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press for them.”
    Charlotte could think of no reply that was not either painful or naive. People must deal with their own truths as they were able.
    Emily’s mind was on a different train. “Fancy that dreadful footman turning up again. He always made me uncomfortable. I wonder who provided the money for him to set up a brothel? I mean who owned the property and paid for an establishment? Perhaps it was Dr. Pinchin.”
    But a far uglier thought forced itself into Charlotte’s mind, linked with memories of the Balantyne house, murder and fear in the past, and Max’s sudden, silent departure.
    “Yes,” she agreed abruptly. “Yes, that may very well be so. I dare say Thomas will discover that.”
    Emily gave her a narrow look, a flicker of suspicion, but she did not pursue it. “Will you stay for luncheon?”
    As Charlotte was preparing for her visit with Emily, Pitt alighted from his cab and walked up to the front door of number 23 Lambert Gardens. It was a high house with a handsome frontage, though today, of course, the curtains were drawn and there was black crepe on the windows and a wreath on the door. The whole effect was one of a curious blindness.
    There was no point in putting it off; he lifted his hand and knocked on the door. It was several minutes before an unhappy-looking footman opened it. Death in the house made him awkward; he had no idea how much grief he was expected to show, especially in these grotesque circumstances. Maybe he ought to pretend to ignore it. After all, what could he possibly say? The kitchenmaid had already given notice, and he was considering doing the same.
    He did not recognize Pitt. “Mrs. Pinchin is not receiving callers,” he said hastily. “But if you care to leave your card, I am sure she will accept your condolences.”
    “I am Thomas Pitt, from the police,” Pitt explained. “I do convey my sympathy to Mrs. Pinchin, of course, but I am afraid it is necessary that I also speak with her.”
    The footman was painfully undecided about which of his duties was paramount: on the one hand, preserving the sanctity of mourning from such a crass invasion by a person of this sort, or, on the other hand, his undoubted allegiance to the majesty of the Law.
    “Perhaps if you call the butler?” Pitt suggested tactfully. “And permit me not to wait upon the step while you do so. We do not wish to attract the attention and the gossip of the neighbors’ maids and bootboys.”
    The footman’s face was almost comical with relief. It was the perfect solution. Gossip would be inevitable, but he had no intention of being blamed for adding to it.
    “Oh—yes, sir—yes—I’ll do that. If you come this way, sir.” He led Pitt across the hall, which was filled with a faint odor as if none of the doors had been opened for days. The mirrors were black-draped like the windows. There was an arrangement of lilies in a pedestal vase; they looked artificial, though they were in fact real, and undoubtedly extremely expensive at this time of year.
    The footman left Pitt in a room with a black-leaded grate and no fire. It was dark behind the drawn blinds, and it seemed as if the whole household were determined that even if the corpse of the master could not lie in his own home, they would order their domestic arrangements to imitate the chill of the grave.
    It was only a few moments before Mr. Mullen, the butler, arrived, his thinning, sandy hair brushed neatly back and his face determined. “I am sorry, Mr. Pitt.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid it will be another half hour before Mrs. Pinchin is able to receive you. Perhaps you would like a dish of tea while you wait? It is a very inclement day.”
    Pitt felt warmer already. He had respect for this man; he knew his job and seemed to perform it with more than ordinary skill.
    “I would indeed, Mr. Mullen, thank you. And if your duties permit, perhaps a little of your time?”
    “Certainly, sir.” Mullen pulled the bell rope and, when