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the footman answered, requested that a pot of tea be brought, with two cups. He would not have presumed to take refreshment with a gentleman caller, and a tradesman would have been sent through the green baize door to the kitchen. But he considered Pitt to be roughly his social equal, which Pitt realized was something of a compliment. A butler was in many senses the real master of a household, and might rule a staff of a dozen or more lesser servants. He might also have greater intelligence than the owner, and certainly inspire more awe from his fellows.
    “Have you been with Dr. Pinchin long, Mr. Mullen?” Pitt began conversationally.
    “Eleven years, Mr. Pitt,” Mullen replied. “Before that I was with Lord and Lady Fullerton, in Tavistock Square.”
    Pitt was curious about why he had left an apparently superior employment, but was unsure how to ask him without giving offense. Such a question, as well as being against his regard for the man, would be professionally foolish at this point.
    Mullen supplied the answer of his own accord. Perhaps he wished to clear himself from suspicion of incompetence. “They took the habit of going to Devon every winter.” A shadow of distaste crossed his face. “I did not care for the travel, and I have no wish to remain idle in an empty town house with a caretaking staff for several months of each year.”
    “Indeed,” Pitt agreed with some sympathy. An estate in the home counties would be an entirely different thing, with hunt balls, shooting parties, and guests for Christmas, no doubt. But a retreat to the silence of Devon would be a form of exile. “And I should imagine Dr. Pinchin was not an uninteresting employer?” he said, trying to probe a little deeper.
    Mullen smiled politely. He was far too honorable to repeat the vast and intimate knowledge he had acquired of the Pinchin household. Butlers who betrayed that trust were, in his opinion, contemptible and a disgrace to their entire profession.
    He misunderstood deliberately, and both of them knew it. “Yes, sir, although not a great deal of his practice was conducted from this house. He has offices in Highgate. But we have had some distinguished gentlemen here to dine, from time to time.”
    “Oh?”
    Mullen repeated the names of several surgeons and physicians of eminence. Pitt made a mental note of their names, to call upon later for whatever they might add to his picture of Hubert Pinchin, although he knew from past experience that all professionals seem to defend their colleagues, even to the point of ridiculousness. However, there was always the hope of stumbling upon some personal or professional jealousy that might loosen a tongue.
    He learned from Mullen a little more about Pinchin’s habits, particularly that he quite frequently returned home very late in the evening. It was not unknown that he should be out all night. No explanation was offered other than the discreet supposition that illness does not confine itself to convenient hours.
    A few moments later, the lady’s maid knocked on the door. Her mistress was ready to speak to Mr. Pitt, if he would care to come to the breakfast room.
    Valeria Pinchin was a woman of Wagnerian stature, broad-bosomed, blue-eyed, with a sweep of fading hair above her wide forehead. She was dressed in unrelieved black, as became a new widow in the deepest mourning, not only for the untimely death of her husband but the appalling notoriety of its nature. Her face was pale, and set in grim and defensive determination. She looked at Pitt warily.
    “Good morning, ma’am,” he began with suitable reverence for the occasion and some genuine pity. “May I offer my sympathy in your bereavement?”
    “Thank you,” she replied, with a very slight sniff and a lift of her powerful chin. “You may sit down, Mr.—er, Pitt.”
    He took the chair opposite her across the table. She sipped at tea without offering him any. After all, he was an extremely distasteful necessity, part of the