Southampton Row by Anne Perry

them and ask, learn what it was that Maude Lamont gave them, what it had to do with the strange substance found in her mouth and throat.
    Why had a sophisticated woman like Rose Serracold come here to seek for voices, apparitions—answers to what? Surely there was some connection between her presence and that of Roland Kingsley?
    He felt rather than saw Tellman just beyond the doorway. He turned towards him.
    The question was in Tellman’s face.
    Pitt passed him the book and saw him look down at it, then up again. “What does it mean?” Tellman asked, pointing to the cartouche.
    “I’ve no idea,” Pitt admitted. “Someone so desperate to remain unidentified that Maude Lamont would not write their name even in her own diary.”
    “Perhaps she didn’t know it?” Tellman said. He took a deep breath. “Maybe that’s why she was killed? She found out.”
    “And tried to blackmail him? Over what?”
    “Whatever made him keep coming here a secret,” Tellman replied. “Maybe he wasn’t a client? Perhaps he was a lover? That could be worth killing over.” His mouth twisted. “Maybe that’s your Special Branch interest. He’s some politician who can’t afford to be found in an affair at election time.” His eyes were challenging, angry to be included in the case against his will and yet told nothing, used but not informed.
    Pitt had been waiting for the hurt to show. He felt the stab of it, yet it was almost a relief to have it open between them at last.
    “Possibly, but I doubt it,” he said bluntly. “At least not that I know. I haven’t any idea why Special Branch is involved, but as far as I am aware, Mrs. Serracold is my only interest. And if she turns out to have killed Maude Lamont then I shall have to pursue her as I would anyone else.”
    Tellman relaxed a trifle, but he did his best to hide the fact from Pitt. He straightened his shoulders a little. “What are we trying to protect Mrs. Serracold from?” If he was aware of having used the plural to include himself he gave no sign of it.
    “Political betrayal,” Pitt replied. “Her husband is standing for Parliament. His opponent may use corrupt or illegal means to discredit him.”
    “You mean through his wife?” Tellman looked startled. “Is that what this is . . . a political ambush?”
    “Probably not. I expect it has nothing to do with her, except chance.”
    Tellman did not believe him, and it showed in his face. Actually, Pitt did not really believe it himself. He had tasted Voisey’s power too fully to credit any stroke in his favor to luck.
    “What is she like, this Mrs. Serracold?” Tellman asked, a slight furrow between his brows.
    “I’ve no idea,” Pitt admitted. “I am only just beginning to learn something about her husband, and more importantly, his opponent. Serracold is very well off, second son of an old family. He studied art and history at Cambridge, traveled considerably. He has great interest in reform and is a member of the Liberal Party, standing for the seat in South Lambeth.”
    Tellman’s face mirrored all his emotions, although he would have been furious to know it. “He’s privileged, rich, never worked a day in his life, and now thinks he’d like to get into government and tell the rest of us what to do and how to do it. Or more likely, what not to do,” he retaliated.
    Pitt did not bother to argue. From Tellman’s point of view that was probably close enough to the truth. “More or less.”
    Tellman breathed out slowly; not having got the argument he had hoped for, he felt no sense of triumph. “What kind of a person comes to see a woman who says she speaks to ghosts?” he demanded. “Don’t they know it’s all rubbish?”
    “People looking for something,” Pitt replied. “Vulnerable, lonely, left behind in the past because the future is unbearable for them without whomever they loved. I don’t know . . . people who can be used and exploited by those who think they have power, or know how