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trappings of the sordid disaster that had overtaken her—like the ratcatcher, or the drainman. There was no need to treat him as a social equal.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began again, “but I am obliged to ask you a number of questions.”
    “I can be of no help to you whatsoever.” She stared at him, bridling at even the suggestion. “You cannot imagine I know anything of such an unspeakable—” She stopped, unable to find a word extreme enough.
    “Of course not.” She was not a woman Pitt found it easy to like. He had to force to his mind some of the other shocked people he had spoken with, their various ways of protecting their wounds.
    Mrs. Pinchin was slightly mollified, but still her eyes glittered at him and her black-beaded bosom rose and fell with indignation.
    “You can help me to learn a great deal more about your husband,” he said, trying again. “And therefore whoever might have believed him an enemy.” He wanted to be as courteous as possible, but ultimately the facts must be pursued to their logical end. Hubert Pinchin had been murdered. Someone had believed he had reason; a simple robber does not emasculate his victims.
    She started to say something, then changed her mind and took another sip of tea.
    Pitt waited.
    “My husband was ...” She was obviously finding it difficult to express her thoughts without betraying a part of her life that was far too private—and too painful—to be acknowledged, let alone paraded before this—policeman! “He was an eccentric man, Mr. Pitt,” she said. “He chose to practice medicine among some very peculiar people. I hesitate to say ‘unworthy.’” She sniffed. “I do not wish to be hard upon the unfortunate, but he could have had an outstanding career, you know. My father”—her chin jutted forward—“Dr. Albert Walker-Smith. No doubt you have heard of him?”
    Pitt had not, but he lied. “A very famous man, ma’am,” he agreed.
    Her face softened a little and Pitt feared for a moment that he would be called on to make some relevant comment. He had not the faintest idea who Albert Walker-Smith had been, except that obviously he was the man Mrs. Pinchin wished her husband could have lived up to.
    “You said Dr. Pinchin was eccentric, ma’am,” Pitt said. “Was that true in any way other than not pursuing his career to its best advantage?”
    She crumpled a napkin in her large hands. “I am not sure what you mean, Mr. Pitt. He had no unfortunate habits—if that is what you imply!” All the half-guessed-at aberrations of masculinity, practices her woman’s ignorance conjured from the darkness of imagination, hovered behind her words.
    Pitt looked at her hopelessly. She was so armored in dignity and so conscious of the formalities of grief that he knew he would accomplish nothing with these predictable questions. Her mind was running in channels as entrenched as those of an old river falling to a long-predestined sea.
    “Did he like Stilton cheese?” he asked instead.
    Her thin eyebrows rose and her voice was hard. “I beg your pardon?”
    He repeated the question.
    “Yes, he did, but I find that offensively trivial, Mr. Pitt. Some insane creature has attacked and murdered my husband in the most”—tears filled her eyes and she swallowed—“the most unspeakable manner, and you sit here in his house and ask if he cared for cheese!”
    “It is not irrelevant, ma’am,” Pitt replied with an effort at patience. She could not help herself: Social values and dignity were her only defense against such enormous fears. “There were crumbs of Stilton cheese on his clothes.”
    “Oh.” She apologized stiffly. “I beg your pardon. I suppose you know your trade. Yes, my husband was very fond of the table. He always ate well.”
    “Did I understand you earlier to say that he did a certain amount of charity work?”
    “He did a great deal of unprofitable work!” she replied with a sudden welling-up of resentment. “He wasted