Free Rutland Place by Anne Perry

windows catching the light. A carriage was drawn up outside one, and a footman was handing a lady down, closing the door behind her. Farther along another was leaving, harness glinting in the sun. One of those houses was Caroline’s. Pitt had never been there; it was a tacit understanding that such a call would be comfortable for neither the occupants nor Pitt. They met occasionally, but on neutral territory where no comparisons could be made, even though it would be the last thing either had intended.
    The hansom stopped, and they climbed out and paid the fare.
    “Eleven,” Harris said as they mounted the step.
    The door opened even before they reached it and a footman hastened them in as forcefully as was consistent with his dignity. One did not desire police to wait on the doorstep so the whole neighborhood was aware one had been obliged to call them in! It was more than his promotion was worth to be clumsy in the handling of such a matter.
    “Inspector Pitt,” Pitt announced himself quietly, conscious of the presence of tragedy, whatever its nature turned out to be. He was used to death, but it never failed to move him, and he still did not know what to say in the face of loss. No words could make any difference. He hated to sound trite or unfeeling, yet feared he often did, simply because he felt it from the outside. He was an intruder, a reminder of the darkest possibilities, the ugliest explanation.
    “Yes, sir,” the footman said formally. “You’ll be wanting to speak to Dr. Mulgrew, no doubt. A carriage had been sent for Mr. Spencer-Brown, but he is not home yet.”
    “Do you know where he is?” Pitt asked merely as a matter of course.
    “Yes, sir. He went to the city as usual. He has several interests, I believe. He is on the board of directors of a number of important business houses, and a newspaper. If you will come this way, sir, I will show you to the morning room where Dr. Mulgrew is waiting.”
    Pitt and Harris followed him along the hall toward the back of the house. Pitt eyed the furnishings and noted that a great deal of money had been invested in them, whether purely for appearance’s sake or not. If the Spencer-Browns had any financial worries, a few of the pictures on the staircase and hall would have given them an income the like of which Pitt could have lived on for several years. He had come to be a fair judge of the price of a painting in the course of his professional connections with the art world.
    The morning-room fire was banked high, and Mulgrew stood so close to it Pitt fancied he could smell his trousers singeing in the heat. He was a stocky man with white, heavy hair and a fine white mustache. At present his eyes were watery and his nose distinctly red. He sneezed loudly as they came in, and withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket.
    “Cold,” he said in completely unnecessary explanation. “Filthy thing. No cure for it. Never has been. Name’s Mulgrew. I suppose you are the police?”
    “Yes, sir. Inspector Pitt and Constable Harris.”
    “How do you do. Hate a spring cold—nothing worse, except a summer one.”
    “I understand the parlormaid found Mrs. Spencer-Brown dead when she came to inquire about the afternoon’s arrangements?” Pitt asked. “Did the maid call you?”
    “Not precisely.” Mulgrew put his handkerchief away. “She told the butler, which is natural, I suppose. Butler came to look for himself, then sent the footman round for me. Only live round the corner. I came straightaway. Wasn’t a thing I could do. Poor creature was stone dead. I used the telephone to call a friend of mine, William Wardley. He sent a message to you.” He sneezed again and whipped out his handkerchief.
    “You ought to take something for that,” Pitt said, moving a step back. “Hot drink and a mustard poultice.”
    “No cure for it.” Mulgrew shook his head and waved his hands. “No cure at all. Poison, but I can’t say what yet—not for certain.”
    “You