Callander Square (2 page)

“Thank you.” There was nothing else to say. Pitt collected Batey and in silence they set out in the misty morning, the tree-lined streets smelling of rotting leaves and damp stone.

Callander Square was deserted; the sightseers such a discovery might have provoked elsewhere were abashed to invade its elegant pavements. There was no sign of life in the great houses except the whisk of a broom on an area step and the hollow sound of a footman stamping his boots. It was too early for errand boys; the cooks and parlormaids would barely have finished serving breakfast to the later risers.

Pitt went to the nearest house, up the steps, and knocked discreetly at the door, then stepped back.

Several minutes later it was opened by a well-built, darkly handsome footman. He looked at Pitt with heavy-lidded, supercilious eyes. Years of training had taught him to sum up a man even before he opened his mouth. He knew instantly that Pitt was a little better than a tradesman, but far from being a man of birth, let alone a gentleman.

“Yes, sir?” he inquired with a faint lift of his voice.

“Inspector Pitt, police.” Pitt met his eye levelly. “I would like to speak to the mistress of the house.”

The footman’s face was impassive.

“I am not aware that we have suffered any burglaries. Perhaps you have come to the wrong house? This is the residence of General Balantyne and Lady Augusta Balantyne.”

“Indeed. I did not know that. But it is the situation of the house that makes it of concern to me. May I come in?”

The footman hesitated. Pitt stood his ground.

“I’ll see if Lady Augusta will see you,” the footman conceded reluctantly. “You had better come in. You can wait in the morning room. I shall discover if her ladyship has finished her breakfast.”

It was a long, irritating half hour before the morning room door opened and Lady Augusta Balantyne came in. She was a handsome woman with bone china elegance of feature, and dressed in expensive and classic taste. She looked at Pitt without curiosity.

“Max says that you wish to see me, Mr.—er—”

“Pitt. Yes ma’am, if you please.”

“What about, pray?”

Pitt looked at her. She was not a woman with whom to prevaricate. He plunged straight in.

“Yesterday evening two bodies were dug up in the gardens in the middle of the square—”

Lady Augusta’s eyebrows rose in disbelief.

“In Callander Square? Don’t be ridiculous! Bodies of what, Mr.—er?”

“Pitt,” he repeated. “Babies, ma’am. The bodies of two newborn babies were found buried in the gardens. One was about six months ago, the other nearer to two years.”

“Oh dear,” she was visibly distressed. “How very tragic. I suppose some maidservant—To the best of my knowledge it is no one in my household, but of course I shall make inquiries, if you wish.”

“I would prefer to do it myself, ma’am; with your permission.” He tried to make it affirmative, as though he were assuring her agreement rather than asking her permission. “Naturally I shall be calling at all the houses in the square—”

“Of course. My offer was merely a matter of courtesy. If you discover anything that involves my household, naturally you will inform me.” Again it was a statement and not a question. Authority sat on her easily, long a familiar garment, and she had no need to display it.

He smiled acknowledgment, but he did not commit himself in words.

She reached for the bell and rang it. The butler appeared.

“Hackett, Mr. Pitt is from the police. There have been two babies found in the gardens. He will be questioning the servants in all the houses. Will you please find him a quiet room where he can speak to any of the staff he wishes? And see that they make themselves available.”

“Yes, my lady.” Hackett looked at Pitt with distaste, but obeyed precisely.

“Thank you, Lady Augusta,” Pitt inclined his head and followed the butler to a small room at the back which he supposed to be the housekeeper’s sitting room. He obtained a complete list of the female staff, and the essentials of information about each one. He did no more than speak to them this time. Everyone showed shock, dismay, pity; and everyone equally denied all knowledge. It was exactly what he had expected.

He was in the hall, looking for either the butler or one of the footmen to say he was finished, for the time being, when he saw another young woman coming out of one of the doorways. There was no possibility she was a servant; far more suggestive of her position than her silk gown or her beautifully dressed and coiffed hair was the hint of swagger in her walk, the half smile on her full-lipped little mouth, the sureness, the suppressed excitement in her dark, fringed eyes.

