his own life? By the way, how did he do it?”
“Good God, didn’t that idiot Treves tell you?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, sir.”
“Ah, no, of course not. Digitalis—that’s a heart medicine my mother has. And he said some rubbish about foxgloves in the garden. I don’t even know if they’re in flower now. And I don’t suppose he does either. The man’s incompetent!”
“Digitalis comes from the leaves,” Pitt pointed out. “It is frequently prescribed for congestive heart failure and irregularity of heartbeat.”
“Oh—ah!” Eustace sank suddenly into one of the hide-covered chairs. “For heaven’s sake, man, sit down!” he said irritably. “Dreadful business. Most distressing. I hope for the sake of the ladies you will be as discreet as you can. My mother and Lady Cumming-Gould are both considerably advanced in years, and consequently delicate. And of course, Lady Ashworth is distraught. We were all extremely fond of George.”
Pitt stared at him, not knowing how to break through the barricade of pretense. He had had to do it many times before—most people were reluctant to admit the presence of murder—but it was different now when the people were so close to him. Somewhere upstairs in this house Emily was sitting numb with grief.
“What tormented Lord Ashworth so irreparably he took his own life?” he repeated, watching Eustace’s face.
Eustace sat motionless for a long time, light and shadow passing over his features, a monumental struggle waging itself within his mind.
Pitt waited. Truth or lie, it might be more revealing if he allowed it to mature, even if it laid bare only some fear in Eustace himself.
“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Eustace began at last, “but I’m afraid it was Emily’s behavior, and ... and the fact that George had fallen very deeply—and I may say, hopelessly—in love with another woman.” He shook his head to signify his deprecation of such folly. “Emily’s behavior has been ... unfortunate, to say the least of it. But do not let us speak ill of her in her bereavement,” he added, suddenly realizing his charity ought to extend to her also.
Pitt could not imagine George killing himself over any love affair. It was simply not in his nature to be so intense about an emotional involvement. Pitt remembered his courtship of Emily; it had been full of romance and delight. No anguish, no quarrels, no giving way to obsessive or fancied jealousies.
“What happened last night that precipitated such despair?” he pursued, trying to keep the contempt and the disbelief out of his voice.
Eustace had prepared for this. He gave a rather shaky nod and pursed his lips. “I was afraid you would press me about that. I prefer to say nothing. Let it suffice that she showed her favors most flagrantly, where all the household might be aware of her, to a young gentleman guest staying here on my youngest daughter’s account.”
Pitt’s eyebrows rose. “If Emily did it in front of everyone else in the house, it can hardly have been very serious.”
Eustace’s lips tightened and his nostrils flared as he breathed. He kept his patience with difficulty. “It was my mother, and poor George himself, who were witness to it, I grieve to say. You will have to accept my word, Mr.—er, Pitt, that in Society married women do not disappear into the conservatory with gentlemen of doubtful reputation and return some considerable time later with their gowns in disarray and a smirk on their faces.”
For only an instant
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