Bethlehem Road (13 page)

It was not a large room, but graciously furnished, obviously for the comfort of its owner rather than to impress others. The chairs were old, the red and blue Turkey rug was worn in the center but at the outer edges still retained its stained glass vividness. The pictures, mostly watercolors, were not expensive, perhaps even amateur, but each had a mood and a delicacy that suggested they had been chosen for their charm rather than for monetary value. The books in the glass-fronted cases were arranged in order of subject, not to please the eye.

“I don’t let my housekeeper touch anything in here, except to dust it,” Hamilton said, following Pitt’s gaze with a faint smile. “She complains, but obeys. She is greatly put out that I will not allow her to decorate the back of every chair with an antimacassar and put family photographs all over the table. I will permit one of my mother—that is enough. I don’t care to feel stared at by an entire gallery.”

Pitt smiled back. It was a man’s room, and it reminded him of his own bachelor days, although his lodgings had consisted of only one room and had been far from the elegance of Chelsea. It was only the masculinity of it that held the echo, the mark of a single owner, a single taste, a man free to come and go as he pleased, to drop things where he liked without regard for another’s convenience.

It had been a good time in his life, a necessary time for growing from boy to man, but he looked back on it with a tolerance that held no yearning, no desire to recapture it. No house could be home to him without Charlotte in it, her favorite pictures, which he loathed, hanging on the wall, her sewing spread out, her books left lying on the tables, her slippers somewhere for him to trip over, her voice from the kitchen, the lights on, the warmth, her touch, familiar now but still exciting, still needed with an urgency, and above all, her sharing, the talk of her day, what had been right or wrong in it, what had been funny or infuriating, and her endless concern and curiosity about his work and what mattered to him in it.

Hamilton was looking at him now, his eyes wide and puzzled. There was humor in his face, but a shadow about the bridge of the nose, a delicacy, as if he had seen his dreams the and had to rebuild with care over a loss that still pained.

“What can I tell you, Inspector Pitt, that you do not already know?”

“You have read of the death of Vyvyan Etheridge?”

“Of course. I should not think there is a soul in the city who has not.”

“Are you acquainted, either personally or by repute, with his son-in-law, Mr. James Carfax?”

“A little. Not closely. Why? Surely you cannot think he has any connection with anarchists?” Again the fleeting smile, the knowledge of absurdity which amused rather than angered him.

“You don’t think it likely?”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?” Pitt tried to put skepticism into his voice, as if it were the line of investigation he was pursuing.

“Frankly, he hadn’t the passion or the dedication to be anything so total.”

“So total?” Pitt was curious. It was not the reason he had expected: not moral impossibility but emotional shallowness. The perception said more of Hamilton than perhaps it did of James Carfax. “You do not think he would find it repugnant, unethical? Disloyal to his own class?”

Hamilton colored faintly, but his candid eyes never left Pitt’s. “I would be surprised if he considered the question in that light. In fact, I doubt he has ever thought of politics one way or the other, except to assume that the system will remain as it is and ensure him the sort of life he wishes.”

“Which is?”

Hamilton lifted his shoulders very slightly. “As far as I know, lunching with friends, a little gambling, visiting the races and the fashionable parties, the theaters, dinners, balls—and discreet nights with a trollop now and then—perhaps a visit to the dogfight or a fistfight if he can find one.”

“You have no high opinion of him,” Pitt said levelly, still holding his eyes.

Hamilton pulled a slight face. “I suppose he is no worse than many. But I cannot believe he is a passionate anarchist in heavy disguise. Believe me, Inspector, no disguise could be so superb!”

“Does he win at gambling?”

“Not overall, according to the gossip I’ve heard.”

“And yet he pays up. Does he have considerable private means?”

“I doubt it. His family is not wealthy, although his mother inherited some honorary title. He married well, as you know. Helen Etheridge has tremendous expectations—I suppose now they are a reality. I imagine she pays whatever debts he runs up. He isn’t a heavy loser, so far as I know.”

“Are you a member of Boodle’s?”

“I? No—not my sort of interest. But I have several acquaintances who are. Society is very small, Inspector. And my father lived within a mile of Paris Road.”