“Goodness!” she said with mock surprise. “Who are you?” She raked him up and down with an amused, blue glance. “You can’t be calling on one of the maids, at this hour! Have you come to see Father? Are you an old batman, or something?”

Only Charlotte had ever shaken Pitt’s composure, and that was because he loved her. He looked back at this girl steadily.

“No, ma’am, I am from the police. I have been speaking to some of your servants.”

“From the police!” her voice rose in delight. “How perfectly shocking. Whatever for?”

“Information.” He smiled very slightly. “That is always what the police speak to people for.”

“I have a suspicion you are laughing at me.” Her eyes were bright. “Mr.—?”

“Inspector Pitt.”

“Inspector Pitt,” she repeated. “I am Christina Balantyne; but I suppose you knew that. What are you asking questions about? Has there been a crime?”

Pitt was saved from having to compose an answer at once civil and uncommunicative by the breakfast room door opening and a man coming out whom Pitt assumed to be General Balantyne. He was tall, nearly as tall as Pitt himself, but tighter knit, of stiffer bearing. His face was smooth-boned, lean, and aquiline. It was a striking head; too arrogant to be handsome, too strong of jaw and teeth.

“Christina!” he said sharply.

She turned.

“Yes, Papa.”

“The policeman’s business with the servants can hardly be of interest to you. Have you no letters to write, or sewing to do?” The question was academic; it was a dismissal. She accepted it with a straight back and stiff lip.

Pitt hid a smile and bowed his head fractionally.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to the general after she had gone. “I was unsure how to answer her without distressing her with unpleasant facts.” It was something less than the truth, but it served well for the moment.

The general grunted.

“Have you finished?”

“Yes, sir. I was looking for the butler to say so.”

“Discover anything?” the general looked at him with quick, intelligent eyes.

“Not yet, but I have only just begun. Who lives next door?” He gestured toward the south side of the square.

“Reggie Southeron next to us,” the general replied. “Then young Bolsover at the end on this side. Garson Campbell on the other; Leatitia Doran opposite Southeron; opposite us on the far side is vacant at the moment. Has been for a couple of years. Sir Robert Carlton on the far side, and an elderly fellow called Housmann, a complete recluse. Has no women in the house, hates them; all male staff.”

“Thank you, sir, most helpful. I’ll try Mr. Southeron next.”

Balantyne took a sharp breath, then let it out. Pitt waited, but he did not add anything.

The Southeron house was busier—he heard the light laughter of children even before he had reached for the bell-pull. It was opened by one of the handsomest parlormaids he had ever seen.

“Yes, sir?” she said with perfect formality.

“Good morning, I am Inspector Pitt from the police; may I speak to either Mr. or Mrs. Southeron?”

She stepped back.

“If you would like to come in, sir, I’ll inquire if they will see you.”

He followed her into the hall, beautifully furnished, but less Spartan than the Balantynes’. There were baubles on the hangings, richly upholstered chairs, and even a doll sitting carelessly on a small side table. He watched the straight back of the parlormaid, and the becoming little twitch of her skirt as she walked. He smiled to himself; then hoped with a sudden acute stab of pity that she was not the one, that it was not the result of her seduction, her brief yielding to passion, buried out there under the trees.

She showed him into the morning room and left him. He heard a scampering of feet on the stairs—a tweeny maid, or a child of the house? There was probably little difference in age; some girls began their life in service at no more than eleven or twelve.

The door burst open and a thin, blue-eyed little face looked in. Her total composure proclaimed her immediately as a daughter of the house. Her hair was tied up in ringlets and her skin was scrubbed clean.

“Good morning,” Pitt said solemnly.

“Good morning,” she replied, letting the door swing open a little farther, her eyes still fixed on his face.

“You have a very elegant house,” he said to her with courtesy, as if she had been an adult, and the house hers. “Are you the mistress?”

She giggled, then straightened her face with quick recollection of her position.

“No, I’m Chastity Southeron. I live here, since my Mama and Papa died. Papa was Uncle Reggie’s brother. Who are you?”

“My name is Thomas Pitt, I’m an inspector of police.”

She let out her breath in a long sigh.

“Has somebody stolen something?”

