Southampton Row by Anne Perry Page B

from the airing rail winched up near the ceiling. The coke scuttle was full on the floor by the back door. The stove was polished black. Light winked softly over the sides of the copper pans hanging from the cross beam, and there was a faint aroma of spices. The only thing missing was any sight or smell of food. It was a house no longer with any purpose.
    “Was Miss Lamont expecting her clients separately or together?” he asked.
    “They came one at a time,” she replied. “And left that way, for all I know. But they would all be together for the séance.” Her voice was expressionless, as if she were trying to mask her feelings. Was that to protect herself, or her mistress, perhaps from ridicule?
    “Did you see them?”
    “No.”
    “So they could have come together?”
    “Miss Lamont had me lift the crossbar on the side door to Cosmo Place, which she did for some people,” she replied. “So I took it that one of the discreet ones came last night.”
    “People who don’t want anyone else to recognize them, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are there many like that?”
    “Four or five.”
    “So you made arrangements for them to come in from Cosmo Place, instead of the front door on Southampton Row? Tell me exactly how that worked.”
    She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “There’s a door in the wall that leads into the Place. It has a lock on it, a big iron one, and they lock it behind them when they leave.”
    “What is the bar you spoke of?”
    “That falls across on the inside. It means even with a key you can’t get in. We keep it barred except when there is a special client coming.”
    “And she sees such clients alone?”
    “No, usually with one or two others.”
    “Are there many like that?”
    “I don’t think so. Mostly she went to clients’ houses, or parties. She only had special ones here once a week or so.”
    Pitt tried to picture it in his mind: a handful of nervous, excited people sitting in the half-light around a table, all filled with their own terrors and dreams, hoping to hear the voice of someone they had loved, transfigured by death, telling them . . . what? That they still existed? That they were happy? Some secrets of passion or money taken with them to the grave? Or perhaps some forgiveness needed for a wrong now beyond recall?
    “So these people were special last night?” he said aloud.
    “They must have been,” she replied with a very slight movement of her shoulders.
    “But you saw none of them?”
    “No. As I said, they keep it very private. Anyway, yesterday was my evening off. I left the house just after they came.”
    “Where did you go?” he asked.
    “To see a friend, a Mrs. Lightfoot, down in Newington, over the river.”
    “Her address?”
    “Number 4 Lion Street, off the New Kent Road,” she replied without hesitation.
    “Thank you.” He returned to the issue of the visitors. Someone would check her story, just as a matter of routine. “But Miss Lamont’s visitors must have seen each other, so they were acquainted at least.”
    “I don’t know,” she answered. “The room was always dimly lit; I know how that works from setting up before they come. And putting the chairs right. They sat around the table. It’s perfectly easy to stay in the shadows if you want to. I always set the candles at one end only, red candles, and leave the gas off. Unless you knew someone already, you wouldn’t see who they were.”
    “And there was one of these discreet people last night?”
    “I think so, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked me to lift the bar on the gate.”
    “Was it back on this morning?”
    Her eyes widened a little, grasping his meaning immediately. “I don’t know. I never looked.”
    “I’ll do it. But first tell me more about yesterday evening. Anything you can remember. For example, was Miss Lamont nervous, anxious about anything? Do you know if she has ever received threats or had to deal with a client who was angry or unhappy about the