“But you have not lived in your father’s house for many years now.”

All the ease and humor died out of Hamilton’s face, as if someone had opened a door and let in a blast of winter. “No.” His voice was tight, caught in his throat. “My father married again after my mother’s death. I was an adult; it was perfectly natural and suitable that I should find my own premises. But that can have nothing to do with James Carfax. I referred to it only to show you that in Society one cannot help knowing something about other people if they move in similar circles.”

Pitt regretted having inadvertently caused him pain. He liked the man, and it had been no part of his search to touch an old wound that could hardly have any bearing either on Lockwood Hamilton’s death or Etheridge’s.

“Of course,” he agreed, leaving the apology tacit in his voice; the less the wound was touched the sooner the thin skin would heal over it again. “Did you mention other women as a supposition from his general conduct, or have you some specific knowledge?”

Hamilton breathed out, relaxing again. “No, Inspector. I regret my speculations were based solely on his reputation. It is possible I did him an injustice. I don’t like the man; please consider anything I say with that in view.”

“You knew Carfax’s wife before her marriage?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you like Helen Etheridge, Mr. Hamilton?” Pitt asked it so candidly that it was robbed of implication.

“Yes,” Hamilton said equally frankly. “But not romantically, you understand. I always felt her very young. There was something childlike in her; she was like a girl who keeps her dreams.” He smiled ruefully. “As if she had only just put her hair up and donned her first long skirts!”

Pitt pictured Mrs. Carfax, her vulnerability and her obvious adoration for her husband, and silently agreed.

“Unfortunately we all have to grow up,” Hamilton added with a small smile. “Perhaps women less so, on the whole.” Then he bit his lips as if he wished to take the words back. “Some women, anyway. I fear I cannot help you very much, Inspector. I don’t care for James Carfax very much, but I would swear he has no connection with anarchists, or any other political conspiracy, nor is he a madman. He is exactly what he appears, a rather selfish young man who is bored, drinks a little more than is wise, and likes to show off but has not the financial means to keep up with his friends without using his wife’s money, which galls him, but not enough to prevent him from doing it.”

“And if his wife ceased to provide the money?” Pitt asked.

“She won’t. At least,” he corrected himself, “I don’t believe she will, unless he becomes too rash in his behavior and hurts her too much. But I don’t think he’s fool enough for that.”

“No, I don’t suppose so. Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I appreciate your candor; it has probably saved me hours of delicate questions.” Pitt stood up. It was late and growing cold outside, and he wanted to go home. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and he had achieved little.

Barclay Hamilton stood up also. He was taller than Pitt had remembered, and leaner. He looked embarrassed.

“I apologize, Inspector Pitt. I have spoken more frankly than I had a right to. It is the end of the day, and I am tired. I was less than discreet, and possibly uncharitable towards Carfax. I should not have spoken my thoughts.”

Pitt smiled broadly. “You did warn me that you did not like him.”

Hamilton relaxed, a sudden lightness in his face evoking the young man he must have been eighteen years ago, when Amethyst Royce had married his father. “I hope we meet again, Inspector, in happier circumstances.” And instead of calling the manservant he held out his hand and shook Pitt’s as if they had been friends, not gentleman and detective.

Pitt left the house and walked slowly along the Embankment until he should find a cab and at last go home. The night air was raw, and there was a mist rising from the water. Somewhere far down the river by the Pool of London, ships’ foghorns were blaring out, muffled by distance and damp.

Could James Carfax have murdered his father-in-law to speed his wife’s inheritance? Or, uglier and more painful than that, could Helen, in her anguish to keep her husband, have murdered her own father for his money, money she needed to give James the material things he counted so dear? To keep his attention, so she might pretend it was love? She could hardly have done it herself, but she might have paid someone else to do it. That might account as well for Sir Lockwood Hamilton’s murder: a paid assassin might have mistaken him for Etheridge, something a person who knew him well would not do on a lamplit bridge like Westminster.

Tomorrow he must find out which picture she had sold, and for how much. It wouldn’t be as easy to discover what had happened to the money it had brought, but that too should be possible.