“Not as far as I know. Have you lost something?”

“No. But you can question me,” she came into the room. “I might be able to tell you something.” It was an offer.

He smiled.

“I’m sure you could tell me a great deal that is interesting, but I don’t know what questions to ask, yet.”

“Oh.” She made as if to sit down, but the door opened again and Reginald Southeron came in. He was a wide man, fleshy-faced and comfortable.

“Chastity?” he said with good-humored exasperation. “Jemima will be looking for you. You should be at your lessons. Go upstairs this moment.”

“Jemima is my governess,” Chastity explained to Pitt. “I have to do lessons. Are you coming back?”

“Chastity!” Southeron repeated.

She dropped a tiny curtsey to Pitt and fled upstairs.

Southeron’s attitude stiffened slightly, but the good humor did not leave him.

“Mary Ann says you are from the police.” He sounded faintly disbelieving. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.” Again there was no point in circumlocution, and Pitt explained his visit as simply as he could.

“Oh dear,” Reggie Southeron sat down quickly, his rather florid face paling. “What an—a—” he changed his mind and began again. “What a shocking affair,” he said with more composure. “How very distressing. I assure you I know nothing that could be of help to you.”

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed hypocritically. He looked at the man’s wide mouth, sensuous jowls, and soft, well-manicured hands. No doubt he knew nothing of the bodies in the square, but if he knew nothing of their conception it might be more by good fortune than intent. “But I would like your permission to interview your staff,” he asked.

“My staff?” The momentary discomposure returned.

“Belowstairs gossip is invaluable,” Pitt said easily. “Even those who are in no way involved may know something, a word here or there.”

“Of course. Yes, yes, I suppose so. Well, if you must. But I should be obliged if you would not upset them more than is absolutely necessary; so difficult to get good staff these days. I’m sure you understand—no—no—of course not—you wouldn’t.” He was oblivious of patronage. “Very well. I suppose it is unavoidable. I’ll get my butler to see to it.” He hauled himself to his feet and went out without saying anything further.

Pitt spoke to all the staff one by one, informed the butler, and took his leave. It had occupied the best part of the morning and it was already time for lunch. In the afternoon he returned to the square. It was two o’clock when he knocked at the third door, which, according to General Balantyne, should be that of Dr. and Mrs. Frederick Bolsover. During lunch he had seen Stillwell again, and asked him if he knew of Bolsover professionally.

“Hardly in my category,” Stillwell had pulled a face. “Probably makes more in a month than I do in a year. Must do, to live in Callander Square. Society doctor, comforting a lot of hypochondriac ladies who have nothing more interesting to do than contemplate their health. Nice practice, if you have the patience, and the manners, and from what I hear Bolsover has. Good family, good start, all the right connections.”

“Good doctor?” Pitt had asked.

“No idea.” Stillwell’s eyebrows had gone up. “Does it matter?”

“Not in the least, I should think.”

The Bolsovers’ door was opened by a somewhat surprised parlormaid, small and pert, but in her own way almost as attractive as the last one. Of course, parlormaids were chosen for their looks. This one regarded Pitt with some dismay. He was not the sort of person admitted to the front door, and this was not the time of day for callers; he was at least an hour to an hour and a half early, and it was usually ladies who called for the afternoon social ritual.

“Yes, sir?” she said after a moment.

“Good afternoon. May I speak with Mrs. Bolsover, if she is at home. My name is Pitt; I am from the police.”

“The police!”

“If I may?” He moved to step inside and she retreated nervously.

“Mrs. Bolsover is expecting callers,” the maid said quickly. “I don’t think—”

”It’s important,” Pitt insisted. “Please ask her.”

The girl hesitated; he knew she was concerned in case he was still there when the lady callers arrived, thus embarrassing her mistress. After all, respectable people did not have the police in the house at all, let alone at the front door.

“The sooner you ask her, the more quickly I shall be able to finish my business,” Pitt pointed out persuasively.

She saw his argument and scurried off to comply; anything to get him off the doorstep.

Sophie Bolsover was a pretty woman, not unlike her own parlormaid, had the girl been dieted a little, dressed in silk, and her hair curled and coiffed.