Rutland Place by Anne Perry

she’d wanted one. But if you mean do I know of one, no, I don’t. Never heard any gossip about her whatsoever— even in confidence.” He gave Pitt a very direct look.
    “What about her husband?” Pitt pressed. “Could he have had a woman, a mistress? Could she have been driven to suicide over that?”
    “Alston?” Mulgrew’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the idea. Obviously it was one he had never considered before. “I should think it highly unlikely. Bloodless sort of creature. Still—you never know—the flesh is full of surprises! Nothing odder about the human animal than his predilections in that area. I’m fifty-two years old, and I’ve been a doctor for twenty-seven of them. Nothing ought to surprise me—but it does!”
    Other, uglier thoughts occurred to Pitt, thoughts about other men—boys, even children. Knowledge of such a thing might drive a wife to feel her life was insupportable. But that was only a wild speculation.
    Then again there were other thoughts, perhaps more likely, things that Charlotte had spoken about: thefts, a sense of being watched. Could this woman have been the thief and then, when she realized the watcher knew about it, have killed herself in the face of the overwhelming shame? Society was cruel; it seldom forgave, and it never, ever forgot.
    Pitt was touched by a breath of misery as cold as January sleet.
    Poor woman.
    If he discovered that to be the truth, he would find some way to avoid saying so.
    “Don’t lay too much on what I say, Inspector.” Mulgrew was looking at him soberly. “I don’t mean anything by it—just generalizing.”
    Pitt blinked. “That’s all I took it for,” he said carefully. “Just that nothing is certain when we come to such things.”
    There was a commotion out in the hall, a rising and falling of voices, and then the door burst open.
    They all turned simultaneously, knowing what it was and dreading it. Only Harris stood straight up, because he knew he would not have to say anything.
    Alston Spencer-Brown faced them, bristling with shock and anger.
    “Who the devil are you, sir?” He glared at Pitt. “And what are you doing in my house?”
    Pitt accepted the anger for what it was, but there was still no way of dealing with it that took away the hurt or the embarrassment afterward.
    “Inspector Pitt,” he said without pretense. “Dr. Mulgrew called me, as was his duty.”
    “Duty?” Alston demanded, swinging round to face Mulgrew. “I have the duty in this house, sir. It is my wife who is dead!” He swallowed. “God rest her soul. It is no concern of yours! There is nothing you can do for her now. She must have had a heart attack, poor creature. My butler tells me she had passed away before you even arrived. I cannot think why you are still here. Except perhaps as a courtesy to inform me yourself, for which I thank you. You may feel yourself released from all obligation now, both as physician and as friend. I am obliged to you.”
    No one moved.
    “It was not her heart,” Mulgrew said slowly, then sneezed and fished for a handkerchief. “At least it was, but not of itself.” He blew his nose. “I’m afraid it was caused by poison.”
    All the color drained from Alston’s face, and for a moment he swayed on his feet. Pitt believed no man could act such a total and paralyzing shock.
    “Poison?” Alston spoke with difficulty. “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”
    “I’m sorry.” Mulgrew raised his head slowly to stare at him. “I’m sorry. But she ate or drank something that poisoned her. I think either belladonna or something very like it, but I can’t be sure yet. I had to call the police. I had no choice.”
    “That’s preposterous! Mina would never have—” He was lost for words; all reason seemed to have betrayed itself and he abandoned the attempt to understand.
    “Come.” Mulgrew went toward him and eased him to the big, padded chair.
    Pitt went to the door and called the footman for brandy. It