Pitt thought that that was precisely what they did do. Then anger for Emily swept away anything so trivial.
“Mr. March, if gentlemen were to kill themselves every time a wife had a mild flirtation with someone else agreeable, London would be up to its waist in corpses, and the entire aristocracy would have died out centuries ago. In fact, they would never have made it past the Crusades.”
“I am sure in your station in life, especially in your trade, that you cannot help a certain vulgarity of mind,” Eustace said coldly. “But please restrain yourself from expressing it in my house, particularly in our time of bereavement. There is really nothing for you to do here, beyond satisfying yourself that no one has attacked poor George—which is perfectly obvious to the veriest fool! He took a dose of my mother’s heart medicine in his morning coffee. Possibly he only meant to cause unconsciousness and give us all a fright—bring Emily back to her senses... .” He trailed off, aware of Pitt’s monumental disbelief and floundering for a better solution. He seemed to have forgotten that he had said Jack Radley was here for Tassie, contradicting himself by branding him as of ill reputation. Or perhaps it was all right to marry a girl to such a man, simply not to allow him near your wife. The moral contortions of Society were still unclear to Pitt.
At another time Pitt might almost have been sorry for Eustace. His mental acrobatics were absurd, and yet how often he had seen them before. But this time his patience was worn raw. He stood up. “Thank you, Mr. March. I’ll see the doctor now, and then I’ll go up and see poor George. When I’ve done that, I’ll want to see the rest of the household, if I may.”
“Not necessary at all!” Eustace said quickly, scrambling to his feet. “Only cause quite pointless distress. Emily is a new widow, man! My mother is elderly and has had a severe shock; my daughter is only nineteen, and most naturally delicate in her sensibilities, as a girl should be. And Lady Cumming-Gould is considerably more advanced in years than she realizes.”
Pitt hid a bitter smile. He was quite sure Great-aunt Vespasia knew better than Eustace precisely how old she was, and she was certainly braver.
“Emily is my sister-in-law,” he said quietly. “I should have called upon her whatever the circumstances of George’s death. But first I’ll see the doctor, if you please.”
Eustace left without speaking again. He resented the position he had been placed in; his house had been invaded and he had lost control of events. It was a unique and frightening occurrence—he was taking orders from a policeman, here in his own morning room! Damn Emily! She had brought all this upon them with her vulgar jealousy.
Treves came in so soon he must have been waiting close at hand. He looked tired. Pitt had not met him before, but liked him instantly; there was both humor and pity in the weary lines of his face.
“Inspector Pitt?” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Treves.” He held out his hand.
Pitt took it briefly. “Could it have been suicide?”
“Rubbish!” Treves replied dourly. “Men like George Ashworth don’t steal poison and take it in their coffee at seven o’clock on a sunny morning in someone else’s house—and certainly not over a love affair. If he’d ever have done it at all—which I doubt—it would have been in a fit of despair over a gambling debt he couldn’t pay, and he’d have blown his brains out with a gun. Gentlemanly thing to do. And he damn surely wouldn’t poison a nice little spaniel at the same time.”
“Spaniel? Mr. March said nothing about a spaniel.”
“He wouldn’t. He’s still trying to convince himself it’s suicide.”
Pitt sighed. “Then we’d better go up and see the body. The police surgeon will look at it later, but you can probably tell me all I need to know.”
“Enormous dose of digitalis,” Treves answered, walking towards the
“Mr. March, if gentlemen were to kill themselves every time a wife had a mild flirtation with someone else agreeable, London would be up to its waist in corpses, and the entire aristocracy would have died out centuries ago. In fact, they would never have made it past the Crusades.”
“I am sure in your station in life, especially in your trade, that you cannot help a certain vulgarity of mind,” Eustace said coldly. “But please restrain yourself from expressing it in my house, particularly in our time of bereavement. There is really nothing for you to do here, beyond satisfying yourself that no one has attacked poor George—which is perfectly obvious to the veriest fool! He took a dose of my mother’s heart medicine in his morning coffee. Possibly he only meant to cause unconsciousness and give us all a fright—bring Emily back to her senses... .” He trailed off, aware of Pitt’s monumental disbelief and floundering for a better solution. He seemed to have forgotten that he had said Jack Radley was here for Tassie, contradicting himself by branding him as of ill reputation. Or perhaps it was all right to marry a girl to such a man, simply not to allow him near your wife. The moral contortions of Society were still unclear to Pitt.
At another time Pitt might almost have been sorry for Eustace. His mental acrobatics were absurd, and yet how often he had seen them before. But this time his patience was worn raw. He stood up. “Thank you, Mr. March. I’ll see the doctor now, and then I’ll go up and see poor George. When I’ve done that, I’ll want to see the rest of the household, if I may.”
“Not necessary at all!” Eustace said quickly, scrambling to his feet. “Only cause quite pointless distress. Emily is a new widow, man! My mother is elderly and has had a severe shock; my daughter is only nineteen, and most naturally delicate in her sensibilities, as a girl should be. And Lady Cumming-Gould is considerably more advanced in years than she realizes.”
Pitt hid a bitter smile. He was quite sure Great-aunt Vespasia knew better than Eustace precisely how old she was, and she was certainly braver.
“Emily is my sister-in-law,” he said quietly. “I should have called upon her whatever the circumstances of George’s death. But first I’ll see the doctor, if you please.”
Eustace left without speaking again. He resented the position he had been placed in; his house had been invaded and he had lost control of events. It was a unique and frightening occurrence—he was taking orders from a policeman, here in his own morning room! Damn Emily! She had brought all this upon them with her vulgar jealousy.
Treves came in so soon he must have been waiting close at hand. He looked tired. Pitt had not met him before, but liked him instantly; there was both humor and pity in the weary lines of his face.
“Inspector Pitt?” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Treves.” He held out his hand.
Pitt took it briefly. “Could it have been suicide?”
“Rubbish!” Treves replied dourly. “Men like George Ashworth don’t steal poison and take it in their coffee at seven o’clock on a sunny morning in someone else’s house—and certainly not over a love affair. If he’d ever have done it at all—which I doubt—it would have been in a fit of despair over a gambling debt he couldn’t pay, and he’d have blown his brains out with a gun. Gentlemanly thing to do. And he damn surely wouldn’t poison a nice little spaniel at the same time.”
“Spaniel? Mr. March said nothing about a spaniel.”
“He wouldn’t. He’s still trying to convince himself it’s suicide.”
Pitt sighed. “Then we’d better go up and see the body. The police surgeon will look at it later, but you can probably tell me all I need to know.”
“Enormous dose of digitalis,” Treves answered, walking towards the
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