Pitt went home tired after a long day, Helen’s face lingering in his mind, with its painful tenderness and the fear in her eyes.

The following morning Pitt got up early and set out in the rain to report to Micah Drummond, and Charlotte received her first letter from Emily, postmarked Paris. She sat looking at it for several minutes without opening it. Half of her was eager to know that Emily was happy and well, the other half was stung by an envy for the excitement of laughter and adventure and the beginning of love.

After propping it up against the teapot and staring at it while she ate two slices of toast and marmalade, a preserve which she made extremely well—it was her best culinary achievement—she finally succumbed.

It was dated Paris, April 1888, and read:

Dearest Charlotte,

I hardly know how to begin to tell you everything that has happened. Crossing on the boat was miserable! The wind was cold and the sea rough! But once we reached dry land it all changed completely. The coach drive from Calais to Paris made me think of every adventure I’ve ever read about musketeers and Louis XVI—it was the XVI, wasn’t it? It was such a marvelous idea of Jack’s, and full of all the things I imagined: farms with cheeses for sale, wonderful trees, little old villages with farmers’ wives arguing, all delightful and romantic. And I thought of the fleeing aristocrats in the Revolution—they must have passed this way to reach the packet boats to England!

Jack had everything arranged in Paris. Our hotel is small and quaint, overlooking a cobbled square where the leaves on the trees are just unfolding, and a little man stands outside and plays an accordion in the evenings under the open windows. We sit outside at a table with a checked cloth and drink wine in the sun. It is a little cool, I admit, but how could I mind? Jack bought me a shawl of silk, and I feel very French and very elegant with it round my shoulders.

We have walked for miles and my feet are sore, but the weather has been lovely, bright with a fresh wind, and I have loved every minute of it. Paris is so beautiful! Everywhere I go I feel someone famous or interesting has walked these same streets, a great artist with unique and passionate vision, or a wild-eyed revolutionary, or a romantic like Sydney Carton who redeemed everything with the ultimate love.

And of course we have been to the theater. I did not understand most of it, but I caught the atmosphere, and that was all that mattered—and Charlotte, the music! I could have sung and danced all the way home, except that I would have been arrested for disturbing the peace! And it is all such fun because Jack is enjoying it every bit as much as I. He is such a good companion, as well as tender and considerate in all other ways that I had hoped. And I have noticed other women gazing at him with shining eyes, and not a little envy!

Paris gowns are marvelous, but I fear they would be out of fashion in no time. I can imagine spending half one’s life at the dressmaker’s, forever having them “made over” to keep up with madame next door!

We leave for the south tomorrow morning, and I can hardly dare hope it will be as perfect as this. Can Venice really be as marvelous as I dream it will? I wish I knew more Venetian history. I shall have to find a book and read something. My head is filled with romance and, I daresay, quite unreal notions.

I do hope you are well, and the children, and Thomas is not having to work too many hours. Does he have an interesting case? I shall look forward to hearing all your news when I return, but please take care of yourself and don’t get involved in anything dangerous! Be inquisitive, by all means, but only in the mind. I am not with you just at the moment, but be assured my thoughts and my love are, and I shall see you again soon.

All my love,

Emily

Charlotte put the sheets of paper down with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. She would not for even a second’s darker thought have wished Emily anything but total happiness. It was easy to feel a welling up of gladness inside her at the thought of Emily singing and dancing along the streets of Paris, especially after the tragedy and the awful misery of George’s death.

But there was also a gnawing fear of having been left out. She was sitting in a kitchen by herself, in a small house, in a very ordinary suburb of London, where in all probability she would be for the rest of her life. Pitt would always work hard, for less money a month than Emily was now spending in a day.

But it was not money, money did not provide happiness—and idleness certainly did not! The cause of the ache in her throat was the thought of walking in laughter and companionship in beautiful places with time to spend, and of being in love. That was it—it was the magic of being in love, the tenderness that was not habit but was intense and thrilling, full of discovery, taking nothing for granted, making everything infinitely precious. It was being the center of someone else’s world, and they of yours.