prepared to acknowledge it to herself – for whom she felt more than she had ever felt for any man, for any human being, in her life before.
Richard, whom she loved surely – Didn’t she? Wasn’t this what it was? – was being taken to the police office under grave suspicion of being that most reprehensible of murderers, the poisoner. The poisoner of his own father.
But at least he had not behaved like a murderer. Insome deep inside part of her Miss Unwin had feared that the man she had admired, and knew now that she felt love for, at the moment the words had been pronounced that showed he was suspected as a poisoner, would break down, curse, snarl, try to escape, be revealed for what he was.
But, no, instead he simply drew himself up a little as if preparing himself and looked Inspector Redderman straight in the eye.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I understand perfectly why you should want to question me, and of course I make no objection to coming with you to the police office.’
Then he was gone. Or rather, Miss Unwin thinking of it all afterwards, realised that in five or ten minutes after those words had been spoken he was gone. He had in fact given her a few instructions about the conduct of the household and a message for the chief clerk at the pin works, and then he had fetched his hat and coat, his new overcoat with the fur collar since the day was chilly for May.
But after those ten minutes he was gone indeed. The house was empty of his presence.
Miss Unwin felt it as if all the furniture, the new furniture that had hardly been there more than a few days, the walnut wood chairs, the velvet ottoman, the tall vases and the rich carpets, as if all had been swept away like dream objects in the cold light of day.
She wanted to sit down where she was in the hall – there was a pair of finely carved benches there now where in old Mr Partington’s time there had been not a stick of furniture – and weep. But she shook herself. Richard’s commissions had to be carried out first. The girls’ lesson had to be picked up again from where it had been interrupted when Richard had asked to see her and the two of them had to be told, without a quiver of voice, that their father had been suddenly called away on business.
So the rest of the day passed. Passed somehow, as if shehad been transformed into an automaton and the little clockwork engine inside her had been wound just long enough to keep her going through all the day’s usual activities.
But at last the girls were safely in their new white beds with the curtains’ pink knots released to hide them from the light.
Then the full reality of what had happened flooded back to her. Richard had been kept at the police office. She had steeled herself to that when he had given her directions which made it clear that it might be several days before he came home again.
But she had allowed herself tiny flickers of hope, little curtain twitches. Perhaps Inspector Redderman would ask Richard only a few questions in his laconic manner and Richard’s answers would be so clear, so true, that the Inspector would at once tell him that he was no longer needed. Then he would have come home and life would at once have jumped back to where it had been before.
It had not happened. Her sensible self had known all along that it would not happen. When an old man had died by poison in a household into which few if any others ever penetrated, then that man’s sole heir was going to be suspected of the crime however innocent he was. So Richard was suspected and Inspector Redderman was questioning and questioning him, hammering and hammering at him in the hope and expectation that at some moment he would break down and confess to the terrible crime.
That was the way the police worked. Miss Unwin from her days at the very bottom of the social pyramid, her workhouse days when she had lived among the dregs, knew much about the way the police conducted their business.
But now all she
Richard, whom she loved surely – Didn’t she? Wasn’t this what it was? – was being taken to the police office under grave suspicion of being that most reprehensible of murderers, the poisoner. The poisoner of his own father.
But at least he had not behaved like a murderer. Insome deep inside part of her Miss Unwin had feared that the man she had admired, and knew now that she felt love for, at the moment the words had been pronounced that showed he was suspected as a poisoner, would break down, curse, snarl, try to escape, be revealed for what he was.
But, no, instead he simply drew himself up a little as if preparing himself and looked Inspector Redderman straight in the eye.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I understand perfectly why you should want to question me, and of course I make no objection to coming with you to the police office.’
Then he was gone. Or rather, Miss Unwin thinking of it all afterwards, realised that in five or ten minutes after those words had been spoken he was gone. He had in fact given her a few instructions about the conduct of the household and a message for the chief clerk at the pin works, and then he had fetched his hat and coat, his new overcoat with the fur collar since the day was chilly for May.
But after those ten minutes he was gone indeed. The house was empty of his presence.
Miss Unwin felt it as if all the furniture, the new furniture that had hardly been there more than a few days, the walnut wood chairs, the velvet ottoman, the tall vases and the rich carpets, as if all had been swept away like dream objects in the cold light of day.
She wanted to sit down where she was in the hall – there was a pair of finely carved benches there now where in old Mr Partington’s time there had been not a stick of furniture – and weep. But she shook herself. Richard’s commissions had to be carried out first. The girls’ lesson had to be picked up again from where it had been interrupted when Richard had asked to see her and the two of them had to be told, without a quiver of voice, that their father had been suddenly called away on business.
So the rest of the day passed. Passed somehow, as if shehad been transformed into an automaton and the little clockwork engine inside her had been wound just long enough to keep her going through all the day’s usual activities.
But at last the girls were safely in their new white beds with the curtains’ pink knots released to hide them from the light.
Then the full reality of what had happened flooded back to her. Richard had been kept at the police office. She had steeled herself to that when he had given her directions which made it clear that it might be several days before he came home again.
But she had allowed herself tiny flickers of hope, little curtain twitches. Perhaps Inspector Redderman would ask Richard only a few questions in his laconic manner and Richard’s answers would be so clear, so true, that the Inspector would at once tell him that he was no longer needed. Then he would have come home and life would at once have jumped back to where it had been before.
It had not happened. Her sensible self had known all along that it would not happen. When an old man had died by poison in a household into which few if any others ever penetrated, then that man’s sole heir was going to be suspected of the crime however innocent he was. So Richard was suspected and Inspector Redderman was questioning and questioning him, hammering and hammering at him in the hope and expectation that at some moment he would break down and confess to the terrible crime.
That was the way the police worked. Miss Unwin from her days at the very bottom of the social pyramid, her workhouse days when she had lived among the dregs, knew much about the way the police conducted their business.
But now all she
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