Free Southampton Row by Anne Perry Page B

the two upholstered chairs on either side of the fireplace. She seemed in her middle to late thirties, tall and with a fine, delicately curved figure. Her face had probably been handsome in life, with good bones, and framed by thick, dark hair. But at the moment it was disfigured by a terrible, gasping contortion. Her eyes were wide and staring, her complexion mottled and a strange white substance had bubbled out of her mouth and down over her chin.
    Tellman, dour as always, his hair slicked back from his brow, was standing in the middle of the room. To his left was another man, older, thicker-set, with a strong, intelligent face. From the leather bag at his feet Pitt took him to be the police surgeon.
    “Sorry, sir.” Grenville produced his card and held it out to Tellman. “This is a Special Branch case. Mr. Pitt will be taking over. But to keep it discreet, like, it would be better if you were to remain ’ere to work with ’im.” It was said as a statement, not a question.
    Tellman stared at Pitt. He tried hard to mask his feelings, and the fact that he was taken by surprise, but his chagrin was clear in the rigidity of his body, his hands held tightly at his sides, the hesitation before he was able to master himself sufficiently to think what to say. There was no enmity in his eyes—at least Pitt thought not—but there was anger and disappointment. He had worked hard for his promotion, several years of that work in Pitt’s shadow. And now, faced with the very first murder of which he was in charge, with no explanation, Pitt was brought back and given command of it.
    Pitt turned to Grenville. “If there’s nothing else, Sergeant, you can leave us to get on with it. Inspector Tellman will have all the facts we know so far.” Except why Narraway considered this anything whatever to do with Voisey. Pitt could not imagine anything less likely to interest Charles Voisey than spiritual séances. Surely his sister, Mrs. Cavendish, could not have been so credulous as to have attended such a gathering at so sensitive a time? And if she had, and had been compromised by her presence here, was that a good thing or bad?
    He felt cold at the thought that Narraway expected him to use it to their advantage. The idea of becoming part of the crime, of using it to coerce, was repellent.
    He introduced himself to the doctor, whose name was Snow, then turned to Tellman.
    “What do you know so far?” he asked politely and as noncommittally as he could. He must not allow his own anger to reflect in his attitude now. None of this was Tellman’s fault, and to antagonize him further would make it more difficult to succeed in the end.
    “The maid, Lena Forrest, found her this morning. She’s the only servant living in,” Tellman replied, glancing around the room to indicate his surprise that in a house of this obvious material comfort there was no resident cook or manservant. “Made her mistress’s morning tea and took it up to her room,” he continued. “When she found no one there, and the bed not slept in, she was alarmed. She came down here to the last place she had seen her—”
    “When was that?” Pitt interrupted.
    “Before the start of last night’s . . . doings.” Tellman avoided the word
séance
, and his opinion of it all was evident in his very slightly curled lip. Otherwise his lantern-jawed face was carefully devoid of expression.
    Pitt was surprised. “She didn’t see her afterwards?”
    “She says not. I pressed her about that. No last cup of tea, no going up, drawing a bath for her or helping her undress? But she says not.” His voice allowed no argument. “It seems Miss Lamont liked to stay up as long as she wanted with certain . . . clients . . . and they all preferred the privacy of no servants around, no one to bump into accidentally or interrupt when . . .” He tailed off, his lips pursed.
    “So she came in here, and found her?” Pitt inclined his head towards the figure